At this point in the writer’s life. Home from another trying day at winery. I’m 37 and nothing’s different, I feel. Perhaps that’s the advantageous disposition to perpetuate, who knows. But the writing, running, fathering adjunct sits at this home office desk with a cup of decaf, after having some of the left over pulled pork from last night, a glass of sparkling rosé then a small shot of SB. Now to my glorious not-so-coffee coffee. Have all tomorrow off, and all Wednesday off. Plan tomorrow is to wake when I do and fly to the keys, write for blog, for the Summer, have Summer be completely written. Have Summer be the perfect semester, as I set Self to do with Spring. Came a bit close, but didn’t end with loudness and rile I wished for, that I envisioned. So I hope more, plan more, more acutely, sip my decaf. Want to wake early, early.. can’t say ‘4AM’— shit, I just did. Now I’m hexed, now I won’t. Why’d I do that? More thoughts, more storming brain, thinking of my own label, one themed literarily, around Kerouac and Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Plath. Making a to-do list for morrow, one I don’t in anyway see myself satisfying, but I’m writing everything down to, 1, see how much I can list, and, 2, see how many aims I can appease.
Don’t even notice the clutter on the writer’s desk. Then I do. Phone, pens, papers to grade (shocker), cords, a beanie I sometimes wear on runs, keys, the one-sentence-a-day journal… Already with 8 items on ‘2do’. Would love to fit in a wine tasting, somewhere, at some point. Where. Want it to be close. I think there’s small small wineries, or tasting rooms at the end of Piner, aren’t there? Investigate. Added to list.. “wine tasting”. And just one spot. Want to grow in my hobby state with wine. Have as little a job or anything serious as I can. Just enjoyment. Like with the Quivira Grenache from last night. We just drank it. Katie and I discussed a bit what we tasted, what notes and suggestions and what be, then we just drank. And drank to enjoy drinking wine with each other, a writer and a winemaker. IT was lovely. Dad, the Philosophy Major/traveled bloke/collector was also at the table, as well as Uncle Tim (“T”), just enjoying wine and the story of the moment. That’s what wine is, and that’s what I want my relationship with wine to be. Yeah, it’s a business. I get that. But I don’t, and won’t, ever think of it as a job, or work, or something I have to do. It’s a hobby, it’s love, it’s joy. It’s wine. That’s what IT should be. It’s a story.
I’m thinking anything but singularly right now, it might seem, but I am. Just to this blog, my business, BOTTLEDAUX— one bottle, one author, one story— the narrative of the writerfatherrunneradjunct. And sometimes the order of that severely compounded concept changes and self-manipulates. My life, here forward, is bottled. And me, the Ox, with one story. A story of stories. Now up to 11 items on morrow’s list. The last addition, “Read”. And I’m hoping to read something by Kerouac, thinking I’ll return to ‘Road’, read at my pace, for my journey, for the objective of having no objective, just the story itself, the addiction to momentum.
Today meeting a girl, ‘E’, who’s soon to leave her job to drive all about the country, just like Sal and Dean, find her finds and grow in her narrated growth. And again I’m reminded of my apexing aim: Travel. What I’ll write about on Road, I don’t know, but I know I need to see, move, see while moving, write while looking out the window of a plan like I did in ’06 on the way to Virginia to my now-sister-in-law’s wedding. Remember looking down at the clouds, flying ‘cross a country to an event while the whole time looking at the clouds and knowing that no one has seen what my father has seen and in the multitude he’s seen it. Other pilots, yes, maybe— OR, no! Not with his vision, his Philosophy palate of the visuals. I felt like my father, for a second, with that job satisfaction, with that elevation (yes a pun, but not planned). If I could do what ‘E’ is about to do, I’d have notes beyond inventorying, too multitudinous to quantify.
Have eaten horrendously today, so I calculated and deduced, “Why not have some M&Ms with decaf, why not have another decaf?” Tomorrow, more stringent with my intake, and my run has to be ten miles, early, no treadmill. Thinking I’ll launch from here, run out to Southern Fulton, which would be southern Santa Rosa. IF that’s possible. And, I need register for a ‘half’ tomorrow. Added to list… More I wonder, why’s it so challenging for me to wake at 4? If I did, could get 3 items scratched. Maybe even 4. Up to 13 items now, Alice reminding me I need to get little Kerouac some allergy medicine. Have to remember to take mine, as I was dying this afternoon while talking to ‘E’ on that lovely outstretch of lawn above the Chardonnay and SB blocks.
Alice goes upstairs and I indulge in the singularity of this desk, my empty coffee cup, this laptop….. That sneeze. 10:07, have ‘nough time for one more decaf lap. Or not. Sleep appeals currently. And my rest if plenty will make 4AM more a rational target. 4AM, so early, but so helpful… not motioning, this studio at that hour. No cries, no calls, no demands, just me and the dark, the quiet and quiet’s acumen. It’s an addictive level of singularity. I can only be more in need of it, the more I do it. Then it becomes habit.