12/25/12. Ebb, under. Probably from my son’s 1st xmas in end’s state. Such a great day with the little Artist. But I should know better, from my feud with Time, that it can’t 4ever span. The Cab I last night sipped, spilt out. Opened a bottle ‘nother. Nice wines tonight, at Particular Palates’ house. Left the charger cord there, so I can’t upload stills– Ugh, look how I’m talking.. like some tech-dependent blogger. So tonight, I’m just going to write.
Rain with impressive totals this eve. Had valuable chat with winemaker sister, on everything from oak regiments to fermentation, sommelier credibility to AVA varietal expressiveness/integrity. Haven’t taken my first sip, yet. Want to compile anticipatory appreciativeness. Not looking forward to work, tomorrow. But I should be. Need more writing material. Need this book out. Both of them, rather. The poetry chap, then the writing collection. I know, reader.. promises, promises.
Just had sip first. Amazing. Like a palate recharge, after the SB, Cab, and Pinot this evening. Rain, in wait. Me, with new journal at right, just remembering I have a couple pieces to log in standalone log. Just had an idea for the book. But I can’t it here divulge. Love discovery. That deserves another pour into core. If I had ways mine, I’d be writing from a balcony, somewhere in New York. Sipping only coffee, as I did this morning at Mom and Dad’s. Excessively invigorated, writing. And writing well, honestly, with fanged truth.. not caring if it’s “uncouth.” Tomorrow, probably no one visiting Room. So what will a writer be doing? ‘ll be interesting to learn, all I can here say.
Honestly, this Cabernet, one of my poisons. Would love to sip this in some hotel Room, entering oddly spider-webbed words onto this journal’s newer channels. What does this little leather pest want from me? Why do I to it that way refer?
Feel like this blog is just as bad as that plastic box upstairs, in the closet, serving as tomb to all those old writings. What my routine SHOULD be: write at night, print in morning. How hard is that? Do I have the energy for 500 more words? If I did, which I certainly don’t [more like I don’t have the focus, after all this wine], I wouldn’t have time for new journal.. its new leathery aromatics. Like its own varietal, this little usably interactive artpiece.
Glass empty. Think I have room for 1 more. And only one. Want rain over those dormant vines, in morrow’s envelope. Think the rest of this writer’s week’ll be like a tweaked quiche, if that makes sense… It doesn’t. Okay. Didn’t think it would, to you. But it does to me. I know I have to be honest.. but to whom? Who’s more important, with these pages? Me or you, reader?
Assignment for 12/26: note all details, from what you see when pulling into lot, to what you smell setting up bar, to what’s said in meeting. Put in next book, and sell. This industry, “the industry” [my private jester], like Literary ATM. Grateful, me…
2nd assignment: read at least 3 pages on break lunched, take notes in journal new– no, don’t bring it to work, this preciously packaged stack.. scribble in little sheets. Wait, what am I reading, Plath or Paris Wife [gift from Particular Palates, today]? Something to consider. And I find Self, still writing. Must be this nightcap I just elbowed into stemless glass. What else can this 33-year old Joycean do? Why am paradigmatically JJ? Easy.. Irish, and hardly ever comprehendible.
Okay, giving Self to 10:30 [6 mins from now]. Why do I cut mySelf off? I don’t know, for the exercise of it all. Discipline attempts. And just now, the writer sees what a FULL glass he poured4Self. But the more exposure, the more charisma in its character. I know some think the way I describe wines is quirky, too artsy maybe, but I just remembered one of my former coworkers at Lancaster said wording I used to deconstruct what’s poured from bottle was “an experience.” Even without her support, I’d still speak as I do. But I appreciate her response, even if my reaction, appreciation of her support, is months far 2late. Huh, just like a writer, with the tardiness.