Home.  748PM, red wine, jazz and writing, night 2.  Got takeout from Jackson’s, as I planned…  And I’ll be printing ten pages tonight.  Of something.  Returning to Spring semester, the one that provided over 230 pages of work.  Today, in the patio area, pouring for club members and public alike, and the wines, what they’d say, pull this injured writer through the day.  Sipping what remains of the Reserve Cab, and I’m in the nook, in this unusually–confrontationally–quiet house.  but I keep writing.  Even with the typos, and there’ll be more, I’m sure, as the Cab’s trying to catch me again.  But it won’t.  I’m sipping slow, as I want to wake early, finally have a Hemingway session when I’m the only character in the condo castle.  This wine, in the glass.. so dark, heavy, foreboding, forceful and firm.  I’ll sip, imagine it’s mine, my Cab, one of my bottles, from my “label”.  But how…  I’m overthinking as always.  But I can’t stop, I just think, and with these Mendocino classes in Fall, I’m about to be more linear than I’ve ever been, thinned.  Think I need a quick break.  I don’t want to work the WHOLE night, as I do want to relax a little, save some of this scribble momentum for tomorrow’s early.  But I’ve never been good at saving.  I mean I’ve become better, with age, but I’m still not like Dad, with those envelope stories he used to tell me, and still sometimes references.


8:32PM.  I think of how the fog tumbled in tonight, and last night, the drops on my face; light, refraining, gentle, small and soft like kitten licks.  I imagine myself walking a vineyard, just walking.  No notebook, not penning, not taking pictures, just living, observing, commingling with the blocks, see what the leaves say, then the clusters, those that are ready to talk at this point in the year.  The little notebook, filled a couple pages today, while still damaged, up late writing.. why do I do that?  See.. that’s why I need Ms. Alice and little Kerouac here.  They keep me scheduled, balanced, consistent, not in any way incongruent.  And the book, when done, has to reflect my reliance on them.  ‘Cause I am, and I have no problem divulging that.  Family, what my winery will truly embody, convey and practice.  Not like these other wineries that just bloody talk about it and use it as a marketing anvil.  Needing that break soon.  Kerouac would probably urge me to drink and write through it, and I might, but I’m thinking of my next serious run, the Healdsburg Half.  Have to get disciplined and militant with my runs like Alice.  How does she do that?  How did she change her character as she did?  I find her so impressive that I boast to others, at work, about her ardor and ceaseless jaunts.  Need more wine.  I want to fight this filthy Bordeaux.  Write through its waves and drummings.  Who does it think it is, battling someone like me?
Walking to the bottle, looking left, through a coy crack in the blinds, still light outside, but just a bit.  Feel like I should go for a walk, do something out of character.. you know what.. why not?  I’ll log whatever I can from this Yulupa corner of the planet.  Just walk, think, or not think at all.  Why do I always have to be thinking, or intellectual, or writing?  It’s not a disease so much as it is a self-indentured character cell.  And that’s fine.  The music, “Land’s End” by Clifford Brown, telling me to stay here, don’t complicate the evening.  Stay in the chair, as one of your students, years ago said.  Last night’s talk with Dad, about.. well now I can’t remember (maybe the Cab’s catching me)…  Has me in lecture mode, talking to my students about something not entailing an assignment–  So very much excited about these classes for Fall, Mendo’ and SRJC.  Look at me, back in my own form, what Grandma said I should do.  And this moldy industry cant’d touch me.  I’m more than mighty in this Now– I’m constituted, with my new constitution.  The song now, something I’d hear in the lobby, after placing all my bags in the room.  I go downstairs to get a drink.  Only one.  Have a long day tomorrow.  Lecture, then a meeting with a magazine, another interview, then write in the room for a couple hours, call Alice and little Kerouac–  I realize where I am, here in my house, in the nook, this kitchen, all mine right now, with this red, the jazz, and the thoughts of when I first started teaching, how I’ve changed, what age I am now, what my sister’s done with her career, how wine’s in everything I do now.  And sometimes I have a problem with that, others I don’t.  My writer friend, writing me now over email and some social media slide.  My music, provided by way of net, quitting on me.  So frustrating, but beautiful, now as I only hear a lone cricket, or some insect out there, under the tree on the lawn in the center of this part of the complex, intensifying its expression.  My novel, minced into eight appropriate portions.. and I plan on untying all orthodox knots when it comes to fiction writing.  Like my writer friend, with her vignettes–


She pulled from one barrel.  Then another.  Both Zin.  Both distinguished and stubborn.  What could she do?  What WOULD she do?  Put them out in the sun?  Not her call, but they weren’t moving.  If she brought something up to the winemakers, they’d dismiss her, as they many times did.  The old team didn’t, but this corporate square was systematic, no soul, no life, no love, no wine.  It was a product now.  It was an ‘IT’.


She opened one of her blends, or one of the bottles she took home from that meeting with Rosie.  She hadn’t tasted it in months.  But tonight’s visit, one moving her, to study more and just leap at her dream.  Her label.  So what.  What’s the worst that could happen.  Sip…