22:23…. Couple today, assuming posture of knowing so much more about wine than I might expect, but I didn’t expect thing. Man lecturing me on the conditions of the ’15 vintage, and like I before wrote I just nodded, say my uh-huh’s and went about my pouring. The vineyard this morning, that Malbec lot, talking to the writer in dialectic aphorisms, encircling me every time I peered at a cluster.
Getting distracted as I always do by looking at these pictures in the camera…. Should call night, wake early when Ms. Alice does for her “bootcamp” or whatever… quiet now as it will be when I wake.
Found an old picture of little Kerouac and I have no idea who it is. This morning I look in rearview and ask him what he’s doing with his head down and he saying “I’m just drawing and writing letters and words, Dada…”Made me so proud, or envious, or something, all he needing to do with life now is explore and practice his writing. And yes, yes, I’m here… looking through and tempted by old pictures. But that won’t finish the book, which is already done, and I recognized this while walking around the crushed today during lunch refusing to acknowledge that I was “on lunch” and horribly angry with self that I took a lunch rather than going upstair to my desk to write. My desk… huh… not a desk at all.. more a putrid crescent cubicle that I never have a pore to visit, utilize.
I’m getting tired and I’m sure that’s the couch telling me to retire. Why. I don’t want to. So I turn on jazz. Who else but Coltrane. I need to relax for a bit, I know… look at all this kid debris has the writer not so much stressed but scattered and fixated— place mine own eyes to the night I’m in, and I realize it’s time for the writer to down-wind. Have dessert, watch a show, and close. I’ll wake tomorrow, still thinking about wine, hopefully, and collecting and reviewing my tasting room notes from day and seeing where it takes me—