Seeing that Zin today, in the bins, had me thinking about conceptual, well as actual, beginning. And the notion of a career. The Chardonnay project with Katie fell through, unfortunately. The Viognier, already stressing me. The Kaz call, still waiting. I’m not faulting anyone, but as an Artist I’m thinking about what I really want to do. The Viognier I’d produce could cost the writer as much as $1000. I’m CONVINCED I could launch bx with that kind of capital. And after watching some Top Chef show, just a few minutes ago, I don’t want any investors. Not even a bank. I want more than 100% Autonomy. I want to be free even from Self, potential inhibitions. I may not make wine this vintage, that’d be fine. I’ll still write.
Still feeling quite alright with the execution of the other blog. Feel more mature, if that’s the right/write word. Slowly sipping what remains of last nights Noir. And, just as I thought, more exotic with its rhythm’d sequences, presence. I’m almost brought to song with how ghostly this wine is.. how permeating, haunting, spellbinding it continues. It too tells me to entrench Self in what element I’m sure stays mine. The pages. Let them pay for winemaking dreams. And if I did live my whole life not making another wine, I’d progress contently, long as I was SELF-publishing.
9:08pm, still haven’t had dinner. Long day, for everyone. The weather today, hinting at rain, but no delivery. Fall has let us know of its fall, finally. Feeling a little lazy, with this cloud cover. Was this morning, as well, walking into the Room with my 3-shot mocha. Need a vacation, somewhere with significant snow.
11:16pm. After dinner, Pinot’s remainder, I’m again thinking of career, direction. But I don’t want to talk about that. I’m focused on this book. MY verses, eventual readings. Tomorrow should be busy, providing probably more material than I can in moment capture. Going to journal in single words, I’m thinking. The briefest of notes. Weather, the weather woman’s saying, cool. What that means for clusters, not sure I care. A note from day, stamped 4:56pm: “Writing, Wine, Magazine, Blog, Books, travel, journal, diary pages, more wine.. stop, need to dry glasses.. no, BUFF glasses. Hate that word.” Interesting. Don’t even remember writing this. That’s how much I write, I guess. Next night alone, I’m getting 2 bottles of that Pinot, finishing my novel in a single bloody night.
Pushing to 500 words, I’ll truth tell. The color of this Zin in its bin is rather poetic, streamingly Artful. Hoping to wake early tomorrow morning. No, no more hoping. Setting alarm. 6:30am. But I’m hoping I’m up before. To work out, run. No. Even though I should. But to write. Finishing this ailing novel, if I do anything while alive. Monday, before class, writing at one of the 50 Starbucks in Santa Rosa. Setting page goal. 3. Just three pages– 3 new pages, to book. And I can do that.. don’t have to wait for anyone’s counsel, time; a delivery of fruit, facility availability. All I need: my time, ink, page. No way more enriching 2live. And in such, I slightly distance Self from “the industry.” And not in any disdain, or random reflexiveness. Like with blog 2’s retirement, I’m levelly situated, knowing what I want.
My truest union with wine: drinking it while manuscript sculpting.