Project A

9:48 and at winery, not yet clocked in just gather Self to rain and listen, watch, window at left and watching, watching, and the analogy is clear, quite vocal and obvious.  I need write with every free second, but I stated that already and now more of a redundancy than anything, so no more—  Not expecting many people to come through the tasting Room today and even if they do they’ll be greeted by a writer that I’ve never been— a revived and rebuilt English professor, or teacher, or whatever..  I love listening to rain more than watching it, and with each drop from the clouds comes a piece from my character, even if only a couple lines, or a couple words just bombarding the terroir of reality and my career as a writer— shit, forgot to post piece from yesterday, from after haircut.. the rain persists with more ferocity now, and I realize there’s more to the ideological alignment and intent of rain and a writer— the consistency and the obviated momentum, to get something done, to finish a project, to live and relive what you want to live, how and what, where when and all.

I start the project late as the idea came to me only last night, with every bloody second, write.  Sure, there’ll be an honor dimension to this, of course, but I trust myself and another purpose is to singularize my writings— the singular concepts and ideas, placements that I stress upon my students, using what you already have.

The four-shot mocha does its job, me forgetting my tumbler at home or somewhere, so I had to pay today, nearly six fucking dollars for this cup.  But well worth.  Well WELL worth.  Coffee and me work in concert, like thunder and lightening (which were supposed to get today at some point, I think early afternoon but who knows, another bonehead prediction from the weather twits), rain and soil, vines to grapes.  Think I have a new favored writing spot here at Arista… as you walk in, the small wobbly square table of gorgeously syrupy wood, that’s mine.  Just off to the right.  I sit in the chair closest to the wall, by the lamp.  This place had very much honed into my character and story, and I credit the owners, brothers Mark and Ben, whom I regard as more brothers and not in any way bosses (though if they gave an order I’d be happy to perpetuate it, provided there was no compromise to my character), how they operate their business and trust us to sell the wine, run the Room, and continue with daily operations; they’re convivial, respective, again communicative, honest, approachable.  Certainly something that the highers at the other place, whose name I so determinedly want to here specify (but won’t as that’s attention to them, something upon which they could capitalize, use to sell their mediocre at best wine), never did.  And yes, never.  That winery was run like a Target, or Walmart, so some trashy supermarket, a ‘churn ‘em and burn ‘em’ joint as Dad would say.  There’s probity at Arista, not and never at K——.

10:01.. should start to get ready, I guess, take out the pour buckets, open the wines if they’re not already, turn on some music (my music, the Morcheeba station and not that melancholy nonsense one of the other workers here loves to listen too.  Revolting and tired, that station).

The rain lets a bit, but I can’t, have to clock in ready the room, move on with the day.  Again, write every chance you CAN.  Not every moment, period…  Now the rain remerges more angry, as if to tell me “Don’t you move from that fucking seat!” But I have to.  “I have to work!” I answer.. “You don’t!”