Readying for dinner. Pulled a Lancaster to sip when back. One standalone for day, done, on East West. Love how that place has the most eased pace of nearly any eatery in Santa Rosa. Haven’t touched one of the ‘100’ papers. But today’s to celebrate– MY independence from the wine world, from any rule it thinks it can throw at me, or code it wants to comb through the shapes of my days.
9:47PM. Loud shakes in air, firecrackers they call it, celebrating the sounds themselves and drunkenness, so I join, adjoin, in such a celebratory coin. Sipping Lagunitas, and I go stumbling into my session, after a day quite long, and no nap for the writer. But I’m relaxed, in a way I’ve never been, after such an episode with Ms. Alice– race, relax, brunch, rest, walk, dinner, movie, and now.. Now. This new Now. I’m off to watch the ‘Big Sur’ movie, from Kerouac’s novel. Should order those books, already, have them sent. My check today, from the winery, turning me into that snake that begs to strike. And I hope they’re reading this, those indenturing overseeing tyrant bubbles. And I realize, the one I thought my writer friend, on I thought a serious writer, once, I now realize is only one posing, one acting, and she acts quite well– well, I’m not impressed, I may have been once, but no longer… Either you’re a writer, or you want to be one. That’s very much all–
And I’m struck by strangeness of explosive modes in what I thought was past but now present. It’s everything I thought I learned in grad school but now cut, reshaped, repasted, and now disseminated. Interesting how that happens. The fireworks, done, and I lose myself in a mist fog and moon pudding, indecisive but yet coagulated in jest. Funny how that happens.