Still thinking about the vineyard we visited this morning, more content and story to sort through. Looked at time, and SHIT, already close to 12pm. 11:56 exactly. Big project done for morning, so now I collect for a bit. Have to get a picture of something on the crush pad for what I’m working on here at the winery. Lunch, a vineyard walk. I know I’m in contact with the inspiration I felt approaching this morning on the drive up here, 101 North and on DCR (Dry Creek Road), but I’m not sure how to process it. I blame that vineyard, the drive up there, how I couldn’t remove my eyes from the views, the soil, those steeper than steep hills. It was too much story, too many a gem, too helpful for the book.
Fruit on the crush pad now, or about to be loaded onto the pad, and I only want to go out there and record. But then I realize, the inability to translate the impetus immediately tells me to wait, not rush, don’t stress or hurry. I’m in class— I acknowledge it and appreciate it and that’s more than many do. Take my time in this Art, in this story at the winery, living a wined life. Look at the pictures again, the climb up that hill and the Syrah berries on the vines, to be picked entirely on Tuesday. Sipping the coffee I bought at Big John’s hoping it will help me tell more an electric story here at the winery, with my day, with my night tonight, and tomorrow morning where my son and I will have our usual Saturday morning party with cereal, coffee, cartoons. Keep recording, I tell myself, but don’t rush— “Well, how do you do that?” You might ask. Not sure. I’m learning, I’m in class. The day is my teacher and I collect what she gives me.
Wrote day’s haiku. Left it untitled. ME, on the 23rd of September, inching further into my favorite season of Fall and just wanting to travel. Before I know it the semester will be over. My thesis now is to write and not care— don’t over-edit. Just put all words into the air and world and to readers who truly read, who don’t just flock to checkout stand novels or memoirs with glossy covers. Myself, I see on a plane, writing in the Comp Book and then typing when back home— New York, to Portland, down to L.A., back up to Seattle, to Texas, then back home to tell babies and wife the stories before I write them. What I want to teach, or ideas I hope to share, is knowing language a different way. Not teach, just stress the importance of language, writing, keeping a journal.
Couple co-workers on break in this house. Different lives, stories, everywhere. Everyone has a story but not everyone tells. Why? I understand. But I need to tell mine. This day, how clearly I’m thinking, tells me to tell my story— writing, running, blogging father in the wine world, looking at everything dozens of times and writing about it differently every time. If only I had a small desk on that one hill overlooking Alexander Valley— me there by myself. This book would be done. I’d be on the road, with my ink and Comp Book sheets. FREE.