note

Syllabi ready, Jack feeling better, now I can take some notes for class and enjoy my coffee.  Not a lot of sleep for the writer, but it’s not important.  I’m going to have this semester be the semester that sends me to travel.

Need a word for the day, and quote.  Already looking forward to going to bed, tonight.  Not in mood to write anymore, or merely not in this moment.  Ready for the day… ready for class.. consolidation… the winery is class and I bring the winery and what I do there to class… and write about it all.

tell

I’m a postulate materialized–

more than a realized guise.. not

after any kind of prize — strict

autonomy, not superficial ties..

verse eternally burn documented

intricacies–

note

22:17… home and tired from event.  Running tomorrow morning, somehow.  Not opening that bottle of Pinot I brought home.  Just this note, then bed.  My mood, a non-mood.  Hear the neighborhood’s kids outside playing and I go upstairs and am so proud of our babies early in bed.  Not saying they’re better or anything like that, just glad they’re upstairs.  That’s all.  The Bocce even taught me a lot today— about all… me in the wine world, wine, people drinking wine, wine club member retention and education, hospitality, events… not sure how to inventory and categorize it adequately as I’m kilometers beyond exhausted.  After this note, which will be in a few words, I’m set to relax… just watch a show, no guilt, then go to bed.  Running in morning.  Should charge watch— I mean, Garmin…

Charging.  Now with night’s cap, and reviewing day.  But I’m too tired.  I want to be lazy.  I deserve to be lazy, at least for a couple minutes.  Tomorrow morning, if I fail to run, I fail in other realities and ambitions.  So it has to happen.

Business on the mind, hard to shut off.  Travel… others doing it, and I waiting for chances.  That’s my problem, an obtuse error.  So, reshape, rekindle and revamp—

Felling comfortable in home, this Autumn Walk Studio, and no longer lethargic.

note

At work and ready for event.  More I think about myself as a “brand” and idea, writer and teacher and wined bloke, I see everything as the same, more connected and singularized and not as compartmentalized.  Quiet now, but not later, with our ‘Burgers & Bocce’ event today.  Was told I might be on the mic a bit to stir the crowd, something I have absolutely ZERO problem with.

Want to run tonight.  And I should… at least 8 miles.  Also, just a note to self, as is most of my writing anyway… look into marathons for next year.  Want to do three.  Want 26.2 to be MY distance.  Have to adjust certain consistencies, though.  Go to bed later, meaning write into later hours… wake up earlier…. Don’t worry, Mama, I’ll get enough sleep.  But I need to push myself like no other time in the writer’s life.  Just what has to happen.  And it starts with today, tonight, tomorrow morning….  Au revoir!

Home after dinner with wife in Windsor. 

Kin, one of our preferred stops, spots, restaurants with all its activity and offerings.  No babies in the house ce soir, and I think about having another glass of that Meeker Malbec my friend ‘J’ brought me.  A gift.  Waking early tomorrow.  And I know what you’re thinking, reader—  “Yeah… sure you are… no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be as disciplined as your wife.” Well… yeah… THAT may be true, but I am waking early for a run around the Coffey/San Miguel zone.  Air conditioner on, kids no longer with their chatter outside, and I can feel the last of that Chardonnay encircle my functionality.  Odd feeling, having to delete then retype… what happen to a writer like me, but this writer isn’t likely the others… I enjoy running, exercise, health and fitness.. but then I’m here, sipping wine and writing.  Exhausted from the day and prep for tomorrow’s ‘Burgers & Bocce’ event.  Should go to bed now, the writer knows, but a glass of that Malbec as a night’s capping sounds resplendent, and why not.  That’s what life is— short, and instructional, telling me or maybe more so urging me to turn down certain streets.  So I’m here.. on the couch, just typing the night into more night, wanting a salvo of meditation about me, the glad freedom  wheel that will make sense of everything around me, even that which I have no interest in understanding.

Hot in the home office.. so what do I do?  Read something.  Fuck the wine.  Leap back to literature.  Words from Kerouac and Plath, al the heroes right there.  OR, just keep drinking the Malbec till something hits the page that teaches even YOU.  Can that happen?  Has to, oui?  Guess we’ll see.  Night’s cap of certain captains, in cup.  So now, only down and up.  Like Wonderland, my Master’s thesis, revisited.  All over.  And again, again…. Maybe just notes, but with some wherewithal, color and animation, maybe.. not sure what I’m trying to say.  Nearing 50,000 words in this document… and what don’t I have a fucking book out?  Some of these independent musicians have straddled and secured fame and artistic autonomy for their self- distributed boldness… okay… take the rest of the night off, as I’m sure Mama would say.  Obey.  But the writer in me’s addicted tot he act of writing, just putting shit to page—

Well, there’s part of the problem…