1,000 words — barrel 2

Not enough time in the café here for another thousand but that doesn’t mean I have to stop writing.  And one wine.. on wine.. you know.. maybe I should go to BB and get something–  NO!  How many times do I have to tell you?  Laptop’s about to die, and I have to get moving, so maybe I should kill a few minutes just walk around and about those bottles.  Even at Arista tomorrow and then in the tasting Room, Sunday, Sanglier, Healdsburg, my base, where I’ll one day soon have my office– OH!  Business cards!

Much later in the day I open the ’09 Hawely Cab and sit on the couch, think about the day and still yesterday and how so many adjuncts just continue doing it, IT, that driving and that semester to semester grind, how they feel themselves free but they’re really not, just chasing it and whatever it is will never happen.  This could be the dark in me, the Nietzsche, oh yes there is one and it sometimes fits so perfectly– hear my son cough upstairs, hope he doesn’t have what Alice had, or still–  Went upstairs to check on the little Beat, him saying “Help” in his sleep, but it was just a dream, deductively, and so I return selfishly to this couch where I extend my legs to the toychest/makeshift ottoman, and write a bit more, yesterday and last night with that scent all around all valleys, talking directly to me, telling me “come here, stop what you’re doing, stop that commute, and write more about her, this character you’re dancing with.” It’s right, I should take myself from any box or comfort zone and just leap around crazily like Esther, like Duluoz, or anyone worth a write.  All these debates and the upcoming presidential election if you could call it that has me wondering if I should have been in politics, and what type of politician I would have made–  Think I may be too liberal, or just a bloody raven-riled anarchist, with my disillusioned diatribes and wine-fumbled paragraph parlances.

Not sure I’ll make it to a thousand words in this sitting or maybe I will as I feel myself writing more fluidly and with less delete-and-rewrite than at Hopper.  My wine life, rebellious to anything in contrast, or no rebellious just immune and warrantedly ignorant.  “I don’t drink wine, so why should I read your books?” You’re right, you shouldn’t.  OR, my favorite, “I don’t drink.” Good for you.  Don’t judge me ‘cause I do– or, I don’t actually, “drink” in what that implies intones and insinuates.  I enjoy and study wine, and write about it and its Literary angularities, personify it as it personifies itself to me, like this Hawley.  But I’m overthinking this as I shouldn’t and thinking way too much into it.  I should write more about my past jobs, and how many of them didn’t like my attitude and let me go, how they saw me as trouble always thinking for myself, sneaking away to write about something, some poetry or spoken word or one of those rimed songs I’d scribble, like at that record store when I was in high school.  Or when in college, at SSU, the insurance gig in Santa Rosa, off whateverthatstreetis.

Forgive me, in a total beat mode now, hearing myself think about fantasies of the road and wondering when I’ll see it, living only ‘vicariously’ (hate that word) through people that do travel, but what else can I do, I can only imagine presently, and I feel failed, frail in my visions painted on an inner-screen, tempestuously, and oh the deadlines, that being life and always unwantedly acknowledging my progress, my age.  Something in me blares, “Stop it stop it stop!  Go to that, whatever it is you want and wait no longer, no character you write deserves and author like this, so move on, MOVE ON!” In many ways I envy the people that don’t like or drink wine, they’re not haunted by this curiosity, this clawing for more information, more privy to how it’s done, the making, they don’t want to make wine hell they don’t even care.  Why was I put here in this writewant, in these seeking shoes?  And now I just don’t know what I’m sentencing into these sentences, I’m the one sentenced into this writing role– the adjunct form shed soon but I have to wait till the semester’s end.  I’m in  a mood now, and I put myself here, the Hawley did, I think but I can’t be sure and that’s the kind of writer I am, drums and trumpets, those Hutcherson mallets aside, I just have to keep writing otherwise the clouds grow, the inner storm accumulates to whoknows.

Tired, tired, but I force myself to write even if I don’t want to and all I want to do is write on this character in the morning after more coffee than I probably should have.  Wine club event tomorrow, hopefully we get six bottles to take with like last event– think I’ll take Chardonnay if that happens like a co-worker did, again last event.  What would I do for my club or list members?  Do I have to do anything?  ‘Course I do.  But I can write it all off, right?  Or at the least very much write about it–

Hear a dog barking somewhere behind our house, I think on Gold Leaf, that odd street behind A’ Walk, much more extended and much more extensively odd, all the neighbors and the kids, not like Autumn Walk at all.  Yes I’m judging but they give us plenty of reason to with their yapping pups and children riding those gassy noise scooters past Autumn Walk and sometimes on.  Just annoying, and I’m like Plath when she saw those cadavers, or when her character Esther did.. I just don’t know how to register it, all of this, being my age and owning a house and being so grown but not at all in fact sometimes I wash my face lift head and see a 17 year old Mike still in high school, still dreading to walk down the hall ‘cause I know Mr. Carboni, that cocky Italian no-mind will call me into his office, something Mr. Strange (Algebra teacher, name of course appropriate) reported.