I forgot how to write. I forgot what a book is. Do I know discipline? Daylight savings may have saved me, with these meditation and perceptions.. 20:39, and I may be soon to bed going. Need rest. Need to collect. Becoming harder to find time to write. After weekend of Wine and Food event, I’m drain and unmotivated— a polluted reel of pseudo-realization. Nothing in me, nothing about me… coffee made for morning, alarm set for 04:00. I have to do it. Tomorrow. Wake so early. Driving home and seeing all the nothing-dust and empty lots, disoriented from the absence of houses that used to orient where the write was on his homeward vehicle trot… my mood, mixed, dipped, ripped. Need another of the Cabernet but if I pour another glass I may not wake at 4 and if I do I’ll be slow, useless, and I don’t want to be like someone in that older group from yesterday. But I’m not, I know. How many of them write? More and more, I hate wine and what it does to people who don’t respect it. I very much see its potential venom-code— The cave today, where I took notes of everything from the pasta being served to the people coming in with their bracelets, glasses, so eager and so needing their pours.
I forget about the last two days and escape into brainstorming about my own business, predicated on and in and about and for wine, but more than just what people pour from a bottle— books, stories, life, appreciation of the Now, possibility’s dwelling and how we ignore all that we’re meant to do if we throw our truest trues into a new ado— Shakespeare, dabble in, and I always slight and snipe, swipe at Bill. Why. ‘Cause of the expectation, that we as Literature people have to like him, be a fan of him. People like W.S. make us forget how to write and make real writes wonder, “Do I have to write like him to be ‘good’?” OR maybe it’s not him, but the followers, the Shakespeare slugs, the ones that just be pulled and sheep-bahaahaaaaah to the next Ashland sludge-pot fest.
I pull the Cabernet into my center and am done. Wish I had decaf, but I think about essays and a thousand words I have nowhere near the energy to write. Or do I. What would my students advise me to do? Would love to know, especially my former who’s now studying graduate in Paris. The house quiet, that could change, Emma with he cold-whatever and her brother asleep but waking earlier and earlier and evermore ready to begin his day, get his story in sequence, draw and write— I learn from him, learn to get my total totaled, and ready my rile for the next 24, 48, more.
The event over the weekend made me see something, appreciate a precise primeness about my wined days. Quiet. My vineyard walks. Was going to take one this morning but was afraid of being late, or not getting enough done before the day took off. I dreaded another scene like yesterday, with those late 40s or early 50s people who just wanted to drink, didn’t want to interact with wine and listen and taste what it had to say. They wren’t interested in story, they weren’t concerned with the property, nor me, nor themselves and what they could learn from the bowl’s occupant. I sound judgmental, and I am. I shouldn’t be, I know. I’ve had me days, Craft knows. And right now I sense the coercion of what I sipped but I’m steering my sentences, I’m writing, I’m reflective and respectful of the bottle’s occupant.
Brevity, wit’s soul. Did I get that? No. Don’t care. If anything I envy Shake’, how he’s studied and how he’s seen, mimicked and re-molded. The profuse form, flattery. I know writers, some close friends, that follow W.S.’s every echo. Like me, with HST. I’m know to say I’m the Hunter S. of wine writing. I may be, I may not. But I have to do something different. I could be more esemplastic than I previously measured. Me, literary, and these wine people with their utter self-containment drought, stuck right there in their where’s lack of wherewithal, teaching me something I don’t know how to now inventory.
I just remembered how to write, looking at a picture I took yesterday, of the mock-burners under the pasta we paired with the ’14 RRV Pinot. Made me laugh hearing people talk about why the pairing worked, like it was so enigmatic and geometric, granular and axiomatic. Why do people overthink wine? I don’t care. They remind me what I write about and why I write about sips, what I just had in my Roth Govino glass, or cup, or mock-goblet. They know I’m not a “somm”. No interest in being one, acting like one. I’m a writer. I just relay what I relay, if it’s anything but know I’m fearless and I sip wine and tell its intersection with my now. What I just had, ’13 AV Cab, more than composed and Victorian with its unassuming force and shapely diction.
With the event over, I realize my statements may not be, or are, or could possibly be meteoric in my story’s pervasive decision. Not sure that makes sense but I think of Kerouac and his days in the jazz club. But whatever, I now eat something sweet, and then go to bed but the sugar will more than likely keep me up so then I write more. Good. I hope I can’t sleep. I want to write. Sleep is for the dead. I feel more alive than I have in a few days as I was set on going to bed right before I sat to write this set.
21:41. Another hit of sweet. Then bed. Coffee already me calls. Wine, having me in a thought-twirl. I know I’m the only one who for me knows. There is no coach, no sage, no counselor or management mold. Just my creative. So, sleep, delicious dormancy and then my paginated efficacy.
Tomorrow I push the button.
I write. Book finished.