A guest said today, speaking of a winemaker, to his friend, when that friend asked me if the percentages in a cuvée were by design, or to target a certain audience; If the winemaker was disappointed by the bottled result in juxtaposition to his initial aim, vision. I heard this, and thought of my works. And how I shouldn’t care. Not anymore. What does appeasing do for the Artist? I’m 13 days from 33. I’m done moving from place to place, aiming to satisfy a certain station. Especially in Wine’s redundant industry.
Wrote eight lines of a verse today, after my only tour, waiting for the glasses to finish their wash. I looked out at the vineyard, a 7 year old block right in front of the tasting Room. I thought of James Joyce’s words at the end of Portrait of the Artist:
“I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile, and cunning.”
If I don’t subscribe, I don’t skip to its syncopation, ever. And this industry, what it expects, what I “should be doing,” how I should be acting, writing… I don’t care, I’m a Writer. Thought today I wanted to open a Wine Bar, or possibly something mirroring Willi’s Wine Bar, or Carpe Diem in Napa. No, I thought, clearing the eight settings in the AV Winery library. Confining everything to the page. I don’t have time to do anything other than write, rhyme; vocalize verses. If there ever was a time beckoning whimsicality, it’s now. I mean, really, what does this Artist have to lose?
The weather today, calm, telling me to Self calm. The wines, evolving into more vocal vixens; They pull attention into their respective arenas like nothing I’ve witnessed. They make me want to write more verse. The poetry’s the only flavor that truly connects me to the Free. Need more. I don’t think it’s possible for me to write/have/read/sip enough. And no, I’m not going to offer that banal, overused offering from Stevenson about wine being “bottled poetry.” But wine, especially the right shape of Cabernet, urges me to be as carefree as a plea’s knee.
Wishing I was in that hotel Room in Paris. That city, still haunting me. What if I could write poetry on all continents, even Antarctica? Go on some expedition, with scientists? Be the only writer on that iced landmass? The prose, I’m thinking, for me: to document results, happenings; journal all thoughts, moments, results of the poetry’s reverberations. In the lines, I’d find my own exile, prove Self quite cunning. Time, 10:33pm. No wine, tonight. Saving Self for my next night alone with Craft, Monday the 21st. No Cab, I’m thinking. Maybe a varietal not on the whoso menu. “Like what, then?” you might ask. Maybe a Merlot, or Pinot. Or how about some odd Rhône, like a Grenache, or Carignane. Not sure I want to do Zin. Something about that varietal has me in revulsion, since my gig at that joke of a winery in Dry Creek, under that muddleheaded maggot mouth ersatz manager.
Come Monday night, I’m aiming to be beautifully drunk. Not merely in wine’s whip, but in a paginated flip. Is it responsible to do so on a “work night?” I’m an Artist, and couldn’t care less. Tomorrow morning, another mocha. Don’t think I’ll ever be able, as an Artist, 2do without them, my idealist sipping stoke set. No worry need, I’ll never have to.
-Wine Cellar/Bar in Home Office/Studio
-New Car, don’t care what
-Freedom from Industry, by way of song, poetry
-Czech Republic visit, right after Paris Return
-Wake whenever I want. Why? Why not
-No more driving
-Mocha, every day, till last. for the Poetry
-15,000 words, standalone/isolated, before 5.29.12