Friday — Scribbled a page, quickly. Jack, awake wide. Eyes ready for images, new knowledge. Me, wondering what to print today. Need more music. So, buying new songs, and writing my own. Have J.K.’s book next to me, in bag. But I’d rather spend the time in session. I’ll read later. Tonight before bed. That is, if I’m not session’d. My little son, now with heavy lids. He likes the music I’m playing, I think. Or, he’s bored of it. He just released a couple small notes. Not sure what he’s aiming to convey. His mom’s a far better translator than me.
On a note entirely removed, I find it New Life, when I find a new Wine. May do a little bottle shopping, wine shop hopping. Today’s varietal focus: Syrah, after some disparaging words for the buxom varietal were catapulted into conversation yesterday, after word, closing the tasting Room. Because Syrah wasn’t the market monster everyone wanted it to be, it’s now labeled an effort deflated. That’s absurd. Syrah’s characteristics are like swarming spells for palates. If you want a Cabernet, or a Merlot, or some safe reassuring blend, then buy one. I stand by Syrah, and I love that it didn’t do what marketing morons wanted it to. It’s sovereign, separatist. It’s artistic; It embraces the subjective reality, while the money people at wineries view such scope as diseased, a hinderance to furtherance. It’s the most significant victory bottled, to me.
Price point, $20 cap per bottle. Budget: $50, “out the door,” as Dad says. May just go to the Safeway on my block. Or should I go to an underground, more indi shop. Indi, as I am an INDEPENDENT writer. The corporate curse doesn’t work on me. I’m shielded by Artistry. Wine, my thematic ingredient, not a subject crutch, crush. Time for song, I’m thinking, to help me plot approach. Wine, forever intertwined in mind —
inclined in time’s lime, lemon;
Voice escalated, leavened. Count seconds,
reevaluating present. And, the last past.
Another bottle, poet act brash.
Count sins on tops of mountains;
No sense, but rowed whence I gather
pages in latter ages. Can’t wait as
fate’s gate doesn’t allow escape.
11:33am. Weather outside, have no idea. And I don’t want to, yet. This time, with little Jack, more enjoyable. I’d rather be here with him than in Paris, Hawaii, New York, anywhere on any country’s stage. That’s what tempers my wishing for travel. but I still want to see the road, as it’ll provide that “marketable” material that’ll pay for the little artist’s college. No winery can provide the career I want. Only I can. All these wine factories can do is supply income, writing material. And I appreciate that, believe me. But, they should temper their tone when speaking of promise, opportunity, trying to rile me. They could never give me what I TRULY want. Only I can, here in pages. It’s the Writing, what keeps me alive, motivates me for little Mr. Jack. “Careful what you write,” people might site. I’m just voicing opinion, thought. If wine’s world doesn’t want honesty, free thought, a free thinker as my father and mother have raised me, then they should keep me out. And deal with further attack. But it’s hard for me to write what I just did, really. As I LOVE, LOVE Wine. It’s Art, and I’m an Artist, so I will always admire bottled thoughtfulness, innovativeness. I even love wine’s industry, business, probably to your surprise. I find it fascinating. It’s merely the few components that antagonize my fangs.
So, Syrah… What do I do with you? As the coffee finally ends, I think of Santa Cruz, where I was brought to stage’s light, Life’s mic. Don’t have heaping recollections as we moved to San Carlos when I was 4, or 5. Another city on the list. An Artist’s city, definitely. Think those city limits, elements, and Mom’s father have a storm of influence on the writer I am today. They have to. I remember seeing grandpa’s paintings on the walls. In both houses. And, I can also easily summon visions of me drawing, or painting, coloring, what have, in elementary school thinking I’ll be an Artist, like him. I remember one time coming home to him giving Katie and her friend Erick a lesson, showing them certain techniques, color combinations. Intriguing, these memories, especially with where I am now, with the little Artist sleeping, my right. I see Mom’s dad leaning over them, Katie and Erick, considering the process of their creating. Interesting that this falls into my sight this morning. And what does the Syrah have to do with this? Don’t know. But I feel that I’ve found MY varietal, finally, in its independent motions, stance– Its Defiance. Syrah makes me want to paint, write, sing, be musical. Just thinking of a glass of Syrah puts me back into that Arundel Elementary, and Central Middle School, train of thought where I just created; painted, drew. I didn’t care about submitting it, what criticisms would follow– I. JUST. CREATED. Why, as an adult, am I, are we, so contaminated by reality, responsibility? Why can’t we, I[!!!], just forward? Maybe the bottle I today buy answers such.
Almost to 1000 words. Sorry for so much, reader. I’m just mentally alive in a way I used to urge my students be. Speaking of past pupils, I received an email from one of my formers this morning, that he prepared a lengthy report on Carroll’s Alice works. He said I would have been proud. Again, makes me miss the classRoom, those Exchanges of Ideas. When I’m at Stanford, I can only imagine what students I’ll be working with. Soon, I keep telling Self. Writing my way there. Today, when outside, when driving to errand spots, I know I’ll be thinking of teaching. I am right now. Preparing lecture notes, discussing Literature with students–how the author may have felt, what these authors want us to take away from text; What we DO take away, individually and collectively. Professor 4ever …
sing 2 self; earth notes
in rushed writing — wave tips grip
dreamt letters; collect