inward jot

One of the last nights in hotel.  And as it happens, I’m alone… sipping 2015 Devil Proof.  My good buddy Jesse’s passion project, and that picture, of the Cuban woman laughing, telling me to relax in this room and not worry about the fading time, that I have to work tomorrow and set up for a tasting— don’t worry about what to do with the blog.  Life is something to be lived, in the moment, spontaneously and moments molded as they’re presented and sung to you, not excessively planned.

Dinner done.  Burger from downstairs diner, had beer in bar while dish was prepared— dish, more like bag, box—and listened to the conversations around me.  Hoping I wake earlier enough to type and write, sip coffee in this room, looking down at the parking lot and out at Rohnert Park.  Can’t believe the hotel story closes.  Don’t me wrong get, I’m more than more-than-happy to be back in the Autumn Walk Studio, but it’s over.  No more walks to Chili’s for last-minute dinn’… no more hurries to that Walmart for razors and baby wipes.  No more “Dada breakfast” as little Kerouac had it tagged.  Not sure why this registers with me as it does, and did I get enough of this segment, this installation in the fire-prone joust with my life.  Here I am… need another sip, casually, from a $100+ bottle that I sip to write to and I do as it’s pulse and hue, key and chords prove inexplicable, as I told Mom.

And I’m back at the question, what do I write about.  God-fucking-damnit.  Thought I resolved that.  “Wine”.  Was my answer.  But now I see it not.  Literature, Life, me, Parenting…. This is all a story that I have trouble decoding.  Glad I’m not too full from the downstairs order, as I need make progress tonight— jazz very much in its cue, and me relaxed, not with the usual equation of Jack and Emma having a bath then getting them into their pj’s, the Alice and I laying on bed while Emma so slowly goes to dreams in her hotel crib and Kerouac so easily fades right to this writing daddy’s side, right, and I think of what I have to do and if I have to iron clothes in the morning, will they have coffee in the lobby next morning, do I have any coffee left in this room… shit like that.  Realizing Time won’t stop for me even for a bit, even while I try to relax it hexes me, disrupts and disturbs, severs my relaxed flash.  I won’t resits but write within what I’m stuck.  Need more wine.  More of that Katz collusion.

See one of daughter’s Lego pieces, right, and see I’m getting older— She’s 2.  TODAY.  Need be more into my work, need more wine, and I know what you’re thinking— What’s that have to do with getting more into your work?  —  You’re not a Beatnik, so I don’t need you answer.  Hear doors closing in halls, upstairs and this floor.  We’re leaving soon.  I need capture as much of this hotel as I can, maybe go downstairs at some absurd hour, drinking coffee at 03:00 or something and just account what I count, what I log and see, who walks past me.

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