Scribbled Serf

1 tour today.  3 girls from Hawaii.  Oahu, I think.  But I don’t want this entry to be like my others.  I want to focus on the symbolic significance and gravity of barrels, and bud break.  Both entail promise.  Found I have $300 in stash, with an extra $100 for petty cash.  Or, “pc” as I noted in Comp Book.  The barrels, housing the winemaker’s creativity, creations.  Eventually, it need be bottled.  Like with my countless notebooks, journals.  Their bottle, for being time–this log.  The blog.  Ox, finally to be bottled.  I have a couple extra dollars to self publish now.  But, I can’t release large mss.  And if I did aim for something heavier, I couldn’t have a large copy run.  So, all to blog.  This is the bottle.  The case.  An eventual library.  And the buds breaking off East Shiloh, in Windsor, telling me I need to break.  It’s time to produce fruit.  And that’s what I’m doing.  My timing, I believe, even after all the vacillation: enviable.  Perfect, practically.  This is ART, Literature, expression; wine-influenced cubist composition, continuously.

Now, sipping ’07 Estate Cab from a winery with which I’m rather familiar.  But before the wine, came one of my preferred brews, Pliny the Elder from Russian River Brewery.  Been stalking the Whole Foods down the street, for their next shipment.  Their Pliny palette arrived two days ago, and tonight I enjoyed my first ever Pliny here in the writer’s cave–  Their palette, showing for my palate, incredibly.  Lovely.  Not convinced I agree with its shape as much as a Racer 5, but it’s close.  Weather in AV, making me want to make up some excuse to leave before 5:30p, write on some road’s side in car, with Wine Bar tunes urging my progress, assuring I did the right thing.

Was picture-happy today, again, in caves.  Love the feel of that structure, built into the hill.  Today, I looked for a reason to stroll up there, into its palms.  Thought of something “productive” to do in there, so I could secure some stills for the blog.  Can’t get over the barrels, how they situate in those excavated walls.  I just took picture atop picture of the French Oak wood, their towering collective character over the ajar writer.  Thought the candles had some indicatory purport, but don’t see them with much awe.  They’re there for effect, an ambience additive.  Not much to do with me, the writing.  I suppose if I looker further, I could force my perception to unveil some token.  But I’m stopping with barrels, breaking buds.  Now is my Now.  May have stated that before–in fact I’m sure I have.  But this morning’s commute, today’s shift, confirmed.  This ’07, opened last night.  It’s throwing the same orders as the wood and Shiloh’s enlivening vines.  More even, in and with this sitting.  Telling me not to even halt for a nanobreath.

Listening to the Wine Bar station.  No, the $300 stash isn’t going toward any collateral.  This writer, never a slave to anyone, much less some demonic sludge plop of a bank.  My brand, ME.  Product: Art; the Writing.  How much overhead does that demand?  Kelly, as a painter, has far more consistent, substantial, expenses than this wandering scribbler.  Another sip…  Realizing, I have cameras, and I only use pics when I’m in the mood to do so.  No need to spend money on another one of those buttoned things.  A mere device.  I buy wholesale, build inventor from brain.  And it’s bottomless.

All, quite set.  Runway clear.  Takeoff.  Write more, with wine at side.  Typing till I touch Maui’s sands, the other islands’.

[4/5/12, Thursday]