The Malbec from last night, just the wine I’d want to make. 06:30 now, coffee made, and I’m thinking of wine. Tempted to take it to work and share, but I don’t want to share even a droplet from that bottle. Will come home, or ‘hotel’, and see how she’s speaking. I don’t want much to change, if anything– texture, song, fruit-scape, that leathery light at sip’s start to non-end… can still taste her now. All shapes and geometries of her way–
My first thought, before anything in day ignites, is her.. wine. Art. A bottled gallery of emotion and effort, task and memory.
Emma booting me from bed, so I’m in this hotel couch which is so far from comfortable it’s impressive. Xmas tree, lit to right, Kerouac asleep in bed behind me. Emma in a crazed state, only wanting to talk and play and engage in games… Finally quiet, the writer thinks to self. Could change in a microbeat of beat. Hear people taking elevator just out door, walking, drunk I think. Fucking people. Why can’t we just be home. And why won’t these sloppy sludge-bladders go to sleep? Don’t they have to work tomorrow, any of them? My mood is low and I drank the last of the coffee in this room. So if I wake early I’ll just have to tap natural fuel, something to start session.
Think Emma finally fell to some sort of sleep shape. But then the clowns upstairs thump and jump and just hard-step on their floor ’cause they’re animal idiots who think this hotel is their private dumbshit den. Need sleep, I know, okay… It’s late, but not. And right now, I’m not. I’m a tired writing daddy, thinking about everything I have to do at the winery, and how to make the day read-worthy… Just go to sleep. You need bed, you need rest. Writers can’t always write.
Wines tonight, telling me to tell more of their collective and individually pronounced personalities. Have my list continuing, compiling and seeing my shop layer itself in believability. Sip the Racer 5 that I just picked up from bar, along with glass of Domaine Carneros for wife, and want the most non-replicated tasting room bar in existence in my shop… not necessarily crescent in shape and extent, or square, or even straight… but…. Something else.
Tired. Not hitting word goal, but I’m stopping. As at a winery, you won’t always hit goal, as much as on paper it seems possible, a no-brainer, but it won’t happen. You won’t hit it out of the park, all days. So.. time for a wild wine writer to be with family… glass of the ’13 Roth Merlot. Daughter acting silly, Kerouac tired.. I need to relax. This Merlot will tell me something, I know. I’ll log on phone, notes, wine figments and codings, words.
Not used to this. Closing chapter at 20:16. But here I am. 3 babies in room. Not resisting or indignant with a single slice of my Now. And that’s about it. Hope I wake early to work out… exercise downstairs somehow. I do see the story in place set for my benefit… won’t lie… a famous feeling. Saving this draft– returning early, so early tomorrow it’ll even me shock.. Ignoring the last few hours and rewinding. Running, don’t have the right socks but what the fuck does a real writer care– nothing. Not at all. I have the opp’ to fall asleep so early that I’ll wake up so early I’ll get done everything I wish. This is like a dream domain and demand. So I answer.