At Oakville, Grocery, Again:
And the cut on my right forefinger that I acquired sticking my hand under a toychest looking for one of Jack’s favored articles, dragging it along and against small staples, pains me. I remember the blood coming to skin surface quick as if eager to sing, and it sung. “FUCK!” I almost yelled, but kept it in. I write through what pain it here gifts, right before work.. new focus today and this morning and I’m not stopping even for a second with my material and stories of the writing and blogging father, professor even though I hate being called that. More than anything, now before 37, I understand that I’m meant to write; about being a father, where I am, what I want, how I’ll get it, my life and my family and just be electrically honest with everything. The fire at my 12 calms me and causes me to slow, even with all the coffee I’ve this morning had, two cups at home and then Melissa (often called ‘Alice’ on this blog, long story) bringing me my go-to of go-to’s 3-shot mocha. Music in my ears so I’m dumb and invisible to the traffic passing and all the tourists, though it seems a bit quiet on the square this morning, not many on the patio with me. So the day continues to treat me, and just encourage, telling me “Just go! Write and don’t stop! Get what you want and be honest about where you are, what you see and feel, what you want and it’ll be right there in your palms, or outside your window for you to write.” So… I simplify, and singularize, killing all blogs accept this one. I’ll somehow bring over all the wined content from ‘vinovinevin’ and write about it, expand on it or use it for some fiction piece, or just continue to narrate and catalogue my oeno-revolution, speaking of wine and something other than how these wine critics or “experts” or asshole somms do. It’s actually amusing, their prose, all of them. Creativity, where, where.. is it.. is that creative, to them? Or even journalism? What is this trash, I often think when reading something from Spectator, or Enthusiast, or some of these known sommelier baboons who take more selfies than write articles or post to their blogs. And if all you write about is wine, then you deserve the box you’ve put yourself in, choker! … How did I get on this topic?— It’s just the confidence from the morning and the coffees still executing their respective theses.
A little over 10 minutes before I have to walk back to the Sanglier tasting room, just around the corner. Brought a leftover half-sandwich from last night, Melissa’s tuna melt. Should I get something here, a snack? Can’t afford a sand’, I don’t think, not with this $9 writerfather budget I’m on for the day. That’s when you really know you’re a father, writing or not, when the day’s budget is always somehow emphasized or re-emphasized, stapled and punctuated somehow around you, intentionally or no. This is the morning, telling me to stay inside the $9 arena— huh, just forgot about the cut, which I’m calling the ‘toy wound’. Anyway, a snack. More story, more day, typing papa, Swift…..