day 50 (no edits)

After 10 miles and a tuna salad sand’ from Oliver’s, I’m ready for a beer, but I sip another 7UP instead.  Now Alice is out for a run, with trepidation in that she doesn’t want to overextend herself or tire out or make herself sick again.  Understandable.  And on my run earlier, one useful thought: everything marathon, everything; thinking and writing, printing, publishing, blogging, posting.. everything.. just a lawless dissemination of my Art, my thoughts and capturings.  This new year I will speak differently, act even more contrasting to past, and be more withheld so I can have more on page.  Last night’s wine, a big blend with advantageous subtly.  It didn’t try to hard but had its message, and I was convinced– a wine that had its own blaze, it moved and shook and moved and shook me.  Just what I needed around the halfway point of this project.  50 more days.  That’s 150 pages, theoretically although I’m quite sure I’ll type more than that.  Currently, I should be at or around 150 at day’s end, but I’m around 173/4.  Just a testament of sorts to my fervor.  And the wine tonight, matching my momentum, and for my character, Krystal, her winemaking aims and just wanting to be free to make the wines she wants.  Her friend, Rose, a more seasoned oeno-wizard, always encourages her but tells her to think before taking the leap into self-employment with her bottles.  But Krystal can’t wait, I thought on my run.  And neither can I as a writer.  And why should I?  What would that do?  People alway conveniently cite the Shakespeare line “Discretion is the better part of valor..” I’ve always seen it as a way to rationalize cowardice.  I couldn’t disagree more.  Discretion?  To hell with discretion.  I’m all about the leap– and the wine I sip tonight will be noted every step, from opening the bottle, first sniff of the cork to the first scent of the wine itself smacking my senses, then each step of the sip.  I won’t be over-analyzing, I’ll just be pretending, that I’m a winemaker, that I’m Krystal, analyzing the wine, my wine, and what I could have done differently, or what could improve the wine.  And I will note vintage and AVA, even thought Krystal’s based in Sonoma Valley, for work.  She wants to make wines from AV, Alexander Valley.  She makes up a budget, just wings it, on a napkin actually while at lunch one day with Rose.. “What do you think you want your first vintage to be, case-wise?” Rose asks.  “About 800 I guess–” K says.  “You can’t guess, you have to be sure, you have to have a vision, an image of you and your wine and that first year.” Rose says, so I start thinking.  I should pick a number, a dollar amount, and build one for her.. let’s say she has $10,000, and not a cent more.  Maybe I should ask my sis, Katie– you know what I will, right now…  She’s not responding, I’m sure she has NYE plans.  But now I think and 10k seems way too small.  How about 50k?  I’m looking forward to playing with these numbers, to be honest.  And I hate math, as many who know me know.

Could use a cup of the dark roast, but I don’t caffeine before an IPA or the bubbles, and I want to put off the wine as long as I can.  And speaking of, I should go upstairs and find the AV Cab I want, the ’08.  It’s up there somewhere.  At first she wanted to make Syrah, but now she wants to be Cabernet, all day, beat the men at their own game, Cab and SB, and Merlot.. all Bordeaux, and why not?  Merlot was the wine that pulled her into an elevated interest in wine in the first place, years ago, in ’02.  Then she took the internship, then the lab position, then assistant winemaker, then associate, them the standing lead of production, Winemaker.  She never liked the title, though.  She just wants to make wine, wine people love and really reflect over.. so she’d open a bottle of Alexander Cab–  But then she had a thought: how about she hold at 10,000, just work with what she had, not with what she wished she had, or what she could get from investors, she didn’t believe in devilish whoring investors.  That would be no part of her, or her little company, and it would be little, boutiquey.

9:42, with Lancaster, dinner over, and I’m ready for a New Year.  Wasn’t going to write, but just enjoy my wine and live, but I wanted to get to the 3rd page.  And I’m marathoning to it, marathoning.. sprinting, and that’s all I can do and or will do.  But this ’08 is telling me to be Gothic, like Poe, and Kerouac, and Plath, embrace the possibility of death, laugh at its contrived mask.  Love that the second half of this project’s turn sings starting tomorrow.  Again, chance is on my side, and I don’t need to take any chance, that’s just how it is.  The rest of my wine is in the kitchen, and the rest of my life is only hours away, in 2015.  And forward with the books, the showering of words and paginated characters that I hope someday make sense to someone.. next year, the publishing  flames, and I’m away, to my office and the Road, and freedom.  No edits just expression and I don’t care what’s conceived, I’m just me.

I’ll finish my wine and go to sleep with Queen Alice, and being my separatism tomorrow, officially.  Before today, I’d just been grieving, but not now.  Now I’m at war, leader of a one-man guerilla unit, like Kerouac.. and what can happen?  I get fired?  Then I write, stay inside, lesson-plan, and whatever.  Tired from my run, and my knees hurt like they never have.  I’ll be fucking 36 in ’15.  I just get old, age, Time strikes me again, the bastard…