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A Backpack That

Here with me while I write, telling me I need write in a nimble voltage this morning here in the tasting room at the long polished or lacquered tree table, old oak I think. Nothing but wine on this writer’s thought plate.. everything from what I last night sipped to what I open tonight, today in the tasting room, to what I said about the Cabernets yesterday to that one lady with her friend in the wine club members area, outside. The backpack suggests I get to business, stop with the stalls and changings of mind. No more. Just write… wine… explore wine and her concept and singularity with words and the wildest of verses and paragraphs you can put to page.

Have to use restroom. Backpack tells me to hurry, you have less than 30…

Back only moments later and see this backpack differently. Emblematic of education, books and journals, notes and study, campuses and commuting and being that freeway flying adjunct I once was. But now, travel. Both tangibly and intangibly … this logical positivism, extrapolated from a bag. That could be dismissed by anyone, I guess, but here I am seeing more in the backpack. More in me, getting here early and starting my types with caffeinated fury, with a storm of questions and postulates, equations and sights and realization that there is more, more than this… more than teaching at the JC, more than the tasting room. All is in travel, writing it and studying all peoples, like the man on the freeway this morning trailing me close in his big hillbilly truck only to pull up next to me, me seeing him, cowboy hat and all trying to stare a liberal poet like me down and losing. What about me made him so angry? That I drive a Prius and he thinks I’m a … I don’t know what? I learned, right there, more of the positivism, more questions, more self study of this Mike Madigan character I was assigned, travel through and from thought to thought, see what I can and learn, grow, then travel more.

Packing the laptop and all in this camper-looking sack, I knew I was going to write differently, today, see everything about Mike Madigan in some new analytical tilt, encouraging me to expand and fly well beyond what’s expected of me, and who’s setting those knavish conjectures. I’m traveling, right now while typing in the tasting room while it outside mists curiously and I have the heater on, enjoying Coltrane and Davis, and all their music brethren.

Me a lonely poet in a room almost guaranteed today to be heaping in Mother’s Day sippers. We’ll see.

Have to pack up, again, soon…. Sip coffee, have resolved in head that I’m using journal all day to record everything for sakes of this travel and all tongues in reaction to wine. I have to get to their head, to their view, on that side of the bar while remaining on mine. A winery diarist, poet, waiting for a sip of that Cabernet, the one I spoke intently and versified to that one lady, Jessica I think her name was. This is all I’ll do, the bag tells me — write wine, not about it. Be wine, be writing, be writing about wine and see all compositional intricacies and those glorious metaphysical intangibles that no one wants to read in their subscribed publication. They want to be told what to think…. “NO!” The backpack and I blare with concerted chirp.