Wednesday, September 28, 2011


1:26p.  Back at NWG, just ticks from now.  1000 words to book, check.  Known date of release, can’t put a check.  This coffee does wonderful things to the radically rampant writer.  Ugh, now it’s almost too cold.  Ten minutes, now.  A little exhausted from my 1k sprint.  Don’t know what to write about.  My Parisian coffee house idea.  It’s still there, here, I assure you.  Hope to make it a reality for guests, so frequenters can have a reliably docile domain to relax, sip, read write.  But, I see it as a place for me to hang out.  My idealized spot.  Most of my motivation, frankly.  Should probably pack up.  Hate time.  More as I age, believe me.
Kelly.  What’s she doing this afternoon?  I’ll ask her later.  Clocking out, to clock back in, across the street.  Sip, sip ... 
9:54p.  Home from dinner with parents.  Engrossing canvass over a legacy, one wanting, wishing to impose a legacy.  Is it selfish if intended?  Can it still be philanthropic, genuine?  All over an incredible Spanish varietal, and an ’05 Médoc.  Back in professor mechanisms, with these discussions.  And they’re never more enriching than when with family.  Has me wondering, what I want my legacy to be.  For whom?  Family, strictly.  I’m not advertising it.  True, I’m divulging my intentions here, in MY pages, which you choose to read.  Please know, appreciated.  But I don’t address my “legacy” for the sake of acclaim.  Dad and I sipped the Médoc, tangling, then untangling only to re-retangle the topic.  Why?  To understand it, from where, when dare I say, the other was conceptualizing, shifting perceptive related addresses.
Looking over notes from the day, my cubeNOTES, and coffeehouse composition.   More than satisfied with my success in crossing the street to write during my free hour.  Now, in my bunker, with my night’s cap, I just pluck my vespertine, adjuring kinesthesia.  The book, even blog, hopefully advantageously augmented.  Perhaps my legacy self-remunerates by way of line, syllabically stretched strides.  Decided I don’t want to teach Creative Writing, Fiction, Non, anymore.  Want to trek with student in thought, idea construction, analysis of texts.  Thinking I should have majored in Philosophy, focus in Aesthetics, Epistemology.  And since this is a “wine blog,” I’ll feign to my seated’s what follows: “How does this idea approach your reflective sphere?  Does it resonate?  Translate what permeates.” Just as sippers respond to their pours.  Wine has a way of releasing reaction to others ideas, ideologies.  True, at times unfavorably.  But, among those sensible, with enriching peaks.  I could continue with this coiled disquisition, but I’ll clock-out.  For you, reader.  Couple more sips, of a random Cab, before bed.  I’ll innumerate its notes, never.  I’d rather dream.  Of just wine.  Writing.  Writing about wine, sitting cross-legged in the vineyard, during this harvest, gripped in production frenzy, plenty.
Kelly would probably be asleep, over there, on the couch.  If she were here.  Confusion, with her.  I’m at a point where I need answers.  For the work, the pages.  It’s not wrong if I’m a writer, especially a writer wined.  Aren’t I?  Not sure.  More ’08, please.                
9/27/11, Tuesday

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