Writing as I used to, keys in the car, by the dam (spelled “damn” in first type), Lake Sonoma. Clouds, jazz, French insinuation in this track.. travel I think again, and a Ranger drives past me, like a fighter jet doing a flyby. Was it hostile or not? Do they allow poets here, am I welcome, this type of poet who explodes in prose and chose to do everything differently? Not sure if I have to be at winery at 9 or 930— email last night said 930 but ‘manager’ the other day told me 9. Why is clarity so arduous and such a tentacle to wrestle for some? Changing my mode with writing and identity— memoirism, poetry, song, to read Read READ! Share what I have to page— oh how I love sessions like this, just as I used to do before a hellish day at Kunde. (And now I don’t hyphen-out their name.) But enough of that place and those days, the days that even further pushed me to travel and the Road and these theories on poetry, these new versified realities. Lake Sonoma, its Rangers watching me, I’m sure. Feel like Langston Hughes with his house being invaded by America’s gelatinous gendarmes looking for something unamerican when all they find is poetry. And that’s what will happen here. Can’t wait for a sheriff or cop to pull up beside me, ask me what I’m doing, me showing him the writing (as if he’d understand), then asking for my ID, reg’, insurance proof and all that normalized cliché cop dialogue. Would do what he says. Don’t want to get shot, and they seem to enjoy pulling that trigger these days. Gone in my ideas, the writing and the morning, 3-shot mocha, caffeine very much in me, and I can’t wait for another of that incredibly seismic medium or dark roast, whatever, at the winery, in that little cottage adjacent to the tasting room. Already Dutcher Crossing has emboldened me irreversibly, making it certain I’m to have my own SMALL winery, write my own story— this morning putting something like $14 and 60-something cents in a small plastic baguette, starting the journey again. I won’t spend that money but animalistically protect it, with fangs and growls and my understanding that I’m a writer making wine, not a winemaker— ugh, hate that title, hate titles, hate those that love titles and pride themselves in theirs and have to remind everyone of theirs and have to introduce themselves by name then title; they don’t agree with their name’s gravity, the title’s needed. Time confirmed, 9:30. Took a while but it’s confirmed. And here I am for a bit longer, in my 4wheeling office, by the lake, with patrols around me, “What the hell is that writer doing?…oh, he’s a poet? That’s weird…” This track, this moment, is about me, my peace and my pie piece, my days coming, on a plane, in a hotel room writing and sipping some red from their menu— Newness, my addiction, and everything logged, everything, a student of what’s around me, here in Sonoma or New York, my city (mon Paris), or Africa when I finally get there.. and Australia.
Moments and sittings like this pass too fast. If I have to clock in by 930, then I could leave here at 9:15.. 24 minutes from now. What can I write in 24 minutes? Now I start to stress and overthink as I do— writers, DON’T DO THAT!— but calm with the clouds again, the nearness of the damn (whoops) and the water it mentors. The day only starting, so is this story, mine, right at 37. Why am I so fixated and obsessed and scared of that number? Is it the nearness to 40? Maybe— age age age, we all think about age— “No I don’t.” You say. But you do. We all do. And if you don’t struggle to swim in yours, you’re at the very least aware of it. I need everything in place before 40. My publishing, writing, blogging, making wine, traveling, lecturing, everything I want to be cycling onward before 40. So when that age, I’ll already be on my way, peddling quite fast, and more than on my way, the story much in its galactic evolution, finding solution, no distraction pollution; everything placed and prudent. But then, I see another ranger pass and wonder what they do. What if I would have become a ranger or cop or sheriff and not a writing adjunct. Would I have met Alice, would I not have the little beats to take care of? Would I be happy? Are they happy, these ranger roles, with their guns and sirens and dirty trucks and thick manly tires? Mud stains on the doors’ sides and a bit on the door mirror’s outer shell. I keep wondering.. what if I would have been a … a… But what does that do. I’m here, the writer-father-adjunct, or father-writer-adjunct (importance order). Reading to myself as I go along writing something that’s not written, looking out an airplane window down at the middle of the country on my way to New York for either a signing or speaking, some “business” voyage, but running out of caffeine or gas or motion to page. And the answer, wine, my wines, the reactions like yesterday from people with whom I work, their favor of the Merlot. Where am I getting fruit this vintage? Kunde? Not sure I want any from there. My sister? Maybe. I am making something this year, and I’d see it Merlot if my druthers fall into my desired directedness. We’ll see. Think I have a couple more bucks to add to that bag.. wait, do I? I never know how much money I have. You? Maybe that’s a problem. Surely one I need resolved before opening a winery, before self-printing something, before bringing my littles into the biz— and yes before 40. But that’s more wishing. It doesn’t have to be. I can make it BE.