Cliff Shade

Recognizing I’m a writing father as I’m calmed somehow strangely by the sound of the dishwasher. Night and day over, but I need to write, something, something of note, so I note, note what I don’t know. Had another glass of that Dutcher GSM blend— The group today, the four from Iowa, just for whom I want to make wine. Not these Californians, or anyone who thinks they know bloody everything about wine. I want to make wine for real Humans, people who just want to enjoy wine, who don’t want to overthink it or even ‘think’ it. I’ll rally: the ‘IA 4’ taught me more than I “taught” them about wine— it img_4515reminds me of Poe’s expression of poetry elevating the soul. Our intersection and conversational transaction elevated my centeredness and certitude in winemaking, and vision of life with wine— I’m 37 and I need to act quicker and people like this make me so do.

The writing father pauses for a second, leans his head back into the couch’s back, cushion, and breathes, looks up at the fan, sees the travels ahead of him. Getting distracted by everything I have in iron, pot, or fire, whatever they say. Need write more freely, and not care so much about containment, like others I know that call themselves “writers” but are accountants or HR bots during day and have to go on “retreats” to write. I’ve never understood the whole fucking retreat thing. Why do you have to retreat to write? If you’re a writer, then you write, right? Isn’t that it? Like now, me, as soothing as that dishwasher is, I’d love to retreat somewhere, Alaska or Sunriver or Wyoming somewhere, Big Sur even, and just be alone, write, but that’s not in my plan, not in any plan. I don’t need some special or certain setup to be on a page. And, aptly, I don’t have the money. Funny how so many call themselves writers but need the perfect posture and portrait to consist in what they claim to be their character’s code.

Would love another glass of that Dutcher red, but I think I’m at a point now where I would rather just sit, think, listen to that slushing mechanized clunk. Yeah, you know you’re a dad when you have solace and respite in this, that, that sound-set. This couch, forcing meditation, ah….. Need Santa Barbara in my eyeshot— But I have to wait, I know, for the travel, travels, when I get there, there in my career. The writer does need more wine, and more time on this couch, and more recollections of the day and how I recovered from yesterday, and how I overcame that panic from today, feeling seismic internally in the tasting room, not knowing why but going to the kitchen to have a couple pieces of pizza from yesterday’s event to even me. But yesterday is yesterday, and today is a new yesterday. So I’m moving no ‘on’, but IN. Into my story and further into my character’s mechanics and revolutions.
“Holy shit,” I recognize, “I have two babies. Upstairs. There needs to be an intensification. Of everything… And I need another glass of red. Why not…”
The dishwasher stops.
But I don’t.