9/25

Was writing in the Comp Book, now have no interest in “blogging.” Last night’s lecture, could have progressed a little better.  Think I may have been over-prepared, and yes that’s possible.  Or, over caffeinated.  With me, that’s more than possible.. was probably the case.  Finishing second cup of home-molded coffee.  Tonight, Mom and Dad over.  Want to open a different wine, one maybe I wouldn’t normally.  Thinking of Syrah, but I don’t have even ONE in collection.  Again, finding Self with writings all over the place.  Inside this laptop, and of course out.  Closing all other documents.. focus, singular.  How else will I finish a book, travel?  Wait, “Keep going,” my character would say.  She’d tell me to embrace the mess I’ve made.  Sell it.. profit from it, monetarily and otherwise.  “Blend the prose and poetry, see what happens.  Just keep creating.” Easy for her to say, she’s selling her work, following through.  Me, the writer, in that ever-still holding pattern, just flying around the tower.  Or, more appropriately, still taxiing, waiting for permission to takeoff.  But wait, why do I need any permission?  Artists don’t wait for permission, from anyone, anything.  The documentary series I watched last night, about these east coast Artists, how what they create, what the other characters represent in their galleries, reminded me that what contrasts the expected is what engages people, will make ME stand out as an Artist.  Hopefully[?].

Later today, hoping to get recent issue of Winemaker Magazine, do some winemaking research.  Yesterday, didn’t do the whole “internship” thing, so I stopped by St. Francis’ lab, hoping to intercept the professor sister.  The lab lead told me she just began a 3-hour competitive tasting, was unavailable.  But he and his colleague, sitting just to his left, told me that my wine is amazing.  The other man sharing that every time he walks by my bbl [winemaker short-speak for “barrel”] he has to smell it, as its aroma is so distinctively sensorily demanding.  I asked the lab lead, Mike, if he knew what 11MKCS’s pH level was.  He ran to a stats book of barreled, bbl’d, wines, showed me mine, its numbers, telling me “Yeah, with yours everything looks good.”

Yeah, think I’m buying a Syrah for dinner tonight.  No, though [sorry, reader, for my indecisiveness.. story of life, again].  Shouldn’t be spending money.  Not now.  Probably one of the unavoidables keeping me from publishing anything, right now.  The blog posts don’t cost this penman a penny.  But that paper.. the sound the printed makes, brewing, cooking, contorting my pages.  Still on tarmac.

Speaking of money, should probably pay a couple bills.  Oh, only one I haven’t silenced…  There.  Now what do I do, with little Kerouac upstairs, dreaming of what he could do next– what motion, sound, word, look.  I learn from this squishy little optimism plum.  To just see what I can do, see what happens as Kelly always prompts.  Boring, been here before.. Topic Next.

The cash stash upstairs, what to do.  Don’t want to be “responsible” like I was that one time, paying down my credit card.  Have to do something for the Art, the pages.  Right?  How much did Kelly spend to get going?  Haven’t asked her, honestly.  And this blog’s death date, getting closer.  Haven’t forgotten, readers.  5/28/13.  So I’ll move quicker.  Much.  MUCH.  Quicker.