5/18. Indicative of my writing obsession– I’m still writing. Can’t just throw and resign eyes to TV. Need another glass of SB, obviously. Hot down here, condo’s first floor. Attempt to implore more, but I move slow. Why am I not just writing verse, for the first chapbook? Don’t know. BUT, of what I am sure: I don’t want to be seen as one of those ordinary bloggers, just posting whenever suits, whenever’s most marketable. I’m extremely Artist. Know that, devil.
Night’s final capping, a generous pour of ’12 SB. Then I’m done. Can’t even write descriptively how tired the writer is. Want more music in my day.. So, muting TV, again. Re-reading poem I wrote in vineyard’s center. See what I saw, again. But that’s me, the unique audience.. the poem’s creator. What would the reader see? Can’t tell, definitively.
Said this before: Love where my mind goes, how I always want2WRITE. No interest in doing anything else. Even when I do out with “friends,” I entertain how I could spin it into sentences, like with my recent Gatsby night, nearly a month ago. The 25th, in 7 days, possible sequel. Just turned on Pandora, set on buying more music than I should, for turns of turning more musical writing. Another sip… Just heard Jackie, now he’s quiet. Bad dream? Who knows what in his little swing stream. Just look at one of my photo banks, holding 350 stills. What if I had same amount in standalones? Why can’t I? What am I saying, I already do. Need to follow thought with my vision. Trust heart, know what I’m doing is what I SHOULD B doing.
And sometimes a writer just needs to resign, fall to dreamt rhymes. Waiting for my first Road trip. I don’t care to where I’m sent, long as it’s from pages. Sipping the SB slowly. Finally relaxed. And with all wholeness, I deserve this. Relaxing with a glass of nice wine, writing. Many males my age would love to be out with their mirrorings, doing what be. But not me. I need silence, Artistry.
Ready to watch SNL, one of my pleasures altogether guilty. Now, having trouble writing, truly.. having to retype most of me. Will reconvene with coffee, in morrow. If this were a play, I’d reconsider all efforts. Where am I going with these pages?
5/19. Brought my newest issue of WineMaker Magazine to work, but left in car. Wouldn’t have had time to read through its content, anyway. Had a VIP Mountaintop gig at 12:30p. Just two people, from Iowa. They joined the club yesterday, decided to return today to experience the views up there, for their 25th wedding anniversary. The two: the kind of guests I like. Unassuming, kind, genuinely interested.
Planned on tasting my wines at lunch, seeing how badly they needed a rack. BUT, decided on two tacos from Nellie’s Oysters stand [having a day or two pretty much every weekend at the estate]. Wound up tasting them right after I clocked out, with Sam. MUCH to my surprise.. the Merlot tasted better than NDC [my blend, “New Dad Cuvée]. Couldn’t believe it, especially as the Merlot was causing me such frustration only weeks ago. At this point, I just want to top them, push back racking as far as I can. Hoping to go in early tomorrow, if I can, to taste through some tanks, or barrels, for topping purposes. Blair had me taste some PV a couple weeks ago. Hopefully I can get my hands on some of that.
No wine for the writer, tonight. Just a couple beers. Then, switching to sparkling lime. Pushing some standalones into book. This Saturday night, the due date. The newest one.. let’s see if I keep it. Wait, why do I type that with the sarcastic slant? What if I do? What if I surprise mySelf? On my humble run today, only thought of my book, the books following.. my realization that my style is the momentary, the instantaneous, whimsical. I can’t afford to spend 3 years writing a bloody book. Writing as a poet, songwriter, even if you’re reading paragraphs. Aimed at doing 3 laps around the rather sizable block down the street, towards the end of run. Ran two, decided to walk final, to think– just enjoy surroundings, observe all the characters in those nice townhouses. Writing my way, our way, out of this small condo. And when I don’t feel like writing, as I did just as I started typing a couple minutes ago– just type. Or WRITE. Anything. And that’s just it. I need to write. More. ACTUALLY write. Proud of myself from racking the poem I wrote in the little pages, yesterday, into book. Short poem, yes, but it surely conveys what I was feeling at the time, standing in the middle of that vineyard block, only minutes before I had to punch back in, killing my lunch hour.. or half-hour.
Thinking more about wines from ’12, the one or two I do for ’13. Think I’ll do 1 with Katie, and maybe 1 at estate. Katie and I should do another Cab, I’m thinking. She says there may be guidelines to whatever we do. I don’t want an excess of restrictions when it comes to my Art, whatever outlet. With all due respect to my sister. Maybe I’ll do 1 wine, all by mySelf. But what? Still to early to measure.
Did a little writing in caves today, as I was closing. Love that stage, under the hill. Could write at that table, at the end of the left channel [where we do tours] for hours. Would love to just spend a day walking the estate, with only a Comp Book, couple pens, record everything I see. Like this morning, when I had to have a guy from an event equipment company follow me out to the ruins. I drove, utterly relaxed, with my 4shot mocha, blueberry scone, window down, just admiring where I was, what I could be writing if I were in more a position to scribble. Speaking of, just looked at Comp Book.. it’s almost full. Should pull from there, tonight, for book. Give those verses a final home.
Time for sparkling lemon. Do have some of last night’s SB in fridge.. I’m just not in the mood. At all. Want to wake with more energy than I did this A.M. Just turned on Midnight in Paris, for perhaps the something-thousandth occasion, in the last few months. What am I looking for in this film? AM I looking for anything in particular?
Should have bought some coffee at store. I believe Alice’s going for a walk at 8 tomorrow morning, with one of the other young mothers. Should give me a good 30-40 mins to write, if I correctly budget. Was just looking through first draft of book. Wondering if I should rack at all, or blend down to the 57 pages I was entertaining– See? This is the type of vacillating that KILLS my efforts in bringing book ideas to fruition. And what I do like about the blog: write, post, done. Self-published.
Lied. I’m actually sipping some chocolate milk I bought on store run. For some reason, it sounded good, a chilled glass of chocolate, on night warm like 2nite. TV, off, thankfully. Was getting sick, watching the advertisements, the evil “reality” shows on BRAVO. Think I’m closer to sleep than previously measured.
Need to be back in my city [Paris], soon.
