Went back to sleep for a bit but up now. Coffee. Not sure about run today, lower-back hurting a bit, sore I think from cycling. See how the day progresses.
After 9am, and nothing from winery. Don’t think I’ll be back this weekend and I don’t expect a last-minute call to come in. I would if they called, but I don’t expect it.
Last night dinner with Dad in my thinking’s waves, with poetry and time to self, what I do elevate and further proliferate my narrative…. Me as a writer of poetry in the business world. What is one thing I want from the day, I ask myself. Then the obvious answer, a short run. Some poetry, some music…. No Starbucks again, hoping. Though a latte does sound amazing.
I need be more like Dean. Moriarty. Just go. Drive like he does, park like he does, react to music notably jazz as he does. Be more beatnik, more of the random whim and unpredictable kind climate of humanity. In art, music… the poetry of this sitting..on desk with one of my cell phones, the coffee and hospital mask, wallet, keys, Garmin and coffee tumbler.
Meeting with wine professor in the coming weeks. What do I want to say, ask her. Why did I call that meeting with her, just to stay in touch? I honestly don’t know. Just for the wined conversation, I’m guessing. She’s nice, incredibly knowledgable and experienced in wine and its business. Will see what I see and learn.
Wine is all learning and community, like with being an AE in many ways. Not that ‘it’s who you know’ saying. It’s just a benefit to build community, not a network for self-serving purposes.
A poet in business, I’ve confirmed and signed this weekend. How I do everything, see everything. See what I do in and about Sonic. My revolution within the revolution.
Write on the couch, not this goddamn desk.
Use weights. In fact start now, 30 reps. 40 if you can.
40. That may have been the most I’ve ever done with these 25’s.
Going to buy more weights today, possibly. A set of lighter ones so I can sit here and lift rapidly between paragraphs and stanzas.
The heat lamp on the patio last night, Dad and I nothing it at the same time. He was worried that I’d be cold, and I wasn’t, and I could see the relief on his cheeks and eyes when the lamp was ignited, like he didn’t have to worry anymore for me.
Wrote a couple lines in recent poem, one with three verses. Takin gym time with the last verse.
Going for a latte. Want, and I’m in that mood, where I see myself with my pages, self-published, speaking in Paris on poetics and business, self-publishing and blogging and other ideas. Getting closer, these lines, lanes, times and range.
More and more like Dean, like Kerouac, like Plath, Shakur…. One only writing in erratic stanza and rhyme.