Night of chores and writing. Time is certainly an issue, and now that I’m in management I realize it’s never an issue. How I manage it, that’s the “issue”. So… dishwasher going, as is clothes washer. Divided and strenuous ignition to day but everything later smoothed. Nice, for first day in new post, role, position, whatever. Tonight needs to be a tidying evening, on a number of fronts. Mother-in-law again reminded me she wakes at 04:00. Tomorrow, the same doing. Actually set my phone alarm in front of her and showed her to show myself the official nature or tone of this aim. Waking tomorrow at four to run at gym, then come home to write in book, then do whatever.. enjoy coffee… write more verse.
Tired from day, and I’m not sure what’s the lace of exhaustion. It was busy, yes, but nothing unusually demanding. I worked at the winery. I got a lunch in (which I know Mom will be happy about), and I have no idea why I’m so drained, why I’m stressing over what I get done and written tonight. I need another of these Lagunitas Little Sumpin’ Extra!’s. To just not take this all so seriously. Still have to enter info from day in more official log book, the 60-day project I mentioned earlier today and I think in last night’s writings.
Would it be wrong if I just relaxed tonight? Did my chores round the house and enjoyed another beer, some of the Edna Sauvignon Blanc I bought? Am I allowed to relax as a writer? Sometimes I think I need to be working and working and working all the time and if I just relax or watch a game I’m leaving the dock to sail in failure. No, that can’t be right, right? Seeing my daughter tonight at mother-in-law’s made me examine and microscope my work habits. I’ll do touch-and-go’s on the keyboard… come and go, write and get stuff done. Think I saw a character in a movie do that, working at his family’s restaurant then between bringing out tickets, or orders (look at me trying to talk like someone with restaurant experience, like one of those restaurant people), he go to this typewriter and work on his book. My book, about wine, and this—sitting in the chair writing, begins a writer—and living, not existing. I could not imagine if I’d been stuck at a job like I had in ’11/January ’12 at the box, in that fucking cube. That’s more than death, past death, it’s just veritable void, a no-pulse wheel that keeps you a cog. I need to relax. Stop thinking, stop stressing. Have another sip, a bit of these veggies, crackers, and enjoy my night. My Saturday night. When was the last time I had a Saturday night to myself in the Autumn Walk Studio?
I don’t care. You need to write. I’m vetoing your voracity. Go check laundry…. 24 minutes left on clothes. And no I’m not going batty being home, here by myself, writing to that same self. Just I guess trying to talk myself in and out of certain acts, actions. Dishwasher still very much in its role, and I have 13 minutes left on dinner break. But I might extend it. ‘Cause I can. When was the last time I had a Saturday night to myself? Don’t get caught up in that. And switch to the Edna SB. Where is that from again? Central Coast? Husband/Daddy home alone. And here I am, home alone, writing and doing laundry and dishes. What a fucking party animal I am! So HST, right?
Veggies put away, and now it’s just me and this SB. Think the clothes need be put in dryer. Then can I watch a movie? But what would that do? I’ll be plenty relaxed when I’m old-older. Now’s the time to move. So I continue with the Edna.. look at the coffee machine and think about cuing some decaf. When should I go to bed? Soon if I’m to wake at 4.
Heating a burrito. Have to move clothes to dryer. Exciting and enthralling, wild night for Daddy— Done. Also changed a garbage upstairs, in the ‘jack-n-jill’ bathroom for the babies. Not looking for kudos or credit, just trying to make sure I stay writing… glass empty. Another? Just one more. Waking at 4. Wake up, skip to door.
Starting on burrito. Hear kids out playing still. Tells me I should play a little to— with this wine, with the words provoke from its telling curves— melon and honeysuckle, friendly grass dotes and pined chat, views of hillsides molded by foggy forwards. This bottle is no chore. It’s vacation. An intersection of New Zealand and California’s stretches and singular symphonies. I keep sipping because it takes me somewhere. And that ‘somewhere’ is not on a map. It can be boxed by geographic unilateralism. Idea lands.. while taking a bit of the burrito— challenge myself to challenge others. Get more competitive. How. I don’t know. Any way you can conjure. I take another bite…. Think…. relax rest of nuit. ‘Nuit’…. Have to return to my French… in so many ways. I’ve be neglecting my studies, and it sickens me. Won’t let self get lazy at this age. And.. the wine render some new beat.. something like a cantaloupe skin and oceanic lift… not sure how to word my reaction. My night, my Saturday, and this wine wants to relax— “Summer Night” by Miles comes on. I dive into the SB like a true vacationer. I have to have this night and let everything go. Wife and son are on some East Coast beach, vacationing, so I need the same sequence. The wine slows me a bit but I won’t let it fracture my placement. Here, chair, kitchen island-counter, Miles.. what if I wrote outside? May have to check clothes. Chores, chores…. I know.