But I won’t write it. I’m just thinking. And yes, about writing. The short stories.. prose.. not so much poems or poetry.. that I feel can’t be premeditated, it’s ad hoc, it has to be, right? My story for the day, being behind this new bar and seeing people come for new Pinot interpretations and what wines do to people, new people, like the wines making new acquaintances themselves and having new experiences.. wine, my topic, the winemakers, also my topic, cosmic entanglement of it all– wine, wine-related.. now I think of wine in so many corners and streets, towns and restaurants and “wine bars”, pubs or whatever and the conversations that are held over those wines..
Time for the writer to sleep.. tomorrow, vignettes, sketches, microfiction, micromicro fiction.. all Stories, and for MY story, so it’ll be read. By my son, one day. He now asleep at Mom and Dad’s.. wonder what he’s envisioning in his sleep, what he wants to do.. what does he want to be ‘when he grows up’? Does he already know? Is he thinking about it? Am I thinking too much at this late hour?
Should have graded something today, but no. And honestly, I didn’t have time. Left the estate late, had dinner and a movie with Alice (here at home), and here I am.. could now but I’d rather enjoy my room.. or nook, rather, my enclave of one, here in the kitchen. What if I didn’t run tomorrow? Don’t say that.. May 17, those 26.1 miles come closer, and I will do that bloody run. Tomorrow, if I were to do pocket 13.1 miles, that’d take me about 1hr 50-something mins. Thoughts everywhere, and I love it, I’m thinking and I’m complicating topics and I’m not at all linear, not in any reel singular, or “focused”, but that’s my voice and that’s me right now… no massive editing sweet of my books, especially ‘Forced Avarice’. That’s has to be honest. Wildly candid. (9:48PM)
And I’m back downstairs, ‘second wind’ I guess.. need my own office, somewhere to Self sequester and meditate.. logging everything I write, everything, habitual posts and entries to poems, to the short fiction I’ll scribble or type tomorrow. All of it. Ledger downstairs with me now. As is my one and only check from W———. I laugh, that experience was in so many multiplying ways comical. A shift– washing glasses and dishes and having to recite. But not at Arista.. my exhaustion now me catches.. hardly innocuous, it slows me, frustrates me, shifts me mood into the lower pocket of my persona. But I stop and pause and entwine myself in the moment; end of day, pouring as much as I did, meeting all the people coming into the room, and all the stories I didn’t hear, leaving me the fiction writer to speculate– who is she? How old is her daughter? Definitely younger than Jackie, by over two years– Are they from.. Danville? They look like Danville people, early thirties, with money, or maybe Walnut Creek… And the people, 3, from France.. should have talked to them more.