Told wife she can run in the morning and I’ll run when I get home, for 45 minutes. But that doesn’t mean I won’t wake early to write. Oh no, reader… I will wake early and go get coffee then come back here and write an animal of an article. On entrepreneurism. On owning your own business. Being independent. Having your OWN story, and OWNING your own position, staple in your field.
The wine speaks to me, tells me to follow the vineyard and what it does, just grow grow grow— sprint toward that fruit. I take one sip of the St. Francis Claret, ’13, taste the wine’s voice, that chocolate cherry and maple— wine’s becoming more a relentless force in my life and it tells me, “Don’t fight. Own.” Own my sitting, it means. Own my presence and my actions in the industry. Get from it what I want, whatever I want. Wine is more life than I’ve ever seen it. And I realize this as a father, a writing father, father-writer, a father written by time and how quick it’s moved. Sitting at the desk today, staring at the SB block I thought of an interaction in high school, when one of the teachers at lunch told my friends and I to be quiet, as we were quite loud just outside the window of a classroom. I said, “Yeah we were really loud, and I’m really really sorry.”
“You know what, you’re a wise guy,” the passing teacher said. What he should have said was, “You know what you little fuck, you’re an asshole.” And I was. Such a negative attitude I threw at the teacher, who was just doing his job. I’d say that was in, what, ’95? TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO. Old, this writer. But I don’t want to be and can’t afford to be negative in my attitude in how old I am— you know, drink more wine, I tell myself. Drinking… The Bordeaux blend takes more of a lavender and toffee curve. More sound and texture, motion and jig to its lean. Love this wine.
Didn’t put a sentence in my Happiness Project log today. Or yesterday. How did I let that happen? For yesterday— “Nothing can harm me, cuz I want to harm nothing, no one.” And for today— “So many times I’ve been wronged, but that only helps me write more song.” There, caught up. I’m becoming a positivity and happiness addict. Benny-esque, or more. I’ll be on the Road soon, sooner than anyone, even me, can see. 11:07— 53 minutes to make today the best ever in my life. What do I do with the diminishing time? Sip again.
Put my phone down. I hate that fucking thing. House quiet, what the father writing, or written fatherly writer, extols. Father before everything, and there are times when dad needs solitude, still, the enveloping quietude that begets a story. This night, a story. The day, chapter stream endless to beget more pagination. ME, here with wine, sentence drizzle, flashes confirming. Boon. I’m the owner. I own my place.