7:46am. Woke exactly one hour, forty-six minutes ago. Didn’t rise, even though I was awake, mind quite wide. Another blunder. But, I did, finally, last night and this morning, begin reading my Kerouac book. From the intro alone, I’m thinking… “Writing, a book, novel, over making wine, all the time.” Can’t go forward with this SB, or any winemaking for a while, till the writing’s solid, stable. Review of On the Road, from the NY Times [only my favorite publications on planet, the one in which I hope someday to be reviewed so encouragingly] alone is enough to get me typing faster, taking more notes of what’s around me. For BOOKS’ sakes. Speaking of little notepads, I need a new one. Will get one from Safeway before or after my mocha rescue.
BOOK1’s folder stares back at me, from upper-right zone of laptop, what’s not covered by this “doc.” Finding those pages, synced with this book, its ever-so-early day wave, persona jolt, can’t be simple happenstance. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since my alarm woke me from that dream where someone I knew [in dream itself] had a dog that gave birth to a village’s worth of pups. One had to be put down, I remember. Can’t un-puzzle the message of these sleep visions, but maybe it’s meant to be sorted out by today’s notes, in a new pad. 7:54am, better be “responsible,” motion towards bag packing, eventual door. Till I write later, too much later… What I should be doing is just relocating to a café.
10:28pm. Had a great tour today with some members, and their friends from Salem, Oregon. All day today, Kerouac on my mind. Yes, my son Jack. But also the presently addressed Jack. The introduction, in my version of On the Road, addresses his three week typing rush, to finish his novel. I find, then, that Mr. Capote responded with his typing vs. writing comment. “That isn’t writing, it’s typing,” something to this slant, he said in hissing address of JK’s work. I never knew this line was directed at Kerouac. I admired it so much, prior. Now, I angrily disagree. Don’t mistake, I love Mr. Capote’s work, his persistent prose, tone, innovation (especially with Cold Blood). But, I feel he’s a bit out of line here. And obviously wrong, with the success of JK’s manuscript, lead in the Beat movement. Tonight, in bed, reading further, past into and into actual authorial content.
No wine tonight, although I was gifted a bottle of ’09 Zin from the visiting club members today. OR was it an ’08? Either way, it’s Zin. Not much of a Zinfandel pursuer, anymore. Used to call mySelf a “Zin guy.” And I hate that kind of language. But I was. Now, I’m all about the Bordeaux. Both white, red.
Will again TRY to wake early tomorrow. Had it, this morning. Somehow woke at 5:58a, I think it was. Fully awake. and I remember thinking I have over an hour of quiet writing, reading of Kerouac’s work, should I rise, leave sheets. But I didn’t. I re-descended. Need more songs, verses in my portfolio, and I truly think the morning to be a more advantageous time to write in such genre. Still dream of stage, when awake, when walking around the terroir in AV.
Suddenly, I find mySelf afraid to read through the pages of BOOK1. And, I find I’m ever more annoyed by the whole blog concept. Jack Kerouac didn’t worry about what image he was going to, or should, “attach” to his entry. Or “post.” He didn’t fret over not posting in the last couple days. He wrote when he wanted, I’m sure. He was an Artist, not some social media/blog/industry troll. I’ll be honest, this whole blogging concept is becoming more and more laughable, ridiculous, rather sad. Why not just write, type, PRINT. On PAPER. At this year’s end, bottledaux ends. I’ll bet you, this installation will be “liked” by a couple. But how many will read it; retain, reflect? How many will ACTIVELY read? With a book, it’s bought, pulled from shelf. Then it’s up to an actual reader to jump into the author’s Art; relate it to his/her Life, experiences. At that point, the writer already knows his/her work is acknowledged, from the sales, reviews, adoring letters. A simple mouse click, flamboyantly insulting. And it’s not Literary. Am I quitting? Not at all. I’m just outlining the presence of this project. And the last word, on the final page, will be written, or TYPED, before 11:59pm, 12/31/12.
Tomorrow, my Friday. Two days off, consecutive, following. Can’t remember the last time I had two days. Telling Self, now, I have to get up tomorrow morning. What time would Kelly suggest? 6? … That means I’d have 1 hr, 20 mins for page. What about the old SCC (Solano Community College) commute time, 5:50am? That’s only ten more minutes. What if I do something crazy, just animatedly wild, for the page? Like, 5:15a, or 5a? I believe the more out-of-character I become, my writing’s profile, presence, prolificism accumulates, gets me closer to a BOOK. So that’s what I’ll do. Not worried about blog appeal anymore, at all. I’m not trying to appeal to publications, anymore. Nor is “the industry” in possession of any sought approval. Already over the “appropriate” word count, amount. Clocking out, already eager to sip coffee. This hoppy beer’s annoying me, and my key pushes. [5/1/12]