Hopper Page

Finally stationed, taking forever to get my quad and digging very much into writing time.  But I’m writing not having taken the first sip just yet and on the way to Sanglier’s Room– a day of not just those wild wine writings I’m known to note, but as well for, or more for, Wild Writing in general.. about anything, to sell, and to bridge these income gaps as my company does– so much frenzy around me and I try to drown it with the Thievery Channel, Pandora.

Going to try and sell three cases today, my goal for Self, pretending Sanglier’s label’s my own, and everything about it from that symbol and mammoth motif of the wild boar to the glasses, the font of the name on the glass, and what the wines taste like– what authors they pair with.

I’m thinking no wine tonight for the writer, as he had enough of the ’10 last night.  Perhaps too much, woke this morning a little slow but the shower helped me shed that sense.  What I’m perceiving about my story now, the writer and writer of wine and the wine life, people working in it and entrepreneurs like Glenn (not even from California but now more into a specific California practice than most Sonoma natives) is that I can have whatever I want.  And from wine.  Its consistency.  And my writing.  My teaching.  My students– I have the recipe I need, already for everything– everything I want– the startup.. the publishing efforts and selling the writing, never having to worry about money for my wife and I, our babies…  And to such tune, Ms. Austen’s arrival is merely 10 days from where I sit here in the Hopper walls.  Next Week, 17 of semester’s 18, is set to be easy and easing for the professor. 

Received a note, on a social medium, from a former student, tagging me in a Sylvia Plath quote.. and then I imagine the passage from Plath’s novel that I emphasized throughout the term, at all campuses, and what I should lecture on next term– want poems to be a focus, but which.. what.. what…  Some of my own, for me anyway, analyzing my own work objectively.. huh, that’s an idea and exercise for my students next term.. collect works, 10 pages or so, and execute an objective consideration of the author’s work– what can you tell about that author, is there world view, optimistic or cynical, like with wines and how you detect certain chords and voices at certain parcels of the sip and during the bottle’s open duration.

More focus on shorter pieces, and more on experimental prose– WILD writing, but direct and accurate with narrative, story intent.  11:11 now.. should leave soon, head to the ‘burg, the square I so much love, immerse myself into character, find some new story streams and strings, new consistencies in those people of Healdsburg.  After the first couple sips of the 4-shotter, I’m alive and complete without the ripples of last night’s bottle.  How I welcome the term’s end, and death to my commutes; putrid Solano, bloody Mendocino.  I’m finding my story and the Road is just around the corner, possibly next month, who knows, I just sense its close and more stories and stores, crosswalks in other states and new meals and wines to meet.  The people drive the story, yes, but so does the location and the character as which it proceeds.

Hopper, providing an energetic page.  And escape.  But paranoia as well, how do I know the people behind me aren’t reading this page as I flurry, cartwheel and spin from syllable to syllable like a quaking cubist locked in his studio but now out and not knowing how to properly adjust to the confronting mise-en-scène.  But he tries and he keeps writing.  He can’t help but watch the time as he knows he has commitments, but the paragraphs and characters around him and himself and that stage, that stage in its layeredness demand all precedence.


I  AM–