Writing Freely, here in home. Done with procrastination. Don’t think I wrote a thing yesterday. Today, taking day to bring Jackie to dentist later and— Focus on me, just for a second. Have no idea what to write and where to go with this freewrite. Chickenshit thing to confess, or concede, divulge, but whatever. Made self another cup. Morning, me… emails from work coming in but I ignore than for the time. I need removal, just focus on my writing and the blogs and where they’re taking me. Who knows, really— But I do know. I will only have it one way. Driving back home I thought about wine and recording everything that I have since managing the Roth property. All the tastings and private tastings, drives and walks around the property, harvest… the smell of ferments in the warehouse, sounds of pumpovers…. The value is the experience, and the experience is the value. What I mean…. The moment is what instructs and enriches me.
Confabulating internally about wine and the emails that come in, which I couldn’t help but respond to. Managing this property has certainly revealed strengths in my character I wasn’t sure I had, and even less certain of perpetual actuation. But I’m doing it… I’m doing it, and learning as I go. Yesterday’s count illuminated that less is always more advantageous. Simplification… that is what begets efficiency.
Starting to get hungry but I won’t let self rise to fix something quick. Stomach, little roar… “Shut up! I’m working!” I tell it. Me out in the vineyard, walking and looking at grapes and the way the sun peers through the canopies, telling me to keep walking to not stop, ever, stay clever and know that all is poetic and lush poetry for me to translate through my own sharp jargon— More pictures, learning about what’s around me, my personhood, character, story I want to tell. I’m writing freely, FREELY… freer than free. On my own clock and at my own pace, one thousand words at a time. I worry sometimes that thousand-word jots and standalone statements, pieces, might be too much for modern readers. Well, too bad. That’s what I’m doing. That’s be like a winemaker making big, mammoth, commanding Napa Cabernets from somewhere like Howell Mountain or Rutherford lightening his style ‘cause some magazine called them too aggressive, or someone, or maybe a good collection of someone’s in the tasting room implied ‘This is too much.’ Too much? Too bad. This is me, this is what I’m doing, and I’m doing for me but more than me. For we. All of us wanting more sense of what’s around us and getting to where we know we belong. Avowed, on my first trip, where it’s to, I’ll but a new notebook and have it full by journey’s end. Even if it’s some 24-hour turnaround where I lecture in Southern California or something and come back home to work. I will record every detail of my first journey… this is all for travel, and writing about wine and people out there, beyond the county boundaries of Sonoma, Napa, Mendocino.
Having to leave not too long from now to get little Kerouac, bring him to dentist then back to school. My meditations become an horribly tangled clew, and the writer has not a clue what to do. No the rhyming isn’t intentional, I’m not trying to be cute. I’m at a loss, but in the loss there’s a win, elevation, aggrandizement. Sip coffee and put cup back down on floor. Hear the air purifiers upstairs. Almost a month ago, those bloody fires and namely the Tubbs which drove us out of our home just after 02:00. But here I am with my inner blaze that won’t fade. Utterly apodictic this morrow, with my camera at left and coffee at right. I’m back to work, FINALLY. And what’s my truth… simplicity, as I noted earlier, and remodeling. No backpacks, one pillar. And why is that given its own “pillar” in the remodel? ‘Cause all they, the backpacks, do is encourage clutter… gathering of stuff, of shit, of CLUTTER. Simple, light, FREE, the now-Me.
People outside, talking about something, right outside house, not sure about what but it bothers and disrupts me for some reason, wholly tearing my concentration away from the buttons, from this page. I think of Kerouac and how he actualized and decided his direction— Seeing I don’t write about him as much as I should. He said “The only truth is music.” Not sure if I hit it word-for-word, but he most knowingly intoned just that. Truth, Music. Why am I not listening to music right NOW, in this home office that used to be an office but now serves as more just a dumping ground for stuff, shit, things, shoes, bags, backpacks, wine…. Doesn’t matter, I’m nomadic a writer— love my music so I catalyze a track…. “To Young To Go Steady”, Coltrane. Not sure if the typo’s intentional, ‘to’ rather than ‘too’, but who cares. Why do I have to be such a goddamn writer all the time? Just write, dream, think about your travels and the boys on the crush pad and their ever-tireless playing of music and they move tubes, move tubs, barrels, fill tanks then drain tanks, take samples, press skins, barrel-down. Alway music at the winery, always. Absolutely certain in my reality.. wine, writing, capture, messages from the vines to me be there sun or no, I’m always going to be out there, out there in thought and in geographic tangibility.
With Coltrane’s piece ending, so does this first thousand of day. Talked my way out of a stall. From not writing yesterday. I have to wake earlier, bloody hell. Wake at 03:45. Why is it so hard? Why can’t I just roll out of bed and type some weird shit and get a couple thousand on the screen before having to go to Jackie and help dress Emma, help with lunches and getting out door on time, driving across town to two different classroom colonies?
Off to write other pillars…