Saturday. On a Monday. Meeting with Katie in a little over 3 hours. But my main focus today, and this is after something Mom said the other night at the dinner table, here at the condo, is writing in a journal separate from the blog. Somewhere personal. Maybe to someday be released, or not. why do I have to give all this writing away on this “blog?” Here I go again. Either way, need to find the Comp Book. That’s where I’ll start, re-start. Cooler today than yester, that before as well I understand.
Just caught mySelf staring at this desktop clutter. Have to stay focused, but on what? I know, the journal, the verse… But I’m distracted by the odd spacing this idiotic word processing program’s angrily implemented into this morning’s sitting. Another reason why I need pen, paper. What I really need is coffee. Feel much better this morning than I did 24 hours past, but still.. Mike needs his mocha. OR should I brew here in house? More music, that’ll help me decide. Beats…
10:12am. Finally, caffeine. Jack, down for A.M. siesta. And the author, typing against wall. I’ve always said, “There’s no such thing as writer’s block.” Still hold that conviction, but what I’m feeling in this seat I don’t quite like. Something the screenwriter gentleman yesterday said ripples in this momentary thought puddle, about Mark Twain’s office. Supposedly, it involved a pool table, bar, small desk. That’s it. Has me thinking of what I’d like in my office.. and honestly, I think even less than that. Well, no, when you consider all the recording equipment I’ll have near my desk [yes, I do want to return to recording spoken word tracks, eventually]. Do I need a “bar,” no. But, a composed little wine fridge would just finer suit. On page 207 of this bottledaux doc. What do I do with these pages when the blog’s done [5/24/13 now, one day before my 34th birth.. disgusting]. Will I just let them rot here in the monster’s memory tanks, as with mikeslognoblog? Can’t.
Mocha’s not speaking to me with its usual elevated volume. Oh, almost forgot about my gig at SFW today, some reserved “VIP” tasting on the Syrah patio. AND, before I forget.. had a dream, last night obviously, about getting in trouble for something I wrote on bx, something about how I don’t like wearing uniforms. The “manager” in the vision was from a couple jobs ago, actually a pretty nice guy but in real life he sold me out, upon termination, as another clownish “supervisor” was after my job already. I woke thinking it actually happened, exhaled with celebratory jitters realizing it didn’t. But even still, it had me thinking about how I put my writing in front of the world. What would that “supervisor” have me do, not write at all? Not think for mySelf? Not writing, not an option. And, reiterating, this Author’s not afraid of reaction. From anyone. Or any “industry.”
Now that that’s off brain, I just wait for winemaker lunch with Katie. And, excited to eat at café Citti. Haven’t had a dish from them in a while. Won’t be having any wine, as I’ll be at the winery soon after– And I’m bored of what I’m writing. Thinking of where to go next, and the wall reappears. Devil.
Should just skip to verses, spoken word. Coherence, or at least conventional linearity, isn’t required there. Poetry invites frustrations like this. And it allows, nearly REQUIRES the tangential. There’s music on poetry’s block. Not here with prose. Paragraphs. Punctuation. Formalities. Writer ruffled.. apologies.