4:01pm. Chardonnay. Have sipped too much SB, days recent. Much too hot right now for a run. At 7pm, no more typing. And no more prose. Strictly verse, Comp Book. Need to return to travel research. Croatia… Not in much mood to write. Uncomfortable, anxious. Heat, must be. Think musically, Mike. For some reason, the preponderance of formality in this rushed sitting’s bugging me. Capitalization, punctuation; complete sentence, most of them.. so, see lines with metered steps. Timing. Reading, from stage… I wish. But I shouldn’t have to wish, right? Off to Comp Book. And my poetry, only for reading. For my Self’s sanity, stability. The more I write, poetry that is, the more a walking lyric I leap.
Had a frozen yogurt, just a few minutes ago, with little M&M’s. Oh, French Vanilla, in case you were wondering. Wanted to be close to Paris in some way, even if seemingly desperate. Haven’t had one of those midday cold cups in years. But with this heat, I’m a couple kilometers outside my character. Setting the little notepad to side, removing Comp Book from stack of scattered on desk’s top. Have to envision Self on stage, my routine; what I’ll recite, what type of music’s to back me, if any.
Was hoping to watch a writing movie, at some point in day. Maybe tonight, before bed. But I can’t let Self retire too late, if I’m to have another Barleycorn session. Funny seeing that name in my pages, in such context. A bar down the street, only a couple blocks from the Madigan castle, named J. Barleycorn, most simply referring to it as “Barleycorn.” I used to write about it pseudonymously, calling it either “Cobby Corn” or “Gnarly Thorn.” Not sure if it’s still by the name same, but there’s a bar there, still, that I wouldn’t visit for a 100% rhodium baseball bat signed by… someone.
Taking Comp downstairs. That’s what I’m going to tag it, from here onward, instead of “Comp Book.” By now, everyone should know what I’m referencing.
[6/12/12] Too much on mind, with this Art, my blogs [ugh], future. Again thinking of killing the 2nd blog, 1Stop, but I know I won’t. I shouldn’t. Going to use it as I am now, capturing quick moments in wine’s world; what I’m sipping, where I am, interviews, and all similar. Nothing Literary going to its screens. Morning mocha, in dwindle. Feel scattered, as a one man brand. Consolidation, I always talk about that. Poetry, spoken word; song, verse. That’s my truest of “brands.” It’s like an independent wine producer, his, or her, specialized varietal. That’s what I’m trying to pin.
Have to keep typing. Comp, looking back at me, begging for more rhymed couplets, as I managed to inject a couple performable bursts, just under an hour ago. Back ink, more organically journaled jumps. -MM