Up. Thinking about a lot, this morning, sipping the coffee I had the sense to make last night and put in old tumbler. Not so moved by last night’s Pinot. It was a book, a narrative, but not one I’m sure I’m pushed any one way by. But that happens, oui? That’ll happen with wine, with books, with any expressive thing. I had one glass, then another, and I simply couldn’t … do anything. I wasn’t coerced to write about it even though I’m sure I will, part of the thousand wines project which I’m thinking of killing as one hope for self this new year was to drink less wine, certainly not more. Why… do be different than anything last year. Sitting in couch thinking about what I have to do at the winery today and I’m unmotivated, slow and sluggish, pained by indecision. 39 this year, 3 days and 4 months. Horrible, this aging curse. Yesterday’s run, even… noticed I was not as swift and set on the treadmill as I used to be. 5 miles in 50 minutes… I find that sad. Maddening. Not sure if that old man running was the result of poor sleep or that I didn’t really eat anything before, or both. Hear a cough, then what I think is a street sweeper outside. What am I doing here, right now, and what will this writer do today? I better know, as today is here, now with me. Get in shower, shave, teeth brushed… take little Kerouac to school then me to work. And then what? Just another day? All these people that started their own wineries or small labels, like the guy whose Pinot I last night met, broke with something. Drastically changed their every-day. So what do I do? Has to be today. What do I do with my label, ME, that pushes me toward something New? Something surprising, something… that street-sweeper again. Did hyphenate last time? Think son’s awake. 06:50. Will get in shower just before 07:00. Sweeper again… that had to be a metaphor of some twist for me. Clean up. The act of sweeping. Streets, what an entity utilizes for traveling from one locale to ‘nother. Have to interpret. Measure and analyze. My electricity this morning, not so present. How do I elevate? What does someone with a small label do? Ignore how you feel… just stay moving, do your job like the sweeper. Keep your connectors clean. No, pristine. Wine writers and bloggers shouldn’t feel like this… they should only write about wine and be joyous and bubbly and smiley all the time. They shouldn’t have real thoughts and think about life, their life and where their going, their significance. Just write about wine, no?
I have more on inner tablet than that.
Time for shower. Ready for day. Take coffee upstairs with you and be on your mission. What is my “mission”? To live. And wildly. Madly. Pummel pattern into its own void.
When at work I find someone in the office, after finding no coffee was made by winemaking team. With my mood still sharp, but a bit revived after finally locating the Plath letters Mom bought me for xmas, I sit to write and I tell self that I will hit 3000 words today, or else. Or… else, what? Not sure, but it won’t be good. Have a little bit of coffee left in tumbler. Take the hugest of huge glug-chugs. Have to use restroom but ignoring my vessel’s demand. I’m going to write my way not just out of this mood, or whatever it is, but through it and to a point where I dominate everything today… however many tastings I do, to note-taking on people and each wine, what I see, and how I see literature and teaching, eduction in the tasting room. Up early this morning I noticed self getting agitated with prospect of being in the room today, and the way to coat and cure that sense is to see it as more than a room of tasting wine. See it as a canvas— no, trite. See it as a stage, a film, see it as a chapter… each day a chapter and the day itself is the author and I’m the translator. Not speaking to other human in office with me now, not to be rude I just need this. This separation from everything except my page and Plath’s pages. 08:45. Have about 45 minutes of collection. For this year… books and books and books. From this blog and other writing motions, musings… in-the-moment jots. What can I do but write.
Not wanting to indent, as I want every space and step on this page. Today is mine, in all its… everything. Plath looking out into the sky or some field on the book’s cover. Last night’s Pinot may have been her, or something poetess, poetic. Maybe it was a manuscript that for whatever reason didn’t connect. The wine wasn’t flawed, and I can right now recall the flickers of cinnamon and cherry and like a spicy, rose… richly rose-honed potpourri quake. Why wasn’t I as impressed and into it as I wanted to be?
Today I’m free. Poetry. Writing one alongside this entry. Need to read more, put my work out there more for the world and all worlds and tastes of worlds… the woman in the office with me leaves, goes downstairs. Maybe to restroom use. Yes, can hear the door close. I’m staying in the chair, not moving, refusing to slow in my prose row. Have to be in front of mics, crowds.. show self a s poet and prose molder. Wine isn’t bottled poetry. It’s poetry, freed. The bottle is inconsequential. Not at all a gravity. Not at all a pulse. The life is in the wine, not the glass that it holds. 8 lines in poem. I need more read.. be seen as a poet.. the tasting room’s my stage. Have to set stage in cave, today.. pour wines, make those godforsaken cheese plates. Fixate and form from and within the words, I tell myself. On 12th line… this is more than poetry, more than wine, more than work. It’s a letter, written with her, maybe. That’s in my head. Made up. Made real. Colossal.