The next morning, I still feel the red I had– the CF, CS, and I think about work. This has to stop, but I’m tired of having such thoughts, and I’m tired of exposing you, poor reader, to them. It’s 7:23, I have to leave early to get my JC check, somehow deposit it– direct deposit doesn’t start till next month. The coffee’s making me sweat, it’s that hot. What if I call in sick, no, then I’d have to help watch Addy, Alice’s friend Lorielle’s daughter, which I’m not at all provoked to do, especially considering how much advantage she already takes, and I’m not wasting this page on her. Jack watches his show, ‘Thomas the Train’, I know that’s not the accurate title, but it’s about a train, blue, names Thomas. I can’t let that scene last night from my thinking, the deserted bar, the invaded hotel, the biotech company, that huge white tent down the slope of the parking lot, just off to the right. What if I would have gone into device sales, or any kind of sales? I’d have more money but much less integrity, or actuality, there wouldn’t be THIS me, so I’m content with my decisions. Had an email in my account this morning, from a student who couldn’t sleep and at 3-something A.M. wrote a poem. Haven’t read it yet, but I enjoy his sharing the work, and the fact he was compelled to tell me. I need to stay in the classroom till I’ve written my leave. The wine element must be stripped immediately.. killed where it occupies my time. The short stories I’ve been collecting are really starting to collect. Want to send them out but where, to who, one of those hair-brained lit mags? What would that do for me? Not going down that path either with this morning’s thoughts. The hotel lobby reminded me of the lobby in Paris, where we’d meet before heading out for the day’s expedition, walking down Monteparnasse, enjoying the smells from the bakeries and the random shops and street vendors, and how the cars there somehow sound different. I know how today’s going to go.. just how all the others go.. I’ll post details to the blog, and characters as they’re presented to me. The aim of my book, well it was or always has been, to be FREE. But I have to fight harder, invoke more discipline– run earlier. Tomorrow morning, wake when my mother-in-law does, just before 5a. I’ve made that promise before, but now it’s and ORDER of self. So no wine, beers after work with coworkers, just straight home and to the writing, and think of what I’d see out there, driving across the country, or flying somewhere in Spain and how the dishes over there would present themselves. Yes, this book reads like a wishlist, but we all wish, more than we want to admit. And bringing wishes to any kind of fruition demands that we remind ourselves constantly of what precisely those wishes are, and how we’ll be once they’re finally planted.
8:01AM. Alice on her run, even after the Chardonnay she had. How does she do it? Her devotion to her practice makes me look shameful, and I envy her love of running, and how she demonstrates repeatedly, days on days, what she loves, how she runs, how she’s a RUNNER. My second cup waits for me, like the shift ahead. Think I’m in that bloody lounge. But I can make that work for me.. write about the tanks being installed, the interns buzzing about, the wines being racked– and I think something’s being bottled. A Zin, the CV, I think. I’ll get footage of that– no, a still photo, more useful. And what a correlation, something being published, Self-published.. that’s precisely what that is, bottling on the estate, of one of our wines. We only need, or they only need, themselves. I can’t criticize that, at all. That’s just what I want. But I need more energy. I need Jack’s level. Right now he’s still, watching his ‘choo choo’ toon, but when he’s running around this bottom floor, as he was last night when he should have been sleeping, I add something to the wishlist: his momentum.
Wonder how many glass racks I’ll dry today, or how many of those bloody cheese plates I’ll have to fetch, or how much I’ll sell, or how many precious clubs I’ll sign– for whatever reason, I’m curious to see how I’ll do today. Usually I don’t care, but this morning.. must be the book, the story in front of me. This is all fictive, this is all salable, all of it, all the characters and tastes and stupid questions from tourists. It’s a marvelous mess meant for a manuscript. Class last night put me in this mood and mode, I think, how we dove into Wolff’s book with knowledge of who he is and what he went through, and his thoughts on writing and developing a story.
8:42, less than ten to Self. Bringing Camera, and one notebook– well, two counting the little pages. In journalist mode like Nadav, reporting what I see. I’m just afraid I’ll see much of the same. But not if my viewpoint’s altered. The veraison helps, the grapes coming to life.. that too could signal some change for me as a writer, like some fairytale I’m supposed to share for value’s sake. My morning mocha, demanded, I’ll go straight to the coffee spot and stand in line like a surrendered shell, staring blankly at the line in front of me, lifeless, just waiting, giving that corporation my hard-earned demeaning wage. But what can I do– make it work for me. Poetry all day, ten by day’s close, written on phone or in little pages, and make sure they’re like choruses in a song.. brief, metered and narrative.. to jazz, random drum syncopations making people listen and dance and think and enjoy Life.