Moved away from the awkward alcove here at Hopper with the strange character talking to himself and making certain sounds. So now I’m right under a vent, or so it feels. Not sure it was written for me to write here till 2, or just before as wife and I negotiated. But I’m here. I can’t surrender my place in this spot, this makeshift office just off Hopper. OH… have to get gas, as well. Taking babies to school tomorrow, then after going to see client in Healdsburg, then to campus. Busy ’17 start, which is just what I wanted.
Just made some notes in Comp Book. No, I’m not budging. ’17 will not see me back down so soon. In fact, the air on me, on my left arm and a bit down my neck and the left side of my back, calms the writer. Not caring if the people behind me are peeking at what I write— I know, total paranoid writer thing, but that’s how I usually get when I situate in spots like this with a couple occupied tables behind me.
This moment and realizations teach me to be measured in creative carelessness— that’s an advantageously fearless charge that will benefit you immeasurably. Sure, they could be looking, commenting, gossiping. But that’s envy, of sorts. I love it. AND, it probably isn’t even happening to begin with. Like I said, writer’s angst, anxiety. Should’ve smuggled wine in like Miles…
Relaxed with my usual tracks, enjoying a day off, a day to me and family. Jackie this morning, more than alive and wild and free in his spirit, which I found, find, freeing. Reminds me of wine, and the family business that so many of us as consumers seek. It causes us to move, be foragers and expedition-prone bottle lovers in our own vessels. Here in the coffee spot I dream of the story of wine and what’s headed my way, from the ’12 Napa Cab I last night sipped to whatever I open next (more than likely one of the St. Francis bottles Mom and Dad bought me).
While sipping the Cab last night I thought about wine, and what the wine wants to say— its individual speak and sway in the glass, for all of us. And it’s different to everyone, I know. But that difference, like with Literature, is poignantly what makes wine so intriguing. Letting wine steer this new year. And it navigate my tongue, mind rhythms and sight. Last night’s bottle, the ’12 Freemark Abbey, rather than file it down to a nub of plebeian description, I see it as more— alive with conviction and character, its own flavorful scene and revolution. It makes me wander in my own thinking, change focus locations and move around, makes me evaluate my relationship with wine— what I like to sip and why, and why so many make too much of wine, take from the fun and the implicit, intrinsic dimension to wine. Last night’s Cab took me to school, educating me more on Napa but as well me on ME. Wine increases its velocity, tells me to write about it more, and more me with it, and why we are and always will be ensemble.