Again, coffee for tomorrow made. A double cup in the tumbler, awaiting my wake come morrow. Before anything, before anyone calls for me (babies, notably). Sipping some Italian Syrah, random as it is, gifted to me from one of Alice’s cousins. Not so much in a wine mood this evening, just a creative ebb and echo reverberating about my character and not-yet-scribbled gusts. Alice doing something for Emma in the kitchen, me in the study, stacks of papers, right, camera also at starboard. Have to look through pictures from the day.. the ones I took at the vineyard this morning, on Yoakim Bridge Road, looking up at Zichichi’s winery.. just had to stop off to the Road’s side, think, take some pictures, sip morning air. What the story wanted. The Syrah now take a turn for more funky oldworldness. Not sure I enjoy it as much as I did when the bottle was first opened. I’ll have one more glass, maybe. Don’t want to too much jeopardize the 4AM call. I swear to you, every morning driving to Dutcher I’m saying something to myself to the quid of “Tomorrow I’ll do it…I should have just got up and started writing.. tomorrow, tomorrow…” Infuriates me.
Tired after the day. Private tasting at noon, not taking lunch till whenever, and now this Italian. 10:34… And I stare at the photo of the empty Road, me standing in the middle of it, Yoakim Bridge, just looking into the intersection of Road and treeline. Time for bed I know but I can’t help my catatonically obsessive peer at this picture. The semester closing, next week, essentially, the end of another Road. OR, the start of… I don’t know… I’m overthinking, as always. Just me, my mental activity.
The stack of papers taunts me, I curse it, at it, tell it to leave me alone. I need a night.