No photos in tonight’s entry. Why? ‘Cause I just want to write. No social media, no visual, just the lines, sentiments. Jack on my right, watching me type. Just waved at him, but he looks quite bored. Today in AV, 2 tours. Thought many times about a book, the upstairs cash. The Capote movie still in this monster’s interior. While sipping this ’09 Cab, I just try to see my book on shelves. And it’s a book I’ve always wanted, not a blog. I have one of those. Well, two. Three, if you count mikeslognoblog. Need binded throws. No more wish-listing. Another glass…
My sister, about to go on road for work. I’m envious on a motivating level. If I were her, I’d be writing each night in that hotel Room, detailing each frame in my lark’s film. She’ll be in transit for 2 weeks, or at least that’s what I thought I heard her say. Just want to be in other areas, ones far, writing. And my book, coming with me, whichever one on which I’m working.
Watching little Kerouac sleep. And I think of what that guest last week, think it was last week, said about one day your child’ll be too old to hold. A horrible thought, as I love little Jackie right now, his involuntary arm lifts; his smile, coos, astonishment glares. But I know he has to age, just like wines from any AVA, of any varietal. Now, to ’09 Merlot, Alexander Valley. Why am I so obsessed with that zone, now? Because I work there, most likely. And he’s awake, my little one. He groans, as if upset with my connection to this monster laptop device. I don’t blame him. I’m unnerved, too. I stop in sips, to stare at his space.
10:42pm. Much too late to have poured this much Merlot. But I’ll be fine, as I’m armed with caffeine downstairs. Plus I plan on a visit to the coffee brothel. Need that morning mocha like I need money for Life overhead. But do I have enough for a visit before payday on the 20th? Hope so. Let me check the German mug Mom and Dad gave me, where I keep coin. Just brought it out of the compartment on the desk’s left. Brought out the Plath entry collection, too. Miss her face on the cover. She’s so recherché, demanding in her subtleties. The other day, someone asked me about Plath vs. Kelly. I thought it an insulting probe, so I brought up wine in the interchange, of course. What else would I use to divert. The Petite Sirah in this Merlot, I think only like 8 or 9%, speaking with more force. And as I watch the Capote film, with Mr. Hoffman, my book assumes its own character. “You need to focus, Mr. Madigan.” I appreciate the respect it voices, but I’m unfamiliar with its voice, so I try to ignore, resign to poetic flexes in my Comp Book. Songs wave exotically. My apathy stammers. [4/17/12]