Again deliberated ending the other blog.  And I meditated quite extensively on its execution.  But, I decided to let it stay alive, be a more visual blog, with more photo and video presence.  Today, elevated temps in Alexander Valley.  Put in vacation mode, making travel ever more appealing, especially since I overheard the winemaker tell others over the phone how he’d be gone all next week, returning for bottling of a certain wine, then leaving again for three weeks.  And my sisters, in her travels…  I need the road, just as London’s characters did.  Right now, sipping an ’08 Cabernet, Alexander Valley.  Producer, completely unimportant.  Percentages, also irrelevant (yes, it’s blended).  If people have a problem with that tone, sentence sack, just remember I’m an Artist, a nomadic diarist scribe, completely disinterested in approval.

Wrote a poem today.  Or rather, finished one.  Again I’m thinking of the other blog site.  What is it doing for me?  And what do I want to be known as?  A “wine blogger” [whatever that is], sales/marketing clown?  OR, an Artist, one sovereign, completely in control of his vessel, its voyage, dependent only on Self?  You know me, you know what I’d say.  But that’s not warrant enough to kill 1StopWineBlogShop.  You know, I thought of 1Stop’s concept while working at the box.  In the morning, walking from my car to Their whorish office, just as I was done crossing that little bridge, stomping down those three steps.  Thinking that way, with Them in mind, people who in no way stand sincerely passionate in wine, only fancying material, money, push me to fantasies of brutally murdering my own blog.  But no.  I won’t let Them follow me further.  This ’08, telling me to remember how in-control I am as an Artist.  These pages belong to ME.  Not Them.  Not anyone.  Not even to Wine.  Not to any inspiring subject.  They’re mine.  Mine.  The purveying penman’s.

How do I want little Jack to see his father.  That’s what’s constantly rushing through my consciousness avenues.  I want him to see me as a commander of Self.  One who has no strings.  A Creator.  An Artist.  Like my brother Kaz said, “Be true to yourSelf.” I want Little London to see me as one practicing such cerebral sensibility.  Now, downloading a video for this other blog…  So, while I wait, I refuse to stress.  Just going to sip, scribble.  A little tipsy typing, for me.  No work tomorrow, but I vow to wake earlier than ever.  So early it’ll physically pain this writer.  That’s what I want.  I want real sacrifice as a scribe.  IF it’s real, it’s really real.  No falsification.  Especially with such a beautiful wine in my glass.  Can’t appreciate the elixir’s shade, as the glass itself is red.  All my “normal” or “professional” glasses are in the dish washer.  Should have better prepared for this session.

This glass, my last for night.  Hoping to produce something that’ll take me to a final page, as I thought this morning, as soon as I woke.  I honestly opened my eyes, say early sun, in its tired voice, sky position, through partially parted blinds, thinking of “last page, last page…” As in, a finish line.  For a book.  Knowing I’ll be done with something, at some point.  Then, begin writing the next book.  Open another bottle of Sonoma County Cabernet…

Typing till this page’s last drop of space.  That’s my immediate finish line.  The video I’m uploading [hate that term, so tech twisted], so slow.  Mr. Capote didn’t have to deal with this nonsense.  Blogging, “social” media, other vile immediacies.  Thinking of tomorrow’s morning coffee, the following verse.  And that’s all I’m allowing my Self to write.  Poetry, strictly, from me, candidly; not at all, or maybe exclusively, slurringly.  [4/19/12]