from book…

Couldn’t go back to sleep so I sit on couch with nothing to write.  But I’m up writing, woken by a call from Emma, and I thought I heard Jackie moving—  But this is nothing impressive.  I’m usually up by now, starting to ready kids for schools and ready me for whatever I’m doing that day.  Like I said, there’s nothing special or noteworthy or even really reader-begging to this entry, other than I decided not to fall back into dreams and—   Hating my writing right now.  And very much hating the plainness of life when it reminds of its potential to have that loud everydayness to it.  That bland cracker quality.  Been feeling that lately, a bit, not so much on days I teach but on winery days.  Then the writer wonders, “What can I do to switch that mood and perception?” No idea.  Maybe this early writing which isn’t really that early will help, or at least put me on some path, or in some direction, do something.

The brightness of the screen aches my lenses a bit, so I try not looking at it, put my sight into the dark rooms around me, off to right where I can see outside in its early-day blue and purple and gray, gray-black.  This is the same mood that nearly poisoned my day, yesterday.  And I’m not letting any of that echo into my state.  Going to photograph everything today, not everything on those little journalist pad pages, everything that these people say— Yesterday woman calling a bit upset that she spent her lunch break looking for us, having our address but for some reason going to our sister property across the street.  She felt it necessary to keep reminding us that she’s “industry” as so many say, and she said it so many times we all got tired of hearing it… she noted how she spent her whole lunch break on this mission to find our tasting room and buy these quirky, odd olive-themed necklaces… like they’re the most important relics on the planet to her and we should admire and honor and praise her quest to find them.

I’ll note and photograph everything—  Jackie definitely ‘wake now, stomping around up there for some reason.  Me, needing coffee… needing to keep this momentum in its momentum.  As I recall, hellish day ahead in room.  But that means more activity, more motion, more material, more for me and my books.  BOOKS…. That’s what this is for.  Anyone can write and keep and post and re-post blog posts.  But how many write books that give way to thought, to change, to reconsideration of the world or some segment of it?

Can hear Jackie going into the dryer looking for clothes, then loudly closing it and going back into his room to dress and play and do whatever else he has planned in the next 10-minute or so span.  I reason to stop writing, go get pants on, get beanie for my head of bed, and get the hottest meanest, blackest and most beautifully bitter coffee of my life.  Whenever I think there’s nothing to write, there’s the moment you’re in.  And for me, there’s that, and wine… not the wine itself so much as the activity connected to wine.