inoculated into

1:06am.  Still awake, writing.  Going for 2am.  Well, I’m justing letting anyone actually reading that I COULD write for another hour.  But, more than likely won’t.  And I shouldn’t, really.  Need to save some fluidity for the before-work-writing.  At the side of a coffee cup.  Made an ATM withdrawal today, put some into writing stash.  Wonder how much is in there, although it doesn’t really make a difference as I don’t plan on touching it anyway; not spending any money to have my art noticed; one reason I’m not funding/going forward with the chapbook, putting more blood into this “blog.”

Already nearing 1000 words.  How is that possible?  But, more crucially, 3 pieces.  For recital, reading, performance.  Can I perform prose?  If I want to.  If you’d listen.  Would you?  Could use another glass of that ’09 Cuvée I was sipping earlier.  It’d wake me up.  Or least tilt my mental, usefully, dutifully.  Sleep sounding tasty.

Hope I dream to Paris.  Or Belize, or somewhere else I’ve never.  I’ll let you know when back consciousness’ corner.

9:29am.  Wishing I would have tried for 2am.  Could that be qualified as “surrender?” Not letting my Self think that way.  Rocking little Jack’s bassinet with my right foot while typing.  Makes for an odd rhythm [finally spelled “rhythm” right for once on 1st try, there.]  In tasting Room in just over an hour, and I couldn’t be more ready to write absolutely every detail that greets me.  Notes, only.  Going to make an angry effort to avoid sentences.  Time, more than simply “precious” with my life’s current stage set.  Mr. Little Kerouac requires a daunting portion of my hours, so it’s difficult to write in extended sittings.  Which is fine, as I wanted to write shorter, more stream-of-consciousness adhering pieces anyway.  The standalone’s, saving me, getting me closer to the road.  Speaking of Kerouac and roads, travels, writings, intellectualism, poetry, much else, I’m going to bring Kerouac’s novel with me to work.  Not sure I’ll read any, have a chance to, but I’m making mySelf bring it.  Viewing the act of carrying it to the winery a victory.  Many warned that a child would disrupt my writing habits.  Constrict, cripple, confine them.  Not at all, trust me.  I’m more focused, strategic, confident with my pages.  I’m fine with not completing a novel anytime sure, with this poet/songwriter-like approach to my work; writing in the moment, riding the consciousness river, wherever it leads.  The not-knowing’s the boon for the material.  (9:45am)

6:02pm.  Back home from tasting Room.  Thick crowds, all ready for wine to keep them warm in rain’s return.  Outside, an swarm of police officers, helicopter combing skies overhead.  Makes me think of another genre.  But, don’t have time, now.  Maybe later, when I can afford the time.  Just called SRPD, they told me someone thieved a car, ran from squad cars.  Weak plot, can’t write that.  Want to write a murder mystery, something Basic Instinct-reminiscent.  Rain, still in swing.  So I write with little Kerouac being rocked in his little bed by my right foot again.

Tonight’s wine, the remainder of the ’09 Cuvée from last night.  And more spoken word.  More song, rhyme, cubist writing.  Should do something with the notes I took today in the wine Room, all the dialogue lines from guests, and a couple from mySelf–on I voiced about Cabernet Franc being the crotchety old man of Bordeaux varietals.  No profound, certainly.  But memorable, for me.  Time to revisit that ’09 cuvée.  Sips needed.

My days extended, in ways so blended; see strays ascended.

Precipitation in my station. [3/24/12]

3/26/12 – No typing on 3/25.  But, I did write yesterday, on the side of Chalk Hill Road, before AV shift.  Finally.  Had always wanted to do so, and in the painting-perfect AVA.  Wrote two short standalone’s in my car.  Will I post them here?  No plans, now.  And I hate that word, “post.” So digital, inartistic.  Looking in my phone, at all the pictures, makes me feel behind on writing, like I need to write following the captured stills.  And in the “blogosphere,” posts that don’t have at least 1 visual aid receive criticism quicker than entries bringing solely text.  But that’s not Literary, picture-depended writing, of any kind.  I don’t write for the photographs.  In fact, I want to reduce the presence to pictures in this “blog.”  I want more writing here, from me.  And there will be.  And if anyone thinks there’s too much, then stop reading.  I won’t be bothered, believe me.

Already over 500 words this morning, after writing a rec letter for one of my favorite students, Sarah H.  She, along with the Stanford Law student from Saturday, atop several other moments recently, have me redirecting towards the classRoom, studies, the Ph.D. notions.  Was thinking this morning, I really only want the doctorate for mySelf.  Not for “professional development,” really.  I don’t need it to teach.  Well, I do if I want to be at the University level.  But it doesn’t matter, all this entertainment, deconstruction.  I want to be a student again–reading, taking notes, studying.  Investigating a couple programs, including Stanford’s.  I know what you’re thinking, skeptic, “Mike, it’s very competitive, and very expensive.” Thank you, I know.  But that won’t stop me from thinking, applying, envisioning.  And who’s to say I won’t get in?  My writing, if anything, will get me in.  Revisiting all these ideas, the books on my desk, remembering my days at CSUEB (grad school), makes certain things seem so minor.  Notably, the wine industry’s inconsistencies, contradictions, laughable self-elevation.  Ending there.  Not worth characters on page.

In writing my letter for Sarah, I thought about all the interactions I had with her class, especially with 1984, Orwell’s message, predictions.  Want to return to that world.  That’s my true world–thought, writing, ideas exchange, nothing technology-centered.  Nothing chemically-woven, bottled.  All free.  This is me.

11:40am.  Wildly caffeinated, writing like the castle crumbles, listening to Amaru, struggling to emulate his pace, ethic.  Heard wind sneaking through a non-visible opening in the window’s encasing.  Want some air, atmosphere, characters.  Need to find my Lewis Carroll texts, for the writing sample.  Don’t want to rewrite my M.A. thesis.  Going to produce a new argument, but parallel to what I submitted before graduation.  Tired, probably from the wines tasted last night.  Mom made these delicatessen sliders, brought over an ’08 Syrah (can’t remember winery, but the AVA was Paso Robles) with Dad.  I brought some wines home for tasting, from Lancaster of course.  09 Merlot, 09 Pinot, 08 Blend, and an 08 Estate Cab.  Oh, and that 2010 S-Blanc.  This caffeine’s curing, partially.  Tonight, no grapes.