I don’t think I should be writing prose today. I need scattered sentences, erratic images. Don’t think I should be visiting a winery today, should be locked in the studio, and finish reading this bloody book, already. But that’s not healthy. Need a separation from the desk, at some point. Need air, characters, life aside from this laptop’s screen. Bottles, corks, messy puddle-puddled counters in a tasting Room, that’s what I know. That’s what I need.
If I ever have my own tasting Room, how long will I be into it? Don’t mean to be grim, I’m simply asking Self, at this advanced age of 32, “Do I really want a Room to mySelf?” Starting to think I don’t. I’m too old. I just want to write, about the characters in such Rooms. The wine’s they sip, how they grip the glass, what they say in response to their sips, how they take pictures of each other by merchandise, etched bottles, staff. I want to record all of this world’s, or “industry’s,” subtleties, tinges.
So what’s Literary, or “intellectual” about that? More than I can here pepper, or deconstruct. Concisely, it’s us, Human. Wine, which leaps from terroir, our interaction and interpretation of it. Encourages me to read those authors bend me, on that shelf, in that paginated edifice, their interpretation of their own ideas, for us, readers. Just decided, I will buy another Comp book, as if it’s for another class. That’s the way to approach my corner’s constituents. In these newly purchased pages: Lectures, classRoom prompts, academic and Literary articles (500-1000 words), reactions to readings. Capote’s Other Voices, Other Rooms, on desk. Feeling Mentally Alive. Mr. X would smile with me, I’m sure. Want to read that piece again, as I loved lecturing on those words in his “Prison Studies.” That’s Literature, worded activism. Truly transcendent. All Humans need read similar words, works. We need to be pushed, challenged, to be happy, content. Finding our individual Equilibriums, for one collective.
12:52p. Think I’m ready for a recess. A winery visit. That’s what my circuitry’s beckoning. Have to accommodate, serve my spirit. Rising from the chair, even though I told my students they should “stay in the chair.” I’m a humorous hypocrite, at least. Aren’t I? At least I’m laughing.
1:22p. Restless, wrestling with these lines. A tasting does sound nice now, honestly. Some lunch on a patio. In Paris, Dijon, anywhere in Burgundy. Vacation, soon. Or even a work travel. Dreamt last night I had a book signing in Seattle. No coffee in the dream, oddly. I was like a silent narrator, just watching Mike sign inside covers, answering questions. No audio, though. Was a silent film. Saw readers bringing him bottles of wine, varying varietals. No idea what to make of it. Significance? Don’t care. It was an enjoyable dream.
In thinking about wine, as I always do (seriously), I find mySelf with an even more assertive travel itch. Where would I want to go first, be it business, holiday? New York, it would have to be. Need overwhelming fillips, quite certain the city would send such, for me, my pages, my BOOKS...
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