the Texas man, John said, exited to up the order of shipped ’08 Syrah. These two days off, though, all verse. Not in Fiction mood. And, don’t have time for lengthy compositions. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Not during the day, I meant. Still want to address the Lit Theory piece I wanted to write on Jack London’s ‘Eden’ & Kerouac’s ‘Road’. In my little notes, I the other day wrote, “Knowing when you begin is when you begin.” Was on the Stanford site, earlier, fantasizing. With my little Kerouac up early [was in his Room at 6:34am], I’m writing early. Oh, and am I printing today, for book’s and poetry collection’s sake? Assuredly. -7:12am
A little chilly outside, perfect mocha weather. So many notes from the little pages to transfer. Finally sat down with Dad, asked him some aviation questions. Started at preflight walk around plane to some taxiing procedures and cruising altitude. One interesting thing he cited, of which he informed me was “Coffin Corner.” Not sure I fully understand it, but it deals with a compromised control of the aircraft. Another topic addressed, with Mom and Dad, was the circumstantial randomness, unexpected connectedness of Katie’s rise to winemaker. All possible stories. And if not, more propulsion for the Writer.
Looking through these little pages almost exhausts me, with how much I write, how I’m utterly unable to put down a pen. All these in-the-moment captures. Like this piece of dialogue yesterday, from a man visiting with his wife, from Florida, saying “Get the dozer out, start pushin’…” Originally, he’s from Oklahoma, he told me, accent as thick as humid southern air. He said this after his remarking on how difficult it must have been to carve and pave the road up to the winery’s mountaintop [and yes, “Mountain Top” is one word]. I thought it was a little humorous, as he was basically talking to himself. Not knowing I was recording. Actually, that’s the only note I took yesterday, shamefully, surprisingly. Well, no, there was one more. The about voicing, from the Texas gentleman in love with the Syrah.
Test4Self, today: print 15 pages of poem. Know I have more than enough to satisfy this. The printing, strictly for collection. I will print, or try, a few pages for.. something. Not a novel. Not yet. Thinking I want legal sheets for that, like Richard in “Crashing.” Mom and Dad said it best the other night, “Write your experience.” They suggested I document something I went through years ago. But, I have to write what I want to. Just don’t know what that is yet, in way of fiction. The tasting Room? Winemaking? Aviation [although I don’t have the time, I don’t think, to address this]? Well, with Aviation, I could write about someone wanting to write about it, just being fascinated with planes, what it takes to navigate one. But that might appear escapist, evasive. Need a mocha to think about it.
8:46am. Drizzling outside. Can’t believe it, especially when I think of how bastardly screaming in temp it was just days ago. Had some rhymes in my head while carrying from the coffee brothel. Forgot most of them. All that’s in memory left, “bone brittle, shown little, a lone riddle, wait for drones’ fizzle, stick to ink like ice cream cone drizzle…” Just transferred to poetry/song doc, here on laptop monster. Thinking of what I journaled about Gillian the other day, how Mom liked the entry. Tells me I DO need to excavate past days. And maybe that’s where this “novel” is.