2/25/2012, a day attempting to just spew words, whirl them into some pastry-like writes. Literary page bites. Wanted 3 completed standalone’s, but the clock me caught. Tomorrow, behind bottles. But I’m not sipping. Had only two Racer 5’s tonight, more than an hour apart from each other, and didn’t agree with the ripples they left. Interesting development with my character, one loving wine but hastily growing further from its consumption. Will only make me a more cunning, predator-like penman. Especially as a poet, with the spoken word.
2/26/2012. My frustrations with wine’s industry, driven to beneficially focusing climax. It’s not anger, nor emotion. But logical frustration, provoked grievances. Winery ownership, management, continuously and purposely underpaying employees, prospective employees. But their raises, profit sharings, bonuses are always seen, surely. Not even “surely.” It’s known. But I’m moving on. They, those governing monsters, don’t deserve my sentences. And frankly, they won’t like the result if my writing targets them, any of them. I’m Literary, not one hoping for acceptance or any approval from this “industry.” An artist extremist, only concerned with the project’s process. But wine, always on my thought roster, in my priority pot. Speaking of which, today at Kaz, I “revisited” [as guests will always say when they want to re-taste a wine] the 2007 Nebbiolo. Nice features, nose end of its palate song. Can’t believe how much it’s changed from the last time I sipped, which was before Jack was born. Can’t believe how much he’s changed, Sir Jack, in just 11 days of life. Have to capture all his moments with page, whether released or not.
Did a little writing today, but not much, in my little notebook. The first scribble, a dialogue line from when I was in line at Starbucks. Yes I had a mocha, with some petite vanilla scones. Anyway, an older man, carrying a dark brown cane with quiet metallic wave pattern, said to the barista, quite intently, pointing, shaking his left index finger, “I want that, that morning bun.” Had to think of where I’ll be at his age, what I’ll be ordering, what I’ll be writing. Where Boss (again, that’s Jack) will be. The remainder of my notes entail details of the tasting Room, me setting up, listening to some Wine Bar beats, how they sent me to traveling fantasies. “Book-selling adventures,” I wrote, specifically. Different hotel Room styles, me writing in them at night, sipping various varietals, mostly Syrah for some reason. Also wrote about how I, once more, found mySelf perusing graduate programs. Stanford, USF, Berkley… Should I go after another degree, I asked Self. “No. No time,” I reasoned in my notes. When I can afford such elevated matriculation, I will go back. I’ll write my way back there, to the student’s seat.
So cold in the tasting Room. Made me think of walks I used to take in Sunriver, in the winter, around the golf course, the snowshoeing hike we took in ’09 on Mt. Bachelor. Thinking of that place in Central Oregon becalms my barbaric bravado, makes me forget about my petty qualms with an even more insignificant bottle-slinging system. Wrote the other day about writing retreats, how rewarding it would be for my projects, and just me as a Creative Human Being. One in a place like Sunriver… Life-re-sculpting. Nothing electronic, technological. No “luxuries.” Just pen, paper. Yes, that means no little monster laptop. Artistic Exile.
11:07pm. And I’m calm, ending this session before some ink & page. Frankly, I’m not in the mood for this device. Surprised I’ve typed as much as I have. How can a writer be Literary/Artistic if he writes solely with a device and not ever utensil, canvas? That’d be like a winemaker claiming they “let the terroir speak” when they infuse copious chemicals, over-oak, and shift their wine’s stance conveniently for marketability. That’s when wine stops persisting artfully, can no longer be claimed to be expressive, terroir representative–certainly not artistic, “crafted” [a word often conveniently infused in wine’s world] from any artisan winemaker. More like a serum-slurping grape serpent, following towering string-yanking leviathans. Sipping water, off to a retreat. Well, I’ll write mySelf to one… Sip, sip.