Posts Tagged With: Philosophy

9:01PM, in kitchen nook. Glass, boastfully full, ’11 Anderson Valley Pinot. Nearly too drained to write, but I wanted my moment in this nook. Two small groups in TR today, with both Literature addressed; writing, Life, passion, pursuit. My friend, and current ‘5’ student, Nadav asked me towards the end of the 8: “How long does it take you to write a piece?” I should have some kind of answer cued for such a probe, but I don’t. Does that mean there’s something wrong with my Literary practice? Do I need to focus more on singular/submittable standalones rather than these novels? I began writing something today, on a makeshift notebook, that I aim to send to The New Yorker. I do want to Self-publish, but I also want to play ‘the game’; submitting; the acceptance, rejection, waiting, not hearing a thing at all.

This Pinot, more earthy than I’d like, but how do I know what’s right with the red Burgundy? But never mind that– right now I’m ENJOYING wine. Not consumed with sales goals, how to talk about it, description, how much I pour, what I’d pair the bottle with.. I’m sipping. And that’s it. Me, wine, writing.. REAL Art.

Dreaming of writing a piece for NatGeo.. traveling somewhere, and conveying precisely EVERYTHING I see, smell, hear, taste, feel. Everything’ll be on the page. And I’ll work quick, not sleep, needing only a week, at most, to capsule what me greets. I should be transferring the words I wrote today, on those pieces of scratch paper, but I’ll leave them, those words, for morrow, with coffee. And I’ll be able to wake at cruel hour– this is my last glass of the fragile red. And it does taste fragile, scared, insecure, hidden. I’ll again sip, let it know I’m here to communicate, not evaluate.

And now, I’m on the couch.  Entertaining another glass of the Anderson Valley PN, but I’m not convinced.. not necessarily swayed by its voice.  If anything, I want to dive into some study on Joyce; his inner warrings, methods, practices.. remember in that documentary I saw not too long ago that he studied with heated aim in libraries.  And I’m trying to enact the similar here, in the condo castle.. with the TV dead, off, and nothing but the fridge’s tremor about sense.  You know what, I think I do need another glass.  It’s Friday, and I’m a writer, dreaming of travel.  Now I’m rambling.  The wine’ll help that…

Think I should send some of this spoken word.. somewhere.  OR just perform it.  The Pinot will tell me.  [...]  First sip, last glass.  So relaxed.  C—— would be doing the same thing, after a day like this.  That’s why I feel nothing, ‘cause my character validates it so.  One character I met today, one from the aforementioned small groups, reminding me so much of her.  Hope she emails me, sends me some of her writing.  But even if she doesn’t, the novel will finish.

Another sip, touted.

(4/11/14)

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joking river, lullaby through

new front, cumuli

stimuli, through forest, not

much view,

I blame you.

I drive to the block where there’s

a shack, no snack, just enclosure,

peace, or some chord, broken

strings, so I use laps for drumset,

looking for original thought

on a tree, or

three,

possibly, nearing time for sentence supper, need

a new song, done

by the next hour’s topping.

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Printed first poem in collection. But the novel’s first page.. not sure if I want it to be something I’ve written this semester, or something from the past. I don’t want those writings to die, or be forgotten, collecting dust in the closet to my left.. or somewhere in this bloody laptop. I very much want to resurrect the old writings, have them speak louder than they did when I first wrote them.

Departing for a bit, to watch a documentary on photography. Yes, for/from National Geographic.. I feel something about and within my proscribed animate edifice coming alive. Ready for rebellion. Leaving the lasso of regularity behind. Bringing Death to their devilish clock. Giving my son a father of which to be immeasurably proud.

$424 in publishing state, to note…..

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Spring 2014, novel notes…

9:12AM. Leaving in 13 minutes. Now 12. Still quite under the weather. In Kenwood lot, right to left of dead tree. All I can think about it poetry, my novel this semester, Monday’s lectures. All else: destructive obstruction. Even– no, ESPECIALLY– wine. Didn’t have a single glass, last night. Just finished 2 poems for first book. Thinking of Poe, his short stories, how they ripple in the reader’s vision, memory. And how they are all centered in images. And these images, what I need to dissect. Not just for the next time I lecture in his works, but for my own advance. And then, right here, I feel blocked. I blame this bug. My body does fight it away quite successfully, but I’m tired, even as I progress into this mocha. I’ll brew mySelf a cup when on the estate, see if that helps. There’s a house in the hills, just up, right, obstructed by a single very sizable tree. What a silent writing spot that would be for me. I have the $400 to start my label/publishing house. So no more stashed away. NOW, to save for a house, viciously put money away for family. 9:18, leaving in two. Hope so very much they send me home. So I can fully recover, and WRITE, PRINT. I watched a short film on a poetry program outside of CA. All the students in this grad program had either hand-scribbled sheets in front of them, or something typed. Something to TOUCH. Not some bloody screen at which you’re meant to stare, become still, more-or-less dead. (4/3/14) 4/4. Staying home today, after the cough mounting an educating attack. That’s just how I’ll be today, with my pages. Two waffles springing from toaster in kitchen.. be right back. Went to bed quite early last night, just after little Kerouac.. which would put me… A bit after 8PM. Today is about recovery, and progress. I feel that I may be pushing mySelf into even greater a stall by depending on these community colleges to offer me something tenure-track. Outside the box, where I’m going.. and starting with poetry, yes, but I will print ONE page from this semester’s novel, the first page, at some point today. Like Steve said, “Write for my Life.” So quiet in this house, now. Should try for more sleep. Two more waffles. Need to stay awake till around 8:30, when I call in. Post to teaching blog.. that’s what I haven’t done. Done. 8:17. Will call in 15 minutes. Give whomever a couple minutes to settle. Strange, the light rain last night. Wasn’t expecting that, at all. *** Up, ready for writing. Had shower, cup of coffee–which actually very much helped me combat the sinus headache–went to store for Advil (took only 1, as I hate medicine), got mocha, and here I am. Ready for session. Won’t be posting to teaching blog again till Sunday, I anticipate. Printing one poem from collection, and one page from semester’s novel. More and more, I’m starting to find mySelf more imbued with wine; how it changes, how it looks, smells, from where it’s birthed– the Earth, those lovely vineyards. Listening to my music now, I think of this new direction, centered around images, taking my day into my own hands, yes, but more motivated hands. Images, things.. “No ideas but in things.” William Carlos Williams said. And that’s my approach, with everything from empty wine glasses at the Hill House, to the Syrah Hill, the tank room… Entry into the tasting room, the caves, spilt wine on the counter, stains on the towels… But I want to focus on new objects, things, a revolving door of propulsion. In the lab: tubes, samples in the miniature jars, or vats (not sure of their proper item tag), other pours, bottles, winemaking notes… And the headache is gone, completely. Now I can really write. I look at my wallet, right. Hate that thing, all the clutter I assume, just within its borders alone. Opening it… Emptied it. Even the cash. Put into the company’s budget– or stash. 1:30PM. What to do with the day’s rest? Research. I’m starting to find National Geographic’s content quite moving, repairing when I don’t have a subject. OR, “thing”. Getting sick of this blog, I have to say. How the formatting now doesn’t read paragraphing. That is, I have my prose pragmatically placed on this screen, appropriately divided, but the hosting site doesn’t read it so. It just bloody throws the content to that square, and I have to fix its mistakes. Tech, you’ll soon know your death. And it again rains. The drops tell me to calm. This morning’s weather urgency suggested no rain, that this “storm” was passing. But, for the first time ever to my liking, the weather boxes were incorrect. The rain fell encouragingly as I went to Safeway to retrieve that Advil, caffeine. Advil.. a thing. Fixing something, pain. Allowing for comfort, and this writer to write. But now, I think it time for a break.. a writing exercise for Self, list things, places, people, subject! I don’t like the word ‘thing’, or ‘things’. So bland, limp, nonspecific, noncommittal, lazy as a word, concept. “My favorite thing about wine is…” I remember hearing someone say, years ago, when my first blog was very much considered a traditional wine blog. I just remember thinking the character speaking sounded quick, like she wasn’t taking it, wine, seriously– well, ‘it’ also being her words, her thought process; her SELF! 1:44PM. The money on my desk, destined for the publishing pot (think that’s what I’ll call it, here onward..). I’m just staring at it, listening to the rain, just below the volume of this song, “Limbe”. Wondering where I want to start with my search.. which “things” to target. Frankly, as I long for the road, Newness, I need distance.. frames from far away. Turkey, a former Soviet state, Italy, my city of Paris, Yellowstone, Kenya.. anything that would push me somewhere I’ve never been with my writing.

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Up from nap. Still under attack from this belated bug. Thought cold season was through. But anyhow… I’ll be writing the rest of this day. No rain. Done with lunch– grilled cheese (Monterey Jack) and minestrone soup, paired with Ginger Ale. A union that sounded lovely when I woke. Taking care of this clutter, here on this desk, on this day off. Pay a couple bills, count Self-publishing funds.. know this isn’t terribly interesting for you to reader, reader, but I’m just letting you know what my character’s opting to do, post-nap. Yes, I could be doing other acts: staying in bed, video games, watching TV. But none of that contributes to the MS getting done. Look how fast I’m typing.. might as well not brew mySelf that cup that the machine’s poised to make, downstairs.

Was looking through some old Poe writings, and His texts as well, last night. Had several ideas, most of which I kept, and am keeping, in Comp Book, rather than reflexively posting them to this ‘blog’. If I get a section of English 5 in Fall, I’ll bring back Mr. Poe’s work, have him, his genre, in class again.

Have all the money on the keyboard pull-out of this desk. Coffee at right. But I need to leap into showering mindset. Told Self that I wouldn’t touch my book till I posted to teaching blog. I’ll do so when out of the cleansing, reviving water. I’m sure I’ll feel at least a little better, following the hot temperature of those beams.

Oh this coffee… Feel better quick-quick, already. Only after 2 sips. And then, the sun pops through the blinds’ miniature exposures. And yes, “popped” is the word that best suits an elucidation of they just displayed. A little over $400 in the Self-publishing stash. The rest, to Kerouac and Alice, however she wants it allocated. But knowing the amazing mother she is, she’ll take nothing. I’m sure. She’ll put it in the college fund her and I, mostly her, set up for the little Artist just after he was born. Speaking of Kerouac, where’s my book of his poems? Probably to my left, in closet, on that upper shelf. Ridding mySelf of this clutter, from the day’s theme of “Giving MySelf a Break”. So many wish for “big breaks” or ‘a break’ of some kind [much like how I’m waiting for a bloody call from one of these community colleges, which a REAL Artist would never do..]. Why not just give yourSelf a break? Or bloody take one?

Off to my verses. Quite sure they’ll dominate the day, or the rest of it. Alice just called, said it was cold at her school. Lovely to be in this warm house, writing, on break, getting well.

(4/2/14)

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Mountain Letter [draft]

3/30. Not 5AM, but not after seven either. 6:32AM. Was going to go back into the morning’s sleep, but suddenly I was jolted. And I’m not sure by what. As if something said, “Don’t you dare. You need to be writing.” So here I am. Still very much feel the run from yesterday– And like that, I hear Jackiie upstairs calling for me. He’s not crying, nor seeming upset, just light calls to “Dada.. dada…” No rain this morning, but there are clouds. Not sure if we’re in for a day as busy as yesterday or not, but I need to be noting wherever I am, wherever they have me. Yesterday, I wasn’t a writer at all. No notes. Just overly concerned with my bloody phone, where I could charge it as I didn’t the night before. That’s not Literature. And not writing. Won’t be the case or set of affairs today. Need coffee. None in the house, shame. So very glad I didn’t have any wine last night. I already feel like a monster writer, someone who would be in the café with Hemingway. And on the note of cafés, I met another writer a couple days ago. ‘Faye’, her name. From D.C., a writer, ballet dancer, and one of the more memorable, sweet, and enriching characters I’ve lately met. She messaged me yesterday, with a sample from a writing project of hers– a blog, with her friend I believe. I loved the tone and vision of her prose, and the almost immediately disclosed backstory and impetus to the effort. She sent me honest writing, which as you know is my obsession, very much these days. And she also reminded me, through the narrative of her piece that life is hauntingly curt, and that we need jail our dreams, keep them captive, put them into action, join the dream itself in blossom. 6:41AM. This room quiet. And no more calls from little Kerouac, upstairs. The fridge, not humming as it was a bit earlier, when I first woke. So the sound circulating this room from these writing fingers spiking the keys hopefully doesn’t travel upstairs, through little K’s door. I think it’s so pride-dousing when he recognizes me as a writer, seeing a pen on the couch or ottoman, so floor, kitchen nook table, and saying “Dada.” “Dada? Is that Dada’s?” I’ll say. “Yyyyeah!” he yells back, smiling, so confident and proud of his answer. And I say ‘pride-dousing’ not because I’m proud of mySelf, that my son already knows me to write, but I feel such pride in him, how vocal and almost academically analytical he is, this little Artist. Still feel the Lawndale run, very much. Both in knees, back, thighs.. strange, for when the run was finished, I didn’t feel quite as damaged. If anything, I felt very much as I do now: championed, in control of everything in this writer’s way. Class tomorrow. I’ll prep FULLY tonight. And I’m quite settled on Life & Death.. how the semester became with the latter, and ends with the former. Writers need to acknowledge death, yes, but be charmed by it as some ‘marketable topic’. The focus needs to be Life, and how it can belong fully to you. But, then I think of Faye’s writing, and how it sharply carves the reminder that Life is short, and that you won’t be here forever. The heater comes on, Jackie calls. Of course…. 7:17, downstairs with the little Artist. His waffle cooks while my coffee brews, and he watches his usual fish movie. Which is “Nemo”, if need you note. C sat in her office, which was really more of a glorified cubicle. “No, this is a cubicle,” she declared. She started with answering emails from people on the call list, then club members. She had an interesting relationship with the club members, as she didn’t deal with them often. But when she had a campaign with many of them on the call list, she had to deal with them. And may times the needle swam to hate, far away from love. Once that was done, she had a new campaign to design, then pitch to the owner at some point today, or tomorrow, or in the middle of next week. It was never really made clear. Shocker. Right before lunch, she decided to look at her wine/winemaking notes. She looked over what she wrote about the Sauvignon Blanc, night before last. Her writing more took the form of the wine speaking for itself, she thought. C—— didn’t really think of herself as a writer, nor did she really like to write since most of the writing she did was for work, for those campaigns, advertisements, the “tone of voice” as the owner said. She read, seeing the sentence “In the wild, herbal, electric, gripping your attention. I want to put you somewhere else, somewhere far from whatever stresses you…” It made sense, in more that a single stroke. She’d take her lunch early, go to one of the nearby tasting rooms on 12. Something small, though. Something with character, charm. No corporate maze or minefield. XDR Wines, at the edge of Kenwood, almost in Santa Rosa’s proper. She walked in with nothing. No purse, not notebook. Just her, her memory. Whatever made an impression she’d remember, put in her notes. Bar approach. “Hi, welcome,” the young lady said, with her light blue collared shirt, blonde hair tied back. “Wanna taste a little wine?” “Yeah, that’d be great. This is a beautiful tasting room,” C said, looking around, admiring the rich wooden walls, bottles placed on shelves, pictures of the vineyards, both estate and sourced. C didn’t want to say she was “industry”. She wanted to be guised in silence, in the tourist role. And she wanted to feel like she were on vacation. Just once. She looked forward to forfeiting the tasting fee, which, here, was only $5. “Have you had our wines before?” “No, I haven’t. But I’m excited to try them. You do just Pinot, Chard, and Syrah?” “And a Reserve Grenache.” “Really? And who’s your winemaker? Is he here?” “Oh.. actually, I’m the winemaker, I’m him,” she said with a little laugh, for comfort’s sake, making C feel welcome, unashamed of her statement. “We’re just short here in the room, so I thought I’d get out of my chemistry dungeon.” Hmmm, C said to herself.

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Leads

The table moves, even with my wallet under one of the legs.  Sipping sparkling we opened last night, for Alice to sip, before our jaunt to John Ash.  I sip in celebration of this book’s second half’s beginning, tomorrow.  And yes, I will be sprinting to the library right after English 5, and probably English 100.  Want to write around other students, not self-promoting full-timers, or even other adjuncts.  Students are pursuers, or many of them are, and that’s what I want around me, character-wise.

Need a rough plan for tomorrow morning’s ‘5’ session.. so:  part 1– In Woolf’s Life; the non-fiction realm.. the realm.  Part 2– Your initial reaction as the reader in 2014; what did you think?  What characters provoke the most reaction from you?  Part 3– Where can we go with these ideas, especially if we focus on the element of stability in this narrator’s life?  Where can we go with it, meaning ‘what sense can we make’?  Part 4– Predictions and expectations.. going forward.  What do we want as readers?  What can we logically predict?

 

As far as today’s concerned.. the same story.  It’s like my shift’s are duplicates of each other.  It’s a recycled story.  Two mountaintop tours, only one bottle sold between both.  I can only laugh.  I never claimed to be some master bottle mover.  Want another glass.  And tomorrow will be something worth celebrating, so I feel quite equal in these preliminary sips.

Beautiful around the estate today.  Took a couple pictures from the mountain’s top with my phone.  Need a wine mission, somewhere.. like a return to France, Burgundy.  Or, to Argentina.  Or Chile.  Somewhere.  In pursuit of wine, what it does, how it contributes to character interaction, development.  Today, nowhere near as frantic as yester’.  But still quite a motion.  Enough to make me look at the clock, sip a couple glasses of ’12 SB, early.

 

So nice to have little Kerouac home.  And that’s all the inspiration I need, especially after taking a quick detour to Sam’s house on the way home.  Finally had a chance to sip my beer– or, the beer Sam taught me to make.  Not sure how much a hand I had.  It was amazing, to be modest.  Sam even declared it’s one of the best-tasting beers he’s ever made.  But where I wanted to go with this reflection, the view from his backyard, while he gave us a tour of his garden– the sight of the mountains, from that expansive lawn, that one house we saw in the mountains.  Precisely what I want for my family, and these words will get me just that.  The peace I felt in that, in that garden, right where Same grows his hops, for some of this beer projects, lectured me in the span of not even a full minute.  I want removal, I want safety, I want the visuals that will write my novels.

 

Mike poured himself another glass.  Didn’t write a thing.  He knew he shouldn’t.  Collection–  Of Self.  That sparkling spoke to him, turned the room into a basket of bravado.  And stopping, not one of the moment’s choices.  So the fingers again began became mobile about the keys.  And those bubbles, in register, lovingly aided.

 

(3/23/14)

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Intrinsically Intent

10:12PM.  Alice home, little Kerouac still in Monterey.  Today’s shift, contributing much to the Self-publishing well.  I’m nearly to my budget goal.  So I celebrate with this ’11 Russian River Pinot.  No, I won’t make 3 pages.  But I’m writing, which is more than I can say for the Self of last night.  Today, Dad and I finally walked through Annadel.  For the first time since I-don’t-know-when.  We discussed the concept of ‘intrinsic’.. and how to apply it.  His curiosity, or knowledgable pursuit of the word’s circulation, generated, as he disclosed, from an article on Warren Buffett.  Interesting, I thought, how this word is so contingent upon, both in definition and theory, denotation and connotation, context.  How do you know when something–a characteristic or attribute, value or perception–is sincerely intrinsic?  Then, Dad and I talked about all the ways the concept and word could be entertained, and how so many conclusions could be reached, and would be reached by any energetic mind intent on such a surf.  But, we also acknowledge that it’s not so much an understanding or clear hold on the thought of ‘intrinsic’ that needs to be valued, but on the dissection of the idea itself.  That’s what’s of value here.. the process, more so than the product.

A couple times, Dad and I stopped, admired certain perspectives, or “views” in Annadel’s whirling woods.  I explained to him that I much prefer flat running to trail traverses.  But when walking, notably with Mr. Madigan, the trail and its rocky challenge don’t diffuse me, even a slight.

This Pinot glass, probably more full than it should be.  Lovely…  The Napa mission the other day with Chris, on mind.  Wish we would have visited one more door.  I sip this…  Think about my wines, how the quantity fades, but gloriously.  Haven’t received one critique or complaint about my bottles.  And while applying foils to Zach’s bottles today, towards the end of my shift (first time I’d ever worked on the line..), I could only think of not just my own wine label, but also publishing.. SELF-publishing.  My office, my releases.. my Creatively SOVEREIGN voice.

 

After our walk, Dad and I had a beer at the Mountain Hawk base, had some almonds, crackers, chips, discussed goals, Life, aims, passion.  And I’m again reminded of Time’s intention of folding us all under its claw.  I don’t have so much a plan, as I entertained with Dad, but more so a vision.. one encompassing and definite.  And this night’s final glass is in celebration of not only the day, my saunter with Dad through Annadel’s dimension, but acceptance of who I am…  “You’re a writer,” Dad said to me, while at the Mountain Hawk home, deconstructing purpose, passion, “is there anything that you’re more passionate about?” he asked, in a wording somewhat close to what I just typed.  I told him ‘no’, “that’s who I am, not just what I do,” I softly retorted.  But Dad, where he is, after an amazing career as a commercial airline captain, and what his next chapter is… what I currently turn in my analytical wheels.  His story: bullion.

 

And the day ends.  The fridge makes some weird sound, and I think of the Merlot I tasted today, and yesterday, from tanks, while being bottled.  Critical as I am of wine, its industry, I can’t stay away.  It’s part of this writer.. what he sees, does, breathes, acts, enacts.

 

So odd, not having my little Artist with us, here, in the condo castle.  I hope, and am quite sure, he sleeps well in Monterey.  Sure to be frantic tomorrow, with all the groups, reservations.  But I’ll make it what I want.  The day will never rattle me, at a winery.  I stare at this glass of Pinot, about three ounces full, and think about what wine does in its process.  I tried explaining this to my group, 9 girls from Cocoa Beach, FL, but they weren’t interested.  They just wanted to be driven around the property, after being poured who-knows-how-many wines.  And that’s what bothers me: wine not being seen for what it is– energy, effort, ideas, expression from the Earth.. it’s not just alive, it’s voice, it’s culture, history, an encompassing magnet.

 

My next run will be on the trail Dad and I today walked.  Was thrilled that we ran a little on that straightaway, after the first significant incline.  Can’t remember the last time Dad and I jogged together.  His words make me think about my intrinsic intent.. what I’m meant to do, what I’m “built” to do.  I already know.. I’m intended to write.  So in that reality, how much of the current currency should I tolerate?  When to I enact Pangea, and swim in a more separatist sinew?

 

(3/21/14)

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Back from wine mission, sipping wine, here in kitchen’s nook.  Another day of 3PAGES.  So the novel’s approaching.  Five days from now, I’ll be back in class, and I’m more than “glad”.  Tomorrow in tasting Room– or no, in reserve room.  Lucky bloody me.  I’ll make material from it, surely.  Tomorrow night, I’m in house alone.  So that means, WRITING.  Tomorrow’s to be an early morning, with Alice’s car needing repairs, or some kind of checkup.  So no writing, less I wake with monstrous promptness, 5AM or before.  But I have the night, that much is known.  I plan to order in a ridiculously fine meal, and open an equally offensive wine.  What?  I’m thinking…  A Pinot?  Yes.  OR no.  Maybe one of my AV Cabs.  I’ll decide when I’ve decided.  So happy I came in under budget with today’s Napa mission.  Tomorrow night has to be monumental with its demonstrative progress.  I’ll be printing, writing, wining, thinking, LIVING.  And I’m sure the walk with Dad, in Annadel’s Park, will catapult my ideas into some beneficial sphere, I’m sure.  Our discussions always do.  And walking in the woods, even writing by it as I many times do in the morning, dashes onto pages with an antagonizing grind.  Makes me think of the walks that I took with Uncle Stevie, when I was young, much younger, in the 3 Sisters Forest by his and Auntie Linda’s house.  Seems like so long ago, when Katie and I would play baseball in that area surrounded by tall trees.. we had bases set up with scary precision, believing we’d created our own ballpark…  But those days, well past.  And that’s Time.  And all I can do is write.  Enough to make me want to write, sip more.  Tomorrow night, I wage the most vicious assault on Time I’eve ever mustered.  I’ll be a weaponized mustard.. gaseous, disabling its abilities– Tomorrow night, I’ll be ageless, timeless, invincible.  Much like I feel right now, in this nook, on this teetering table, even with my wallet under the leg to my immediate left, the four 1 dollar bills, right, wagging one way, another, like there’re gusts in this corner of our condo’s first floor.  Think I have one more glass of my cuvée left.  C——, on the mind, in sight.  I see her, tasting as we did today, contemplative, thinking of how she wants her wines to taste in comparison.  She was with me today, taking more notes than her author.  (3/19/14)

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1st day of 100.  3PAGES of FICTION.  In kitchen’s nook, need another glass, one bastardly full of Chardonnay.  Why am I drinking Chard again?  OH yeah, I opened it last night.  No class tomorrow.  And what I’ll be doing, taking car to dealership, then going to Sonoma’s ‘Train Town’, I think it’s called, for a family day.  Tonight at dinner, at Boudin, with Mom, Dad, Katie.. he was so vocal, responsive, observant.  More than enough material.

Exhausted from day.  Karen and I challenged each other to pull in $40 each, from tips.  What we netted: 39.50.  We both laughed.  What else can you do in “the industry”?

Should write the students a letter, but I’m in no shape at present.  Can’t wait to be in the library, studying, gathering information on my authors.  This nightcap of Chardonnay.. speaking to me in atmospheric scenic soars.  I’m distracted by all in the voice of this ’12 Sonoma Valley Burgundy.. so calm but confident, subtle yet stern.. justifiably razzing.  I don’t have any objective for this session, but to write.  And isn’t that what the truest of writing is?

Hope I wake early tomorrow as I did this morning, but earlier.  Before 5a.  I’ll write the letter then.  When I’m quite tired, but just awake enough.

And the fridge stops humming.  So the quiet down here is dangerous.  As if I type to tenaciously, I wake my son, or run risk of.  Only a couple sips left of this 11-month, 60% New French Oak-aged white Burgundy.  And later this week, when I have a night to self, I’ll brew coffee, for Self into liveliness till harsh hours.  This novel’s getting completed.  Not a negotiable station, just know.  And now, the wine truly speaks to me.  But I’ll outrun it, keep writing.  Today, that reserve room, the club members with their demands, especially that one ‘industry club member’, so funny, her own stiffening.  Who did she think she was?  I just have to laugh…  It’s wine, get a grip.

 

(3/16/14)

Categories: SPRING2014 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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