1/28 – 1/29

Something, Finally Poured into My Glass

At lunch a little early today.  Left at 11:45.  Now, clocking shoving 11:55AM at my eyes.  Had an idea earlier that may produce some funds from this writing, quick.  Won’t write it down as my last aim is to jinx it.  Think that may be part of my stump with writing, many times.  I write it down, instead of just doing it.  Outside, disgustingly gorgeous.  No clouds, crisp air surrounding senses.  Shakingly lovely.  Pinot, on the mind, after Gabby the barista mentioned it.  May do some tasting tomorrow with Professor Kate, my winemaking sis.  We’ll see.  Know she’s busy, with her new responsibilities.  Beautiful, this second mocha.  Planning to have it be the last, because of this new Idea.  Needs every penny I can allocate.

Wine, supposed to be positive, invigorating.  So, no more moods for this artist.  None.  Done.  Those Picasso quotes I viewed yesterday at my desk, still singing to me.  Mr. Pablo, inspiring in his assurance, confidence.  He just did, never questioned if he could.  Wondering if my studio, when I do finally have it–or “office,” in “real world” speak–should be here in downtown Napa.  Love the motion, the constancy of characters.  In front of me now, two young ladies, talking, quite intently.  The one on the left, had a black laptop, open to some illustration.  But she’s not distracted, at all.  Quite passionate in the dialogue with her acquaintance.  Since I’m sitting up against the bean bar, I set my mocha on its crowded surface.  A man, with his newspaper, does the crossword maze, or puzzle, whatever.  He just left, but I don’t have time surplus, and I’m altogether comfortable.  Especially with this song.  A trip hop beat, coupled with subtle low string bass plucks, echoing wooden ticks, also low.  And, an accordion that takes me back to Paris.  My city don’t ever want her to forget about me.  One of my coworkers this morning spoke to a client who was on vacation in Paris, I hear her say.  Need to get traveling with these pages, my SELF publications, so I can write more.  Sell more.  Then , get back on the plane.  I want hotels, view, strange menus of what they’ll room- service to you.  You know my wishes.  This idea bought my ticket this morning.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Of course,” it said, transmogrifying into paragraph 1.

1/28/12, Friday


Saturday, After

Finally free.  First order, consolidate.  Writing for Life, now.  No humor, fantasy, or dream-like still to it.  I’m survival writing.  1Stop, more than likely will be stopped.  Was at the AV Winery today.  The wines there, I’ll never get tired of them, ever.  Tasted a ’98 Bordeaux Blend, and a 2007 Sonoma Coast Pinot that sent me to visions, instantly.  I saw mySelf in that hotel Room again, on an overnight, enjoying a bottle to mySelf, writing about my travels.  I also saw my sister and I, making wine together, for decades.  All this possible, closer now with removed noose.

Getting late.  Time, 11:40p.  Will be taking the legal sheets to the tasting Room.  Ugh, hate my writing right now.  Feel bad for you, reader.  But, I’m going to keep typing till I’m into tomorrow.  The cave today, its echoes echoing in my sight, other senses.  Should have taken a notebook with me.  Would love to just put ink to line for a couple hours in that darkened cylindrical auditorium.  But even if I would have taken materials with me today, I wouldn’t have had any time to note images around me, or characters, the theateresque lighting.  Too busy, which I love.  Pouring the wine, setting setups for other wine lovers.  And the wine.  Can’t get it off my palate, my thinking’s tides.  Monday, have to run a couple errands, one of which is stopping at a coffee shop and writing.  Pen to paper, for the novel.  My bloody book.  Kelly, my character, all her dimensions, ghostly shifts, urging me to recognize the gravity of this unexpected liberty.  Re-diagnose.

Wine, all its stories, following me on my drive this morning.  Thought of angles journalistic, fictional, non-fiction.  Wine, as I discussed with one of the employees, is completely Literary, begging art, as its wrapped in expression.  The views from that second floor, just behind her, distracting me.  Even with the vines in their dormancy.  Clock, bullying me with 12:04.  Fine.  Surrender.



MICHELLE:  So this Cab was in French Oak for about twenty-two months-

GUEST:  Is it really from France?  Who goes to get it from France?  I’ve been to Paris.


MICHELLE:  They are from France.  We use mostly New French Oak with this one-

GUEST:  Can I ask you a question, please?


Guest looks at Michelle, like she wasn’t telling him the truth.

GUEST:  I forgot.  You were saying…


So yes, I’m thinking 1Stop has to halt.  My focus, has to be singular.  Literary, writing.  BOOKS.  Tomorrow, all dialogue.  I’m hoping the most odd of odd guests come in.  I need them.  I need the ones that ask crazy questions, arrive diagonally drunk.  I want the unruly, my fiction does.  Without them, more like them, I see struggle for my pages.  Can’t afford that.  Not now.  Have to get up early, do some writing.  Sleeping…  Now.

1/29/12, Saturday