Lunch. Overflow lot. Palooza closed and I need to write freely. I would add to my newest character’s trek, and I have been taking notes today in my little notebook, but I need to be freely writing. No sinus headache today and Time seems to be accommodating my need for the shift to pass fast. But now I’m tugged away from this 100 days project and meant for something else, maybe a letter, or standalone of some kind.. a letter maybe.. to someone of Literary lengths.. but who, who will perpetuate the communication? It’s obvious but maybe I should resist that urge, fight the initial compulsion.. stay put, where I am, and don’t move. About 61, 62 degrees outside. Want to take pictures, walk around the Chardonnay block but I won’t capture anything I haven’t already. So I stay put, here in the Passat’s cabin and let my mind wander, wonder, about what whatever me strikes. Guests today, telling me what they do for a living and I imagine myself doing that, what would I be like and would my son be any different if his father were a scientist for Del Monte? Or what is DuPont, or something, can’t remember, either way this guy, probably a year or two younger than me went to Berkeley, has a PhD in Chem or Bio or something like that. Rachel, a lady who works here, part-time, told me about her friend who also suffers from adjunctivitis, working whatever classes she can and not knowing ever for certain what’s next.. how is that Human? And she has a PhD! So now, Rachel tells me, her newest route thought is to get a teaching cred and teach high school. “What?!?” I thought, how is that right? We shouldn’t be forced from what we initially wanted to do, teach college, but we are, I am, but I’m lowering myself to teaching high school. Which, please note, I feel and know is a very noble and admirable ambition and they should be paid and praise much more than they are. I just don’t have the patience for it. And going back to school? I’d rather gamble with the writing/Self-publishing, even blogging.
Oh today, you should see it. Skies that want the vineyard views voraciously visible, nothing obstructed. You can only take pictures, and why don’t I? That’s the next step for James Russell; he’ll stop writing for a while to take pictures of people working, in the moment, without permission, then he’ll make it official, tell the place of business what he’s doing and shoot, both sides, customer and worker; the facial expressions and objects and moods, light coming in through the windows, everything. The element of work, what we have to do to pay bills and survive, but food and fill out goddamn cars with gas, maybe get ourselves a gift or two everysooften. It’s observational photography, which sounds redundant or obvious, he knows, but it’s different; it’s raw and “candid” as photography and photojournalism majors say, but it’s intended, more focused, and expansive, unknown. And relevant, or at least James sees it that way.
20 minutes left on my “lunch”. Should be eating but I don’t have any interest. I want to write and feel Literary, as this place often makes me feel anti-literary, like I’ve surrendered somehow and I have to work and be responsible ‘cause I’m a father, husband, which I love but I won’t allow my dreams to be drowned or doused in the mundane, the plain, that’s insane! I love the way the trees on the property look this time of year, like they’re cold but used to it. No leaves, just a darkened and dusty aged green. And still today, wind not allowed or invited, doesn’t want to examine the grounds as it did the other day. And Hood Mountain, I will hike up there some day, some day hopefully soon, when I leave, when I retire from the pouring tour I’m on, that’s lasted over two and a half bloody years. “It’s gonna be a good year,” Jeff said yesterday during my visit. And it is. This is the year I’m out and away, free, flying, walking where I wish. Literary in everything I do. The Story itself is finally here, telling me precisely what to do to get out. And it has to start with more poetic principle in my prose, more images and singularity, like this parking lot meant for events and celebrations but there’s always people at the events not celebrating; the ones working it, pouring, asking questions, picking up after people, indentured for a time, brief or extended, they’re there not on the dance floor, not sipping; they’re on a clock. And how do you avoid work? Working for yourself? That’s still working. That’s still a service. Even in this writing, I acknowledge that. You can never be free from work, it’ll always be there, it’s always demanded, so the only reasoning the character can embrace, James Russell for example, is to find the most agreeable and comfortable setup possible.
Overflow lot, my prose flows over my boundaries and project parameters and now I question if I have any at all. Today, my friend Lisa’s 29th. And I’ll be 36 this year. Why does Time trap me here, in this counting, and how does this, being responsible and having a job help? I know the obvious answer, but that doesn’t foster Peace in me nor does it add to Personhood. answers, answers, finding IT, I’m closer I know but I need the Art around me to be more vocal, more coaching and coaxing. Yes? And to that end, considering work and why I need it and why I loathe what it does to my writing moments and how it always has the answer, the “right” answer, the more mature sensibility, apparently, I’m more frustrated, flustered, exhausted like readers after run-on sentences like this one. So I should go back in, even though I didn’t technically lunch. Doesn’t matter, this hunger’s a better discipline than abiding by some goddamn clock. Little over six minutes… Back to counter, to pouring, answer their question, maybe sneaking a sip or three… It’s up to me, 2015’s telling quite decidedly.