Where is my focus. Is it wine, is it literature, writing about wine…. I feel scattered this morning, panicked a bit like I need to find a focus or time’s going to run out. ‘work….FREED’ this blog professes. How, when you feel like this. I absolutely cannot write this morning. This is not odd, but horrifying. Painful. Sad…. Infuriating. Maybe it’s from not having dinner last night, me waiting for Melissa to come down as I thought we were eating together and she never did but rather went to bed. I snacked a little but didn’t eat a “real” dinner. My own folly. I should have had that steak. Oh well I say this morning in attempted shrug-off, and am frightened that I’m this old. That I’m 41. That I have two kids and live on this street with other families. Something’s out of place…. Or much is. How do I fix. WHAT, do I fix? This coffee isn’t helping, forcing jitters and more odd beats from me, heart not decided on its BPM or steadiness of rate and thump.
Kerouac started Road with Dean, another character that not only intrigued him but horrified him as well. I have no such character in my Now, now, or really ever…. Well, I did. Chris the “best man” at my wedding whom I haven’t talked to in over a decade, but now no one like that. Not sure that would help. So what would. Bored with the present, so make one up. And stop thinking so much.
I could switch to fiction, or something else. A screenplay? Am I really having this discussion with myself again, the whole ‘What do I write?’ tug of war? STOP. You’re too old for this. To make writing your work, you need…. Forget what you need. Just write.
Jack on couch watching some cartoon, now making a silly voice and singing. Not sure if wants my attention. More funny voices, then he stops. Then Emma arrives…. “Hi baby.” I say. She trots right past me not wanting to miss a single frame of whatever’s playing. “Hi Jack.” She says to her brother, brother not responding. Quiet again.
I need to get out of this lull, this lachrymose layer I’m under. What to do today to make self write differently… what. Think Emma and I have much of the day together. Jack having a birthday party to go to, or something. Time to write will be limited, so maybe I can… what. Carry that voice recorder I bought at the JC bookstore years ago, that I’ve barely used? Or write from memory as I’ve been trying to do lately. Or neither… start writing novel, the pick up where you stop. Write about what… a wine judge who doesn’t want to do it anymore(?). A winemaker? An adjunct professor at 40/41 who decides not to do it anymore and is panicked as to what he should do? That sounds more aligned with capability, something that’s more ME, I think. This semester, speaking of, has to be the last one. Going to stress essay writing and write an essay, at least one, for each meeting. And with that, who knows.
Tired of repetition.
Tired of waking mornings feeling like this.
Writing… not a blessing, not a curse, but an addiction. Why can’t I just stop… why do I have to be writing right now instead of on the couch cuddling with my babies, or scrolling through some social media feed like every other idiot in Sonoma County and counties all? I need to be doing this… this… Even when I worked at that grocery store in Belmont, my first job, just after my Hospital Time, I just wanted to be writing. Nothing else. I told myself that the stories I’d write would make it so I would never have to work… and now, dozens (literally) jobs later, I still with self skirmish as to what I write about, what form, how many words, paragraph breaks and I see it all BULLSHIT.
Just write. Isn’t that what I tell students to do? Am I phony, as a teacher? Yes… but it pays. And not that badly. But this semester I have two 3 unit classes and obviously they don’t pay as much as 4’s. Nothing I can do, all they had. The adjunct woe.. why would anyone do that to themselves? No answer… I’m done after this term, I hope. Just writing and traveling.. writing about what and traveling for what? WRITING. Showing others ways of writing and how to get past some block, as I think I have this morning, and writing for sakes of acquiring peace, and some type of equilibrium about yourself. So you’re not stressing and thinking to the point of doing nothing or going in circles with yourself.
7:07. Hmmm…. Today, writing about wine when I have a chance. And not as a critic. I hate their writing. Much why I never buy Wine Spectator, I can’t stand the writing. Quite literally, or not literally … It’s just painful to read. And how wineries brag about so-and-so’s score, and how their bottle is on the cover with the fucking score next to it. NO. I’m writing wine then I’m writing about wine and my relationship with it. How I see wine, feel, react. What I wish have in my glass.
No telling. The day is blank. It’s not even fully or partially day, yet. Sun still trying to come up, looking left out the glass of door, dark. Adjuncting… what I blame for the rotation of the wine industry, me going from winery to winery. But I can’t blame, or I could, but what would that do. Writing, listening to more funny sounds from Jack, Emma sitting there quiet and fascinated with what’s in the cartoon’s composition.
Writing this semester… teach it differently. Teach essays differently, if at all. How about not at all, keep the cash coming in from the JC, that’s it. No I don’t want to be like that. It’s just this morning mood, this downward push from some unknown and non-existent palm.