Coffey Park, Santa Rosa
Day’s end. Wine of course. A Cab I bought the other day at Bottle Barn, and feeling scattered, like not like a writer at all. This feeling more loathed by me than I think anything. Called in English 1A tonight, stuck in traffic on way back from city. Traffic of course in Novato, the “narrows”, and then on Stony Point in Rohnert Park/Santa Rosa, which was a bit of a shock. I cam home feeling deflated and defeated.
Waking tomorrow morning early. Not for gym, not to run like a weirdo on the treadmill for 9 miles or a bit more, less, or something around the 9 I always shoot for. But to write. And, honestly, not even to write. To be with ME. To have time for me, which IS what I hold and profess now on the floor of this Autumn Walk Studio, but perfecting my writing self. Tonight and tomorrow.
Anymore I’m finding these moods I get in quite funny. I’m laughing at myself. Like I said in class last night, that’s healthy. It’s certainly more healthy and elevating than the person unable to laugh at themselves from time to time. I refocus on the wine. AV Cab, one I’ve never had before. Honestly I’m not moved. I’m not taught. I’m not caught. I’m not anything after sipping it. Been a while since I’ve had a wine that’s contributed to my story, my character, my There, then.
Night ending, and I want blood… other writers to battle. Like Hemingway with gloves on, or off. It doesn’t matter. This sport, not a sport, but a profession, lifelong night-song lesson. Day teaching me about sentences, how they present on page, and the wine orders me to listen, with more careful cursor and fervor. Tomorrow morning, writing about 4am, what it does and how it feels, what I have to say in that hour— Have I made my coffee, yet?