Now just a dash to the third page before getting summoned to the tasting room. And I have to caution you, this is going to be rough, sped, and maybe even a bit sloppy. But it’s me in the moment, me in these less than 48 hours before 2017. The year I turn 38. Fuck, I don’t want to think about it. And I won’t. What I’m going to do with this new year is make it truly a NEW year. A year which is only the start of more years where I do ‘New’.. engage in Newness and follow my artistic and creative curiosity and impulse. Early and I’m already moving faster than I have all of December, and probably much of November. 2017 is going to be a new year, a better year, but a more educational year for this writer and teacher, father and runner, thinker, wonderer and wanderer. Right now I hear co-workers talk ‘bout how they can’t wait for the day to be over, and what they’re doing new year’s eve, and I get that. Some of me entirely agrees. BUT… the majority of my ruling character wants to focus on the Now, me here in this page and at this desk, looking out at the vineyard but I don’t too much. I need to adhere and harness self to the words, the the langue of the moment I’m in— this ME, right here at the desk listening to music and more than just looking the part of the writer— it’s not a part, it’s not an identity, it’s a materialized story of one of words; the sentences and stories and written reflections whereas others just disregard their moments or take them for granted. Without struggle, no progress, Douglass wrote. Yes… but I’m done struggling. Not that I struggled as hard or horribly as him, but 2017 is a time for vast and expansive progress. Profitable progress. Educating and enriching progress. I can feel it coming. Don’t need to go back to grad school as this new year is more than a program or new major or graduate degree. This new year is about being a new student, of the year itself. Noting everything. Seeing each following day as a quiz or test, revisit of the previous day. If I’m a being in search of some greater meaning, as Plato suggested, I think I’ve finally found the meaning, and what I’m supposed to mean and be and persist as to the world. So now, I start. 2017 is about actuation, not playing any part or role. It is BEING. I’m a being about being a truly written being. When down to the third page, I’ll be ready for the tasting room, ready to pour and tell people about wine and speak in my poetic tumbles and vary foresights— I love when people react to my words on wine, how I on-the-spot recite about my connection to the puddle entity. Wine is more than wine… and if there’s anything 2017 knows about me, and what I know about it, is that it will be a year de vin.. words and travel, photographs and story telling, new people and friends and experiences and memories, books and crazed meander meditations and intonations.
Listening to usual Pandora station, looking right, out past the desk and into the vineyard, think it’s time for another walk. Why not. Not much happening today. Phone hasn’t rang once, and I’m all about observation this morning. Speaking and Newness. Eventually I will have to get up from this chair and go for a walk and see what the vineyard wants to tell me. Words and stories of its life— its own music. Moving quicker and quicker, on stage reciting to people I’ve never met. Isn’t that what art is? Isn’t that what Newness is? Sip what’s left in the Starbucks cup— Goddamnit. That’s it? Co-worker just made coffee but I want to wait a bit. Need to exhibit at least a little lash of composure this jour. Too much fire invites a blaze, or inferno that escapes control. But maybe that’s part of Newness.. the rich visual facets and the narrative and the new articles and meditations of moments I’ve never before met going into this new year. Has the New Year already began? Think so. And why did I capitalize it there? Why not? New.. new riles and rules and laws that I decree and somewhat regulate. What a poet is is a manager of New experiences. One with a familiarity and lack of familiarity with them— deliciously polarizing and contradictory. The contradiction is its own encouraging composition. Looker, seer— me, a poet.