Day 03, April 22, 2017, Saturday — Well, here I am. Home alone with the house to myself and a night to myself and my first action is anxiety. All the way home, actually. “Should I take myself out to dinner or not?” I posed, right around the Central Windsor exit, thinking all last night how I couldn’t wait to get some takeout at Kin. But I passed the exit and headed toward Santa Rosa. “Should I get off at River, get a beer at Ash, then order a pizza?” Didn’t.. kept driving. “Piner Café?” No. Just to home. I have some pasta Mom brought over last night, but I’m not in the mood to eat, but get my thousand words out, start finally gathering my book— collections of memory bits or whatever. Listening to Chet Baker, “So Easy”, and slowly sipping the Dutcher Crossing Cabernet I brought home at some point, at some time. I can only realize.. I’m home alone. A night to me. To write. Get something done. Change direction in some way, or some something. 20:25, and dark has landed on this street.. this odd horseshoe lane of houses, with more children about than I know how to notice. Never mind that. I’m here. Re-reading my character notes posted earlier to blog.. my character, Kelly, still in head and mind and vision and I see her walking to work— or no, taking a bus to Market from the Mission District. I have to keep with that, with all this. Today writing more poetry on yet another makeshift notebook of those scratch slices I cut, we all cut, from old tasting menus. Everyone calls it “Mikey Scratch Paper”. Which always makes me smile, everyone noticing me a writer.
Today’s vineyard walk, more meaningful than most I hold at lunch, less that 15 minutes in the Grenache block, my favorite, just looking around understanding, progressing and growing where I am. More poetic, the vineyard than the actual wine in my stemless glass, or plastic Govino, next to me. Just my sight now, all I see are vineyards. That’s all I want to see, really. I sip the Cab, and I think of the block around the tasting room building. The ground and how the vines were pruned, how the buds are breaking and the leaves extending toward the sky, and me just looking, taking pictures and looking through them later imagining what my vineyard will look like. What I’ll write to them, to my vineyards. I’m here.. in my house.. wanting to make the most of this night, but where do I start? Guess here. With my thousand words as I promised earlier. Tempted to go get coffee— is there any, anywhere in that cabinet? Don’t think so. Coffee would benefit better with a night like this.. me here alone and only a book or two to write. OR that article about wine being “bottled poetry” as he said. Wine is not as poetic or verse-riling as the vineyard. Never. The vineyard propels a linguistic shape that nothing else does. ‘Cause even the vineyard is about more than just the vineyard. The soil— Earth— trees and life around it.. streams and weather consistencies recent, atmosphere, and what you can’t see and what’s not in some V&E textbook.
When I walk the vineyard, I have little idea what I’m really seeing. But I’m acutely aware of how I feel while out there. What it makes me write. As I’m here now, in this house alone and its signature in my character, the vineyard continues to sign even after I’ve left. Even pushing the buttons all I hear is my steps on that dried vegetation, the old canes snapping, the midday gusts sliding over and through the cordons. I stop to see it again, remembering what I said to myself while out there, what I saw myself doing while home…. I thought about what I should get myself for dinner, and here I am with nothing. The right choice, to be honest. Just fly into the words, pour yourself something, whatever’s open. And here I am.. listening to jazz feeling like I did when 22, 23, living by myself in San Ramon. I know I’m a father, husband, but right now I’m just a writer inventorying his day, all the idiosyncrasies and anomalies, cosmos and galaxies contributing to my book, books. Gonna need a break in a minute I think. Not like me, but I’m going to take one. Can’t get the Grenache block from my forearm shell, eyes, chin, cheeks, eyelashes. I’m measured and musical in that block. Why— what is it in there, in now me? I’m relaxed, I’ll profess. But I can’t be relaxed, let alone too relaxed. I’m on the clock. MY clock. Waiting for nothing to happen. Waiting for no one to call. I’m just acting, actuating. What do I want to read tonight? Friend earlier suggested I read some of Kurt Cobain’s entries. Just need to read something new tonight.
Glass empty. I’m not ready for more, not yet. Ugh… coffee does sound amazing tonight. Going to look for one k-cup… there has to be one, in there, somewhere— No. There’s not. Erroneous attempt. I’ll get up early, run, then get some. I shouldn’t have coffee late. Bad writer move. Re-designing my writing habits and routines and roundness. So.. after wine comes water. Turn wine to water. And abstract calculative reference, maybe. The jazz and wine tell me to take another break but I ignore and I’m sure I’ll be scolded in some way either by the my words or the wine, Hutcherson or Coltrane, or this evening, itself. I find myself slowing, not focusing. Did I work that hard today? Don’t think so. I mean, a couple times there it was scattered and rushed and a whirling kerfuffle behind the bar, but I survived. We all did. Selling and signing new club members.. the industry pulls me closer and further forward into and through its book. I’m in a book, writing a book about the book I’m in, writing the book. A postmodern marriage that necessitates an affair. What? I’m already crossed and lost. ‘Nother glass.