dire diarist wayz

Was playing with Jack downstairs, while Alice was kind enough, as she always is, has been, in making a workday’s lunch for me.  Was distracted, though, as I couldn’t stop thinking about coming up here to write.  Was thinking about the Jack London quotes I read last night in bed, from J. Barleycorn, about him reducing his sleep to 5.5 hours, I think, and eliminating drinking.  Funny, as yesterday morning, and this one, I woke between 6 & 6:15a.  And I can remember telling Self, “Don’t touch those sheets, go sit in the chair, chip away at that project.” Both times, re-sank self [purposely not capitalized here, obviously] in sheets.

Yesterday at Kunde, incredible.  For me as Writer, Wine lover, former professor, Human.  One of my former students visited, not knowing I’d be behind bar.  We revisited 1984 topics, and also about how Bradbury recently passed.  The other night on TV, actually, I saw an interview with Mr. Bradbury, and he said something like “just jump off the cliff, learn to fly on the way down.” Something to that mood mold.  Anyway, on yesterday, was invited to do a live tasting with some wine bloggers, two of which were, ARE, good friends to this diarist.  I’ll type more on yesterday when I get home from work tonight, or try.  But, I have to say, SV Winery’s shaping to be the most rewarding, enriching, stimulating post at a winery for me as a Writer thus far.  It has to be, with that expansive estate, almost 2000 acres…

So, 5.5 hours.  If I go to bed at 11p, or even 11:30p, I’d be up around 4am.  That would give me over 3 hours of typing till Jackie wakes.  And, if I was to continue that for, let’s say, two weeks, doing 1500 words each morning, those five work days/mornings, I’d have 7500 words.  For what?  I don’t know, some project.  Want that book done, already.  Print 1 copy for Self.  Just want it done.

Tempted to bring camera, a real camera, not simply my phone, to work.  But no, the notebook’s better than some device.  Everything around Kunde begs a story, provokes prose, poetry, something slung into diary.

Low on time, I realize looking in the screen’s upper right.  Going to post this, minimally edit.  Might make Self appear careless.  And I am, in sessions like this, or maybe encompassingly.  That might be my style: write now, react later and only if I want.  This mocha, egging me like I’m an impatient child.  Hear little Jack getting restless.  “So am I,” I want to tell him.  That’s why I need this new Jack London routine…  Less sleep, more writing.  That’s what people like me, WRITERS like ME, are willing to do.  We wake, thinking of success from our scribbles; when we shower, driving to work, while at work.  We’re even crazy to the point of thinking about writing while actually writing.  Kelly would understand.  She does.  That’s why I write about her, with admirably demented obsession.  Off to work, to clock.  Returning, London-like.  No wine, only more time for lines.  [8:52am, 6/8/12, Friday]