20:14. Hate that I can’t think. In hotel. Kids asleep… A little of the Corliss left. Will have that then bed. Can’t remember what day it is in the wine shop countdown, but I’m already significantly into its write. Going mad in this hotel room. Why can’t they paint our house faster– I mean, it’s painting. I’m rude, and speaking from no experience which just makes me an asshole, and idiot. Not sure which of, more. Have to taste more wines, study more vin businesses. MAKE MORE MONEY.
Ah…. and after a slow, meaningful wave of my love, that Carliss Malbec… I’m back to my maniscript’d nuit. Quiet… but not the same as in the Autumn Walk Studio. Wife waking early tomorrow for her workout class. Hope I wake with, if anything to just write the wildest jots and maniacal lines on wine, SHE pushing me to write this way.. this tempo and rhythm and compliment to second, day, dream, hour ever.
Defining her.. I’m not concerned with if it’s possible. The possibility/plausibility, any likelihood of cementing a definition isn’t true concern to this writer. More an exploration– but that sounds too familiar.. then what am I doing with wine, purposing so much of my life to her– writing, time in the tasting room, social moments, photography, family, and whatever else. What is the intention, whether conscious or un-? Before I can “define” her, I have to know ‘why me’, first. Why am I sipping her now in this hotel room? Why did I spend over 8 hours at a winery, today? Why am I not putting more into education, teaching at the JC? Can I define me? Or, am I mostly connotative composition?
She’s the ignition behind this inquiry. The lights to a contemplative Road. Think the Malbec’s gone… what am I feeling. Not lachrymose but… I don’t know. What– Could I describe it? Will I? No… keep writing, like Brian told me. I will. And I don’t really hope at all I find anything. Especially not an answer. And all forbid a bloody definition.