Ready for tomorrow morning’s run. So I sip the Kunde Malbec quite slow. Listen to Hutcherson, low, don’t want to wake the wees. Didn’t finish a poem for the day. I could after this entry, but it wouldn’t be one recite-able, or would it, as part of a larger effort? Don’t know, drained from day, time strained and straightened into stricture, the jazz telling me to stay awake— already made coffee for morning, Jackie earlier asking me if I knew about bugs, cars, and planets. Told him bug no, cars a little, and planets a little more. “Really, Dada? Well I know about bugs… you wanna know about bugs?” I smiled and held him close to me like a pillow, or some stuffed animal he has, like I were him and he the animal, said, “Yeah, buddy, tell me! Tell me about the bugs!” He departed on a succinct and scattered but impassioned lecture about ladybugs and butterflies, roly-polies… I was fascinated, kept and away swept by his insect fervor. His elevated attachment to the subject of bugs only propelled me toward my affinities. Like this wine, the winery, winemaking, literature and the rhythm of wine’s literary qualities.
Find my sedated self more calm, with this ’13 Malbec. Doesn’t taste like a ’13, but more like a ten, a couple years ago— with its smokey talk and jazzy inflection. Can see both Emmie and Jack helping me and Auntie Katie at the winery, handing us bottles for labeling, or corks, or tech sheets. There’s so much ahead of us, here at the Autumn Walk Studio, from publishing to winemaking, to media and blogging, to just poetry and simple journaling. IS that a business plan? I don’t know. Going to say no. Older I get, I’m of a deferred plan, meaning NO plan.
Nothing adjunct about tonight. This is my plight, right, sight— Another sip, and… more of the ember’d edge— saccharinous, granulated, fined and forward. But I think the wine’s catching me. Alice just texting me, asking me kindly as she always does to put the fan in our room back on, I do, then come back down here to find a different character in the glass. We as characters, writer, PARENTS, change. And the babies, oh do they ever changer (‘change’, verb, French).
‘Nother sip, and I’m on travel’s wing, traveling to France, again, listening to jazz the whole way there, scribbling like I do in the tasting room, note about working at a winery, dreams of having your own label, writing about each step— the bottle, end-product, pouring all over the country and noting reactions. How they see it, swirl, smell and taste, sip the one once of my effort in that stylized bowl. If this Malbec were my wine, how would I decode and gloss it? First… raspberries and cherries, coupled with that milk-chocolate dust and lavender— But they all describe wine that way. This Malbec is eager and a bit confrontational, but still wooing in its own way, musical and theatrical. This is a wine I hope to produce with Ms. Austen and little Kerouac. The dreams fly away and around me, circling me like those antagonistic coaches that are there for you, loving their job but it doesn’t show, just seems like they’re bullying and taunting you. But it’s here, this wine, and for me, with me, to teach me. To recite its poetry to the writer, see what I think to just share a piece. Sliver of verse and performance. Fuck, should hit that coffee right now. Can still smell it— the cinnamon, the lively sweet roll of it tasty ramble.
Going to bed. Well, not now. But soon, maybe. Want to go check on little Kerouac again, but I can’t. I have work to do down here, the writer-father. And tomorrow morning, the runner. Then, fucking Tuesday, the adjunct. Student asked me last semester how I have time to run and write and be a daddy. Honestly, I don’t know. I just do it. I have to write. I have to ‘dad’. So, it’s done. Not like this manuscript trumpeter has some choice. I don’t want choices. That means I have to make a choice. I know what I am, a writer, then father— I run, then adjunct. So, story set. A day. One more glass. Why not. I’ll run, just not fast.
So still down here. Thankful for Bobby, my jazzed measures, yes I need another pour.
This quiet, an opiate. This, what wheels when you have babies. And no other way the writerfatherrunneradjunct it wishes.