My Sunday my beat my music my LIFE– the poetry precipitates to my aorta’s hum. The midday mocha motivating Mike and I can only see freedom ahead of me, me on the Road with my ideas and speaking about wine and literature and even lecturing a bit on Ms. Plath and Kerouac and music’s influence on writers like myself. Oh so thankful I gave my Sunday shift to Andy. I owe him so much, my knowledgable winemaking/vineyard friend– and of speaking, I should find that video he and I shot a few weeks back.. the one down by the Harper’s vineyard.. where is it? No stressing, none, remember? Time 4:22 and it’s nearly time for the writer to enjoy a beer on the patio. Accomplished quite a bit today, didn’t grade a single bloody paper and I don’t care. Tomorrow morning, interview with Arista’s winemaker, and I have to prep those questions– what to ask and how and wonder what he thinks of these scores he’s recently received, his career just space-bound, only elevation and ascension. Happy for him, need to learn from this varietal whisperer–
Outside, not too hot. The drive was too quick for this mocha, should have drive more but the page called me, and I need to gather these standalone pieces, more and more of them compile and to tell what exactly, what is my thesis? Am I a hypocrite as a teacher? I don’t think so. A thesis is important but it’s not the whole of the piece, it’s not the vein primary, the writer’s soul is. His BEAT is.
Listening to Thievery in my home office, missing my little boy and wife. Breakfast this morning, so lovely, spending time with my family. The only project that truly matters.