84: Kaz Winery, Room Notes
-Beautiful weather. Grapes almost ready to go. Encouraging, but sad. They look so lovely on their vines, for my pictures. But that’s selfish, I know. They should be shared. Thick crowd waves in the Kaz Room. Never old, how many different corners represented. Chicago, San Diego, Venezuela, Russia, New York.
-Mary Tauge, 2005. Still to me speaking; gaining tenacity and fervor with its time appreciation; palate presence, pristine.
-Realized when home, the only thing I’ll ever hope to be, a writer. Don’t need the industry, any employer to validate me. Because they can’t. I’ll admit, I have for a long time been a bit insecure in my writing aims, at times entertaining, “What if I fail,” or “What if readers don’t take to my writing?” And, occasionally, “Am I any good?” I realized tonight, right at the end of my shower, I don’t care. I won’t think. Winemakers make wine, writers write. I write. I will write books. BOOKS, many. Inspired by everything from wine, life, old neighborhood, approaching turns, characters around, EVERYTHING. Even this laptop, which is forced to deal with my emotional aerobatics.
-There’s no need to be stressed, by anything in “the industry,” or outside. No one, no entity, can can deliver what I want, the quality of professional life I expect, my desired career caliber, but myself, my SELF. Going to sleep tonight in different movements, more peace’d, Self-connected, aware.
-At one point in the vineyards today, a deliberately cautious gust touched my ear, as if to suggest I notice something about my surroundings. I wasn’t sure what, so I just looked around me, at the Lenoir grapes--patient, voluptuous, exhausted but in smile. If only I had one more day to think about it. I do have the morning commute, about an hour, before being seated. Tonight’s images, hopefully helping.
-Blending writings tomorrow night, maybe tomorrow at lunch, after the Lit Lunch 1000. Hoping to write each lunch this week. That would be progress, that would get me closer.
|Karla [Venezuela] and Elena [Russia], sipping ...|
Not having slept a lot last night, I’m far past tired. Still thinking about yesterday. In the Room, with the guests, Karla and Elena, everyone else. My walk in the vineyards, talking to clusters. These pictures tell me to keep writing, as I did today, at my Literary Lunch. 1500+ words, the most I’ve ever typed while at the Roasting Company. Now, sipping Syrah, before I shave. Rain, on pause. Wish it would come back, but only after the grapes have been stolen from their vines, for this superlative wine. The book, lonely without the pours. So, I guess they need be pulled. I know it’s a silly thought, but I am, as a writer, appreciator of scene, going to miss their station on cordons.
NWG, imparting peculiarities besetting my basis. Not signing such now, have to re-read the café composition. But I’m too tired. Sure Van Gogh let himself walk away from the brushes, surface, once a while. Making Self stay in the chair. That’s what I impressed upon my students, and I’ll do the same at Stanford. If I leave, words are lost. Reflection, forfeited. My stemless glass, to right, still with plentiful purple puddle. This ’08 Syrah, like a witch I antagonize, hoping she punishes me with some naughty spell.
This weekend, starting Friday night, I’ll write more than I ever have. Ever. In fact, I may leave the current book project momentarily to rush-write a 60-hour manuscript. A novella, I see. Why not? Wine, writing, free time. Nothing else I see Self slaying, but an impromptu desideratum. Time to close, exhaustion slowing a scribe. Bed, unavoidable. One more sip, one memorable. Is that not what wine is, or meant to be, memories, moments savored? Tonight, no lost thoughts if I wake in the night’s second act. Ink, sheet, by penman during sleep. Sip, sip ...