Typing a bit before I leap over to ink, pages.  Need more condensed sense.  Tomorrow, probably no time to write, I’m guessing.  But I love that.  Want to not know what’s happening the next day.  Want to live in hotels, on Road.  Want to write verses on napkins, on resort stationary.  Cameras to my left, in their cases.. not sure why I told you that, but that’s what I’m staring at.  Well, back and forth, intermittently.

Thinking of “Life from a Comp Book.” Not sure what shape that’d take, but that too dominates my vision, fantasy, dream, pragmatism, what be.. what would.  This Friday, no goal.  Won’t let mySelf have one.  Don’t want to expect, disappoint.  Wanting nada.  Just hoping to sit in front a page, WRITE something.  A single sentence.  Yes, actually write, meaning ink to line.  Just one sentence.  A poem’d line.  That’s my only goal.  Oh, and to open 1 white, one RED.  Deconstruct, as winemaker.  Time for dinner, the quiche Alive prepared, paired with the other night’s Burgundian white.

Was going to have a night’s capping, but resolved against.

9/21/12 — Alone in home.  Sipping St. Francis Malbec.  Thought I’d be throwing into Cabernet.  But nay.  Every subtle shift suggests I ignore all me aggravating– those cruising with their shoulders obviously extended, acting as supervisors.  How can you supervise an Artist, especially one from realms Literary?  You know what– I’m just going to enjoy these sips, scribble, or type when wished.  IF anything, I’d rather to bed get early, so I can have another morning mocha manuscript.  Watching old Sopranos episodes, thinking they’re all old, as the series ended years ago.  No I feel old.  Need another Malbec glass.  I’m aging, like this wine.  Distractions, where art?  Only noting when I need, or feel concern, concerned.  Need to just enjoy wine, this night– the quiet.  that’s what she’d suggest, I’m sure.

Watching these reruns, thinking of my own business dreams.  Another glass…

Tired of writing with punctuating likeness.  Suddenly, the writer’s cranky, needing another writer movie showing, not this pseudo-artisanal “TV,” HBO.  I like the Sopranos, but seriously, how artful is this show?  How Literary does it fall?  Kelly, I can hear her, telling me to stop typing/writing.  What am I doing?  Is this good for “the business,” as Tony would say?  Need another sip.  Need more material.  Tired of character promising one thing, then perpetuating another cut.  Ridiculous, not worth documentation.

Feel guilty just sitting here, relaxing, enjoying my eve, watching shows.  That’s not what an Artist extremist does.  Right?  Only my character on mind, her processes, her sketches, her mind’s livings.  How does she live from her findings, expressions?

= Older woman, news reel this morning.. bodybuilding competitively, at late 60-something, waking at 3:30a.  My time, now, 11:14p.  Need fall into sleep, so I can wake for my morning mocha manuscript wag.

= 11:38pm, in a tornado of introspection.  I can’t not WRITE.  I’m into my Comp Book like a burglar in a fort’s stash.  Sipping this Malbec with my ink in a pot of fervor.  Taking a break, ‘cause I need it.  Independent penman, not needing 2B signed.  So, the chapbooks get shotgunned into spheres near, incredibly clear.  Me, in need of no permission, guidance, promotion..

= 9/22/12 , 12:33am.  —  After a random block walk, I’m ignoring page.  Spending night’s rest in simple enjoyment of night.  Wrong, not writing?  I hope so. That makes me evermore the writer I aim2stand.  The most Literary act I can blast is to not write a thing.  Done.  Out-clocking…

= 10:30pm.  Fleeing to paper after this notation.  Me, here sipping an IPA, counting day’s tips.  The wine club Room.. my worst enemy, most accommodating endorser.  How does that work?

Tonight, I’m not looking to complete anything, necessarily.  This morning, felt like a flat orchestra note.  Not sure how that happened, as I stayed home last night, didn’t sip that much.  Well, actually I just found that wasn’t case.  The Malbec bottle. two-thirds dead.  Staring at this cash stack, knowing I have to do something with it.. get this business aloft, FINALLY.  Won’t be able to put little Kerouac through college doing– singing–one song.  I need an ALBUM.  No, an ANTHOLOGY.  This laptop feels too official, to clinical, too expected.  Where is the Comp Book?

Suddenly, this device performs odd acts, only allows the oddest of spacings.  That’s what I hate about these buttons, these mechanized functions.  And I apologize, but I can’t get over this cash pile at left.  And I’m not bragging… I’m just showing–no, sharing–the fruits of this writer’s efforts.  Where’s it going?  To the company, to the office.  MY office.  Want to finish this entry so I can get into ink, actual lines.  The winemaking, ever on mind.. the Chardonnay I’ll produce with Katie, the Petite Sirah or Cab I’ll hopefully do with my brother Kaz.  The wine, only Art to me.  No status elevation, I don’t see that.  I’m about the Artist, the expression.  And the “social” media element, meaningless to the Artist.  Need music in this Room, should turn off the TV.  Why do I have that guttural screech box on?

Not sure what to write about, and that’s why I keep writing, as you know– to let writers, other writers, know that this happens.  The stalls, the lulls.  The wine industry, only material for so long.  In all honesty, it’s not as significant as people enveloped in its grips estimate.  It’s not.  Why, it’s commerce, involving a beverage.  Yes, I love wine, I even love “the industry,” but I will speak when I wish, even if it wishes I’d keep quiet.  Now, I move into a peaceful steeple.  Mike Madigan’s in an eased reprieve.  That’s what I need, at my age.  How is it I’ll be 34 next year.  Where did life leave me, how my light de-freed?  Getting a little tired, but the sight of this Self-company cash wakes me, over again.  And do I need another pour?  Of course..  Two guest today told me I need to enjoy the wine, more.  And you know what, as a winemaker, I agree.  That Malbec, I’m projecting, much more melodic tonight.  Tired, and I’m not surprised.  Can’t believe I made it through today, to be honest.  But here the writer be.. not at all distracted, focused in his sipNscribble.  Bowing out, for paper, colored traces.  Need certain thoughts to be heard, read.  Introspective edges, where I’m going.

And after the 1st Malbec sip, I’m convinced.. the winemaking, path performed.  Would love to go to bed right now, as I fantasized this morning, almost as soon as I touched down in the Room.  Now, the Artist getting truly sick of this device, its buttons.. this isn’t Art, not what I know it 2B.  Now, I have to proof this whole session.  Nonsense.  I should write this, then move on.  That’s Art, that’s Expression.  No editorial obsession.  Need another sip.. Malbec, where R U?  The lights seem lower in this Room.  Kelly would capitalize, not overanalyze.  Why can’t I do the same?  Think I may B overcomplicating.  Professor…