So, I’m thinking that tomorrow night, my Friday night, I need to open a random red. What exactly, I’m not sure. And you know what, reader… I shouldn’t be talking about wine, anyway. Kelly’s in her studio, painting, I’m sure. When does she wake tomorrow? Whenever she feels like it. She gets calls from her friends, those working at the restaurant and the others living in the city, from those Marina advertising firms. I follow Kelly’s blog, this new effort of hers detailing her travels, art projects, what’s doing and where, how the finds are finding themselves in her times. I have to confess, it’s fascinating. Every night before bed, I check in, see where she is, what she’s doing. Her Artistry, admirably nomadic. Not in any way suffocatingly domesticated. It’s the epitome of FREE.
She goes out for a drink, with a sketchpad, her purse, and cell. She wanted to leave it by her bed, as she did when in the apartment, only a few feet from it when painting. No, though. She was expecting a call from a gallery in Burlingame. They liked some of her work shown in SF, and were more than entertaining the thought of those pieces on their walls. She’d be able to get the new car she needed, if they bit. But she didn’t want to think about that, not today. She wanted to write, in that journal I bought her. Not to be seen. Just for her. This was her meditation form.
Not possible for the writer to make it to his aim height, this night. The tasting Room drained him. Almost completely, actually. After his last IPA sip, switching to my bubbling berry water. Hate having nothing to write about. But isn’t that a topic? Could I write a book, or blog, about that? What would a winemaker do? Surely be more focused than me, topping barrels, reading samples, thinking of bottling schedules, demands before vintage.
But I can write verse, especially when I’m not focused. Poems, at least the ones I’ve been writing, in late, freeing me completely. From the wine industry, from excess domesticity, anything pattern or expected. If I were in travel right now, in my hotel Room like Kelly on one of her tours, I’d be with that glass of red, scribbling in a Composition Book, watching news. OR something random on History Channel. Is that lame? I wouldn’t watch one of those ridiculous “reality” TV shows, it’d be something relevant, significant. Writing my life’s remainder, for Jackie’s sake. And like Common said, I’m “writing for my life ‘cause I’m scared of a day job.” So, I’m writing into hours wee, till all would-be powers flee. The writing from yesterday, just marinading in the book idea. Better put it out, soon. Otherwise, it’s wasted life. Wasted tracks. Can’t wait for that sparkling water. Going to try2write till past 12a. What do I care, tomorrow’s my Friday.
Found a picture on my phone that I want to do something with. No idea what. So why did I take it? I think to attach to an earlier entry, can’t remember which one. Hate that. Made a comparison, or analogy, or correlation with my writing [my obsession habitual behavior therein] to people’s patten’d praying, earlier to Self while looking for soup at Whole Paycheck. Definitely how I see my link to page–there’s no articulative evasion, I need2write. If I don’t, my timbre abates. Time, 11:59p, if you’d believe. Want to write some poem b4 sleep, as I’m in such position now, with blankets over legs, right elbow leaning into pillow. This sparkling berry, keeping a poet more level. Setting alarm for 4:30am. Testing Self, investigating if Mike Madigan has all needed to break excess domesticity’s directive.