Writing tracks.

Photo on 5-27-18 at 8.51 AM #2

Be back…

First verse done.  In the mood to only free write and compose more verses, something to read, and I need to read, I know.  Collect the tracks, all my poems and record them, read wherever I can.  Why did I come to the coffee shop?  Why did I decide to write here in the corner?  A man and what I believe to be his son, at left, son writing or doing some writing or math exercises in some workbook and the dad either critiquing or coaching, can’t tell and don’t want to know.  Don’t want to focus on them who why am I?

The wine industry— could be at my end.  What else is there for me, here?  Should only write, and I will.  Last night opening something from my “cellar”, or the shelf that I only have reserved for those bottles I’m to “lay down” or set aside for some occasion or dinner, having whomever over for dinner but then I thought, “No.. now’s fine… now is perfect for a writer to open something he ‘shouldn’t’.” In the wine industry, no one wants to pay, few offer any kind of benefits arrangement.  Granted, the company I currently work with is nearly obnoxious in their generosity, so don’t think I’m citing them in this citation.  No… talking about so many others.  This one winery that has expressed an interest in my work telling me just last night that they wouldn’t match what I now earn, nor would they provide benefits or any 401k anything.  This is my gripe, this is my ticket, my citation.  Why I’m freewriting this morning and writing verse, poetry, being as anti-form as I can, battle any norm or pattern’d pattern and template for what should be done.

Today’s tracks, all about the moment, about me, what I want and what I’m thinking, now, in MY story.  The only way I’m going to travel and see the world, read my work and taste wines from places I otherwise wouldn’t is if I completely break from this industry mold and circular cyclical cycle.  Off to verse 2 in a bit.. what a poet does— the man and his son leave.  Whole corner to self, but now I notice the air conditioning blowing directly down on this agitated poet.  So, write about the cold… cold states, both Dakotas, Montana, parts of Oregon that I have seen completely under snow.  What this reminds me of, what I hope to feel writing at some lodge overlooking a snow-doused field.

More poetry than wine today, in the tasting room, do know.  More work on my pieces than that place, the tasting room which I so eager seek to escape.  I want more, like anyone else, as I’ve told so many people.  So what’s keeping me, I wonder.  Is it the pay and benefits thing?  Probably.  Well, yes.  But what if I could get it on my own?  What if I didn’t need these favors, this “compensation”? What if I could just get it all myself?  Through poetry, through music… through thought, seeing my life differently, my role in the game and the theatre of wine country with a different lens and leap?  Oui…