Kerouac has

all interpretation and meditations leaning toward more. More exploration, more scenes, more looking around and acknowledging Now. Nothing behind, all ahead and in front of me asking to be experienced. What am I doing here, accepting any order, any regulatory, any institution. More, on that Road, the music, lights, cars, families traveling in winter or whenever. Sitting on unfamiliar boards, me…

Leftovers and red…

Wine never needs to frame complicated. Wine should never direct prolix. She’s inviting, approachable, narrative and affectionate. What’s surrounded by curved glass reads a presence, a prophetic face and storm of versifying lines.

After a day, working, wine waits, debates her approach to me, my life and day and immediate room. The room, now, connotative in resonance, assurance, a perceptive seat. I’m at a table with her, being instructed, listening,eating leftovers and coaching me on Now, this doesn’t have to be layered or codified, and sort of sophisticated set.

Haven’t touched this glass. But the visual and nearness has me. Inward recite, and known night, thrown toward a lone vinified light.

9/19/18

Bagel and Coffee

Break after meeting.

Telling self I won’t go out to lunch. I won’t. But Oliver’s, one of those burritos, sounds too joyous. Just too good. Hoping this bagel helps with that tempt. One other person in breakroom with me. Quiet. Smooth day thus far. Will have time to grade when I get to campus, unlike yesterday. Another bite, another… Last night’s lecture with the ‘100’ class, replayed. I need to tour with my ideas, the writing, the workshops and seminars, sharing what I’ve learned from the habit and practice, maintenance of Craft. Another bite, first sip…

Wine telling me

that tomorrow morning I will wake early.

This is my glass last.

There will be several pages propelled before kids and wife wake.

First tilt of the little plastic, more impassioned harmony than night prior. I’m with the wine, multiplied ways over, manuscript coupled and unmuzzled. No stop or pause or lull in its voice, step, song.

Scribbling like the Hatter mad, or Jack on the Road with Dean. Me tasting wine through valleys with one of my vino brothers…thinking, now. On this floor, all these notes, another still shot…

Convinced. Ever, forever, and never a never, with wine. She reads me and sees my eve to more ease. Leaving pleased…