16th day, 2016, now past 11 in the Autumn Walk Studio, Emma in front of me in the bassinet thing and I think about the day and how my wallet was found, debit and credit card, and I’m back to a sensible more rhythmic sensibility. Semester starting in 4 days, tired from THIS day in the tasting room where I felt like a bloody 5th wheel most the day. Emma now makes a sound and the clutter around me doesn’t under the skin slither. I calm myself somewhat and think of the next story to write— the writer on his first trip, leaving family at home but just enjoying the quiet of his room; no passive resentment toward the home he left but just encouraged and interested by the unfamiliar, the still of his room, the bar downstairs and the interesting lighting, the lobby, how he’s there from writing, from the articles and journalism efforts.. he’s finally the writer he’s wanted to be, he thinks, and he doesn’t want to ruin a single segment of this new stroke of the story..
He entertains going upstairs to his room leaving the sleek and shiny concrete-looking bar, all its scattered and spacey lighting. He has to be up in the morning, to lecture on “journal maintenance”, a term he uses for his students for trapping ideas in some form of binding. This, his first trip, he can’t believe it so he stays downstairs in the lobby bar and notes everything, all the workers at this 11th hour, how they gossip with each other in corners and have a look on their lips and upper cheeks when someone approaches that grey slab, like “oh shit, what does this person want, another of of those new whiskey cocktails?” The writer stays in his seat, logs everything, what the hostess is wearing and how she scribbles right after someone passes her, whether guest or another employee— “Is she a writer, too?” he wonders, sneers.