Foggy this morning. A car on each side of my XA. Ducks wading in directions not-at-all planned, in the at my 12. May have found a new writing spot for mySelf. Was going to entrench this AM’s writing at the coffee shop where I bought my morning mocha. But, now I say thankfully, all seats taken. To my left, view obstructed by the Mercedez SUV next me, a house, possibly for boat rentals, paddle boats. The ducks disperse, like my concentration. Just heard Canadian geese. No visual, though. There’s a peace to this writing arrangement that I’ve never before tasted. Funny thinking about where I was writing a week ago, this time of day, versus now. The Autonomy, addictive. My new preferred poison. A lady walks her dog toward the lake. Stops at one of the picnic tables, has the attentive golden retriever hop onto the splintered surface. She waits for her friend, pulling a black lab. The golden hops down, greets its friend with gentle, cautious, nose touches, comforting pats. All, humans and K9, set to have a relaxed day, starting with their fog walk by the lake.
Before I switch to pen to paper, felt the need to warm up with an entry. Meeting at AV Winery at 1p. Should go till about 3p I’m thinking I was told. This morning’s mocha, nothing like the Roasting Company’s. Going to miss that part of my day, the Literary Lunches on 1st & Main. But that’s about all I’ll miss from that chapter and sector. As a couple mallards paddle towards the docks, I realize I don’t have their meandering luxury. Have to stay focused. Especially now. No wine tasting today. None. No SB, Syrah, Cab, Rhônes. Nothing. Lots of runners, here in Howarth Park. Reminding me I need to step at some point today. My run on Sunday, compromised by the little wine I sipped at Kaz. Want to see how long I can distance Self from wine, tangibly. I’ll write about it, obviously, as it’s universally Literary, artistically formatted. Just not sip. Going to test mySelf. Change character, for the writing, for my characters.
So now, pen2paper. The novel. Have those printed pages next to me, in my black bag. Don’t want to edit too much, or make obnoxious exponential additions. Want it to stand like an unfiltered wine, barely oaked/manipulated. I want it representative of its moments; my stream of thought at THAT moment. See the Canadian geese, in the distance, finally. They, more staunch, authoritative in their patterns. Telling me something, with this project, the novel. “Don’t waste time! Any! Not even a halfbreath!” they order. Closing the monster. Jumping from its buttons to ink, line. Autonomy, finally. Free in breeze – bird of prey, frowning down from trees. An author, now in ease. Relaxed in fog grip. Spirit taxed, but I’ve not slipped.
Living from my spoken word, in constant nomadic travel spazzes… Thought. May not work on the novel in a minute. Or will, who knows. Perhaps a new shift. Character working hard, in wine’s surreptitious “industry,” only seeing poetry. In everything. The corks, bottles, pours, characters (coworker, guest), winemaking, vineyard, surrounding natural intricacies. Everything. He puts together some short collections, 35-40 page chapbooks. Sells them, does some readings, gets recognized, he can leave work, give notice so he can finally be noticed.