…a family. ‘ME’ is me but not. At the end of a torturous eight hours at the winery, pinned behind the tasting room, I sit in the condo’s study and relax, ignoring the copywriting work I have on my plate, I’m just far too fractionalized for such attention. I merely have to let mind wander and wonder about this portrait.. the me in this frame, the me now at 36 at my age and what it’ll all be like when.. when.. why say ‘when’.
…goddamnit I think of my poems and verses, the two I wrote this morning on my phone while waiting for my 3-shot mocha.. taking an inventory, both for sale. I have to subscribe myself to my own subscription.. everything I write is inventoried and on the shelf for vend.
…on vacation in Montana of all places, a cabin removed but not too much so, and surrounded by wildlife and trails for us to traverse, and for me to run early in the morning. I guess the conflict is no where in my mind as I can only write how wondrous the country is and what we do there, the theatrical peace about its facets. and I’ve never been to Montana, just did tidal waves of research– I challenge myself to get to 500 words, then 1000, then 1500. Then I stop, open another bottle, red, this one a Cab, and have only a little glass
…no reason not to laugh, not to smile and know where I am and what I’m doing in this wined story. I look down at my lap, the part of my leg barely showing to the left of the laptop, covered by pajama leg, the black and white and grey checker pattern. I should go to bed, I should, especially if I’m to write that newsletter for client, but I’m too into this story, the Montana cabin, walking with my family, my children, and wishes wishes, doors opening and closing, this inventory of poems and how those poems and verses worthy of voice could do something for me, for this, this story– I think of that Kerouac poem where he recites about where I grew up, San Francisco down to San Carlos and all the people walking around, the sounds of the train and the restaurant at the station, people eating breakfast and the scents of English muffins lightly doused in butter. I go to my lunch breaks when working at the box, typing like a thinning fiend at one of those tables to another 3-shot mocha–