How many words I produced yesterday.  All to the novel–I mean, BOOK.  Why do I keep calling it a “novel?” Anyway, I somewhat have uneasy nerves about yesterday’s session, as they were simply typed in a book project.  Don’t worry, I have every intention of finishing.  I’m just stating, it won’t be read for a while.  It, yesterday’s session, is not a standalone piece.  There’s a chance, familiar with my project habits-

Just relocated to my usual table.  Was at a small circle in the shop’s aft region.  With no outlet near.  Anyway, I was just tackling that yesterday’s effort, all of it, tossed into a book.  A project that I have projected taking two months, from 2/1/12, to finish.  The standalone, product of the consciousness stream, is written, done, released.  So, today, that’s what I do.  And, sipping a mocha, no stale musty coffee.  The creepy character from a couple days ago sits in front of me, at one of the tall tables, right leg crossed over left, bouncing.  Just surveying.  He looks in my direction every few seconds or so, but I’m focused on screen, session.  So glad I’m drinking a mocha and not some palate penetrating coffee.  Need music.  Phones in ear, with silence.  No good.

Watched some footage of 2Pac last night, analyzing his artistic habits, obsessive work ethic.  He was known to do 3 songs a day, many times more.  Finishing albums in 3 weeks, at most.  That need be my practice, finally.  Again, I’m going to finish this book, but it’s to be written on side, not a consuming focus.  Just a project.  The 4/1 deadline is still very much in place, mind you.  Okay, music please…

Returning to my Wine Bar.  Have a meeting at a winery later, 4:15p.  Hope to do some tasting, jot some notes, especially whoso’s focus varietals.  Not looking to be the winemaker that produces dozens of different varietals.  I’ll stick to 3-5 wine types throughout my winemaking tenure, which I plan to have last my whole life.  [Creepy Character relocated, to the cushioned seat on the store’s bow, where he was the other day.]  Need to sip some wine, write about the profile I meet.  Get into the wine’s voice, intentions, visions.  If wine is truly alive, it possesses these attributes.  With each sip, keeping my winemaking, this new vintage upon Katie and I, in mind.  Yes, I do want MY own label, but I’ll always want Katie there.  And if she can’t be in my lab all the time, then I’ll deliver samples, contact her while she’s away, offsite.  Not sure I can do this without her.  And I’m fine with that.  I want her there, as much as plausible.

Time, 12:08p.  Wanted my clock-in time to be 12p, like an early Lit Lunch when at the box, in Napa’s downtown.  Think I arrived here at 11:48a.  Much more composed today, knowing I’m not under a word count fist.  And to be honest, I’m looking to abandon any stock in word count, completely.  Pages are what matter, as Updike shot for 3 pages, not 1896, 2000, or 1000 words.  I want standalone pieces, leaving the table, chair, with something to market, sell.  A piece.  Art.  Writing.  From me.

Wine.  Rather, winemaking.  All I’m thinking about.  With Katie away on a business trip, forced to wait.  The one part I HATE about this taste-tangled travail.  While waiting, I can taste, read, write.  So all results even.  Coffee cave, crowded.  Yesterday, or last night really, finished a 26-line verse.  That’s what I mean when I say standalone.  I wrote it.  It’s done.  Ready to read, perform.  Don’t have time to priority months, years to a single project.  In the footage I watched of Mr. Shakur, he said to people around him, in a studio, that he/they didn’t have the time or luxury to spend all night on 1 song.  Just speaking to me, presently, with my place in life, what I have occurring, everything.  Again, I’m  not abandoning the book, I just need to produce more singular writings, sovereign sessions.  Boost my inventory, as it were.  And my winemaking steps, learning process will give me more material than I can handle.  I’m sure.

Wish you could see me now, reader.  At my table.  No junk around me.  Mocha, right.  Laptop, center.  Phone, left (which could be, should be stuffed into the bag; I don’t want to be bothered, ever, when WRITING).  Peaceful.  And I didn’t have this peace about me when Lunching Literarily on 1st & Main, with knowledge of having to return to that office, that box.  This is a Mike that even I have never known, and I’m relieved to meet him.

And, I hit a wall.  Just focus on the wine, I tell mySelf.  Cabernet, Syrah, Sauv Blanc.  That Nebbiolo at Kaz.  What wine means.  Used to say it’s an occasion, and I still to, occasionally.  But it brings levels of thought that I never really appreciated.  and not just with its Literary qualities.  Wine is social, its savory solitude.  Wine is individuality, identity.  Not status.  It’s Art, it’s time, it’s Human.  Wine involves, almost demands, a personal connection.  I know people that say, with definite inarguable and immovable definition, that they don’t like Chardonnay, or Pinot, or Merlot.  And that’s fine, that’s there palate.  Until they find one they like.  Wine surprises us, gifts us.  That, I’ll always see as incredible.  That something in a bottle, a beverage really, can do that to so many.

Wine = LOVE.

At least to me.  That’s why I pair it with Literature, my first love, so much.  Want positivity around me, always from now on.  And, now that I’m free, no longer boxed, with a polluted pulse, now with actual wine elements all around me, OUTSIDE, how temperate/easy that’ll be.  Wonder if there’s a reading tonight, at North Light.  Just checked, there is.  Too rushed.  Want to plan a routine.  I’ll plan to read within the next couple weeks.  Tonight, also, a run.  Needed.

Wine, rime; redesign my time …

The poetry, spontaneous standalone verse will never leave my circulation.  If wine is bottled poetry, and I’m a bottled ox, there should only be more scribbled sheets, a massive pouring of pulse.  Clocking out at 2p, as usual.  13 min, with an extra hour left.  So relieved to finally see freely.  Autonomous, charging at goals like an aggravated hippopotamus.  Wine, Literature; my spine, fixed in a stir … Sips