5:53AM: Not letting myself go back

into any kind of sleep after putting J in our bed. Can hear his little voice still, saying something to his mother, but poor Alice in her fatigue from the previous day doing a dozen or so errands with the little Artist says nothing back. The light, left, was on but I turn it off when I hear his voice, not sure if any of that emanation reaches eyes upstairs. So off. And I type as I sometimes do down here in the dark. Probably another busy day today, one tourists with their vouchers and locals just wanting something to do on their day off. My friend Michelle coming in yesterday, and I learning she has ties to old friends of mine from the box, and possibly opportunities new, but do I investigate? Do or would I take? Or do I adhere to my vision of this being my last ever job, in the wine industry or any other and “stick it out”, “hang in there” as Dad’s always advocated, hard decision and I’ll see what’s what but I don’t want any additional stress or processes at this point in my life, and I certainly don’t want to be one of the wine industry people on their own tour, or circuit, no I have to adhere, adhere, follow through, use the wine industry and where I am on that beautiful property for material, stories, yesterday me filling my little notebook with it timid remaining pages, logging everything people said, what I saw, what I thought I’d see for the day, and even just writing “day crazy it’s the wine” when it really started to get packed, around 2-3.
The espresso I had yesterday with my loft session was a bit much, making shake with discomfort, and although in the moment (upstairs in my wood chair and my equalled table) all was music, it later disrupted me in a way I haven’t before felt. And now I’m starting to think that caffeine when I write should be moderated, as so I can be more truthful, not have too much gall and fire when writing. And as it passes 6AM I contradict myself with a wish for coffee, it’s a part of me I realize but last sitting (Loft) there was delirium with it, again hard to explain but I know I didn’t take much pleasure with its waves. Now quiet upstairs and I monitor how fast and forceful I push these keys. Something different and drastic has to be done, or written rather, as I don’t have any horizon’d changes or invitation. I know, I tell myself, “Write your own.” Okay, but how… “The story will tell you.” Well what’s taking so long. Frustration, in bouts with patience, a new civil war of Self and can only observe, too divided for concertedness, but that’s my inner Nietzsche noting what I already know. Think of my son and what he should have in a father, what I had as a father growing up and how I see Dad now– Goddamn the immobility of this Now.. so change it, get in trouble, write to set the world on fire– D, the then-manager at AV Winery said to me, about one of his sons, “I love him to death but he’ll never set the world on fire.” I would all but die if I knew my parents thought that of me, and I’m quite sure they don’t. But then, do I think that of myself, or perhaps a better way of asking: “Do I EXPECT myself to set the world on fire? Do I see myself doing so? And why not just do it now?” Yes, good question, why wait for any opportunity, or topic to walk through the tasting room doors or that muddleheaded whip-waving manager to say the right words to put in my little notebook? Why not just light a couple matches now? I will I will… And watch the flames rise and gobble everything while I fly above what cinders result.
Hate that I didn’t write when home last night but that’s what the Story demanded, that I live for a bit, just be a lazy rather than type erratically as I now do. Oh, and the car, the Passat, so dirty but just enough character to motivate me to buy a new car, once the real writing money lands– all those visuals on the Restoration Hardware, or desks and couches and other specific stage attributes painting and image in my head of my office. Lisa and I kept looking through the website but I wasn’t there, I was in my office, imagining myself writing at one of those deep darkly-speaking surfaces, for me, to write, to escape into a small I-don’t-know-how-many square foot room, my office, to log every fascination and entertainment that even timidly slithers into and past my cognition. Like now, with the refrigerator humming I can type a little faster and more ferociously but I know it won’t last long, and the coffee.. I’ll need it… and how those who do read the blog DO notice my caffeinated connection. What if it were alcohol, like Kerouac or Joyce, or Carver? What if I DID have a “problem” with drinking? I bet my prose would be more volcanic, I’ll tell you, maybe even more marketable, but I can’t risk that, and I’m a runner so too much alch would put me under an ill spell, but I do wonder.. what if I was more like them, the masters?
Hate being behind in this project, I feel slow and fat and like a thick pot of gel that’s been spilled but doesn’t move. But I won’t allow that Nietzsche nod fumble around in my trot here, not this morning, no. This meditation is about … Not sure if it’s about anything specific but it entails me and having a better me for the little Artist, and Ms. Alice. Just had a thought, and I lost it–