After a long day

in TR, then dinner with parents, see myself here, which I am, with some bottle of port— wait, no, not the whole bottle, just more than an adequate glass of—  in home office, thinking about how I won’t be running in the morrow, and what we tonight sipped, and the opportunities and options with teaching as a freelance professor, not needing some institution to give me a check, or having to call in like I do, humiliatingly for assignments, only taking what’s bloody left over for me.  That’s not living.  That’s certainly not a fucking career, no?  First sip of this port— ravishing.  But I definitely poured the Self too much.  Don’t want to be like Kerouac in that chair.  Have to write faster than it filters into my system and circuitry— always have the students on mind, always thinking that they’re watching, reading, seeing what I do and how I act.  That’s my “career”, teaching and leading young writers.  Had the discussion with Mom & Dad tonight, that I for the first time in this writer’s life feel like the old man at the winery, everyone around me in their 20s or early 30s.  Makes me feel sick, honestly, even writing that.  Decreeing—  Going to sip this port slow, as those that move slower are truly aged— hope that doesn’t sound ageist, just how I feel.  And more than the concern with age and feeling old, I need to be quick as a writer, and this fucking port isn’t helping, it’s only slowing this typer, fast and fiery beatnik deciding how decided he wants to be in his page practice, and teaching, like Ginsberg— poetry, PO.ET.RY.  Post-it’s all over this desk, purple.  Where did I get them?  Can’t remember.  But they’re oddly scattered about the workplace’s surface.  Could be me, or my son that did.  Don’t know.  Back behind bar tomorrow.  One day I won’t have to be.  But I will as I love it, seeing how these tourists love wine and just want to explore, get so excited to join a wine club, thinking they’re now like one of us living here.  I see, me, selling my bottles, in MY tasting room, talking about what I did to the clusters when they arrived to the pad.  Days are short for them, as tourists.  They wish they were long, lasted longer, they how how fast time rushes past their ears and fingers on vacation; they envy us, working at a winery— “You have to do this everyday?  You have no idea how lucky you are.” To them, this is living, the only way to live.  They want to live as we do, Californians in wine country— “You get to do this everyday?” one of them today me asked.  “Yep.” I said, wanting to see how they’d respond to my evasive curtness.  But they just sipped, forgetting what they just asked, and I scribbled their response, other words they said, like “wow.. this finish.. it’s tingly.. I feel some sort of, whoa, tingle…” I’m drained, depleted.  Sip port again.  Check email.  Hate my phone.  Feeling old.  Have to write with more animalism.  Should have just brought the whole bottle to desk with me—