Disgruntled Diarist

Rain, still swinging at my sphere.  Me, sipping a cast of interesting wines tonight.  Cab, a curious cuvée, and another ’09 Pinot.  But, after 3 tours, I’m almost too tired to type.  Which is disgusting, especially after I write it, see that I just that confessed.  How could I be too tired to write?  Maybe I should just walk away from the keyboard.  Just enjoy my wine.  Can’t hear the rain anymore.  Maybe it’s breaking so I can think more clearly.  The other blog, building as its own brand.  So, again, it gets another extension on its life.  Not going to kill it, ever.  Can’t let mySelf.  And I shouldn’t.  Going to show EVERYONE that I can build my own business, built simply from writing, wine journalism.  IF you could call it “journalism.”

Feel like not that much happened today, aside from work, the AV Cab, ’05, I tasted, eventually took home.  I’ll finish that song from yesterday.  Yes…  First, a couple notes on the ’05, for the other blog, solicit some reaction from readers, then finish my song.  Start another.  I want music back in my day.  Everyday.  And I want that stage.  The travel.  More writing from that travel.  Diaries, diarist fiction.  Kelly’ll be with me.  Can see her now.  She’s painting, listening to rain, a handful of her favorite songs.  Relaxed.  She’s not worried tonight.  Nothing to worry about.  She has time, she has Art.  She has herself.  She has me.

Thinking, for a reason I can’t pin, about Chicago.  Have no idea why.  Another city to add to my list.  Soon, I’m hoping, I can just be road-attached, like Kerouac.  Just write about everything.  In poem, entry.  Now, in this fluttering think stream, I fly to visions of my wine.  MY wine.  Can’t be patient.  How will I ever be a winemaker when I’m this shape of writer?  A mess.  I need another chug of that cuvée.  [3/31/12]


4/1/12.  No jokes from me today.  Not in the mood.  And, frankly, I can’t afford to joke.  Early in AV, but not scheduled till 10.  Drove up here to write on road’s side.  A Literary Lunch in the car, if you’d be kind.  But, I don’t like where I’m presently pulled over, presently.  Going to drive a little more, on 128 towards Jimtown, and see if I find a little docking bay for my filthy XA.  Better find one quick, as gas fades, warning signal fiercely in flash.

8:56am.  Parked right in front of Alexander Valley Vineyards.  Hope they don’t mind.  If anyone questions, I’ll just say I’m a writer/blogger out on assignment.  Won’t tell them I’m also a spoken-word Artist, songwriter.  That might make them suspicious.  4shots in my mocha, typing like I’m not just on fire, but made of fire.  On both of my sides, vineyards, happy to see this AM’s sunny symphonically stroked notes.  As am I, from newing sun.  But I wonder if some of the vines still want more, if they’re greedy.  Also wonder if this is what Kerouac felt when on the road, if he saw anything like this.  Should I get out and take some pictures?  No, the writing’s enough, Kelly would say.  Intense light greens, gentle yellows, making tourists stop to snap stills.  Bud break, about to take stage.

Keeping mySelf to 300 words, typed in this pullover Lit Lunch.  Why?  Want more song, more ink on paper.  What will I do with it?  Eventually type it.  Print, perform.  Last night’s wines, still in mind, especially that ’05 that just lacked vigor.  Feel sorry for the bottle.  But my expectations were too high, so it didn’t have a chance either way.  Feel like this is something of which wine consumers need be more mindful.  Just noticed I’m already over 300.  How that happened?  Caffeine.  And I know where this page is going, so it won’t be sent to some stack, some box in my Room’s closet.  Glad to have escaped from that habit.  And the entries to come from touring with my writings, songs, poems, will only build in their richness, appreciate like AV Cabernets.  Looking at these vines, I think of a writer before writing a novel, not knowing what she’s going to write.  She knows she has to write something; To eat, pay bills, be mobile, buy birthday gifts.  But she has no idea what to write.  She has to start writing.  But what?  She sips wine, but it only slows her.  She needs focus, an angry drive.  She puts the Chardonnay back in the fridge.  She looks at her current journal, then its predecessor.  No electricity, no connection, nothing salable.  She hated that she HAD to write something, something to sell.  She wanted to want to write another novel.


Book due.  I don’t know what to do.  So, I’ll just be the writer with a blank page.  And soon, a blank account.  Haven’t heard from my agent in over a week.  Think he hates me.  Don’t want to give him another expected female-honed thematic sheet stack.  That’s not writing, I don’t think anymore.  But I’m under contract, he’ll say, remind me like I don’t know.  Should I go for a walk?  What would that do?  I wouldn’t have to look at this page anymore.  Done.  Walking.  In a minute.


This isn’t Kelly.  It’s another character.  Successfully artistic, under pressure.  She doesn’t like how her efforts are made mechanical, turned into merchandise, sellable items.  She’s disgusted, truly.  But just as she doesn’t know what to write for her survival, I don’t know how to write her, or if I even should, for mine.  To pen & paper…

11:26pm.  At home.  Tired.  2 tours.  Finished last of Pinot.  Taking car in, morrow.  No sleeping in, on day off.  Something wrong with that.  Hate both blogs, and I hate my self for looking to see if a “post” was “liked” by some idiot I don’t even know.  What happened to actual pages?  Only 3 minutes left for self, tonight.  At least I finished the spoken word song, finally.  Wrote a sonnet, for stage.  Need to start touring, traveling.  Especially after talking to my last tour, how they went to Italy, Switzerland, how the wines were different, entrancing in their dimensions.  Want the road.  Air.  Water, even rough seas.  My writing needs oddity, illusionary mundaneness.