Winding night down before appearances tomorrow. “Appearances,” that’s how I’m considering them. Dinner with the Particular Palates and winemaking professor sister was wonderfully enriching. I brought that shiner ’09 CF, the ’11 Reserve Chardonnay, then the ’10 red blend. We were all a bit distracted by the presidential debate. But still, there was wine focus. I was shocked, honestly, that the ’09 CF was heralded as it was. I’m thinking of setting up a wine picture forum.. on a blog or something. Again, just thinking. Not looking to be anything but a writer/Artist. Should have capitalized “writer.” Writer. There, better. Racked 1000 words into novel while at Starbucks. While writing, thought about how I want to be viewed as an Artist/WRITER. Poetry vs. prose, what have. And I think I’m leaning more toward poems, song. Those random verses I scribble between pours, tasks inside “work”’s context, well as exteriorly. Thinking of my Shakur studies, his defiant but entirely consistently logical disposition, world view, deconstructive prospectus. How he kept writing, in exact moments; How he knew time wasn’t forever, wrote accordingly.. minimal editing, dwelling. After this entry, I’m in the Comp Book. For verse, for Freedom. For Kelly. That’s what she would urge me do.
Don’t think I’m getting to the word amount I envisioned. But that doesn’t matter. OR shouldn’t, anyway. Have a Racer in the kitchen, open for session’s purpose. But I don’t know what the purpose perpetuates, if that makes sense. Imagine I’m in Sunriver, on the back deck of the family hideout. Need an away. As writer–sorry.. Writer, Human being. In my defense, I’m writing. Freely. The worst kind of writing, some might argue. Not sure I can disagree. Wish I could write some acceptable, linear, formulaic, purposeful piece. But I can’t. And why? I’m moment-infatuated. I don’t think like that, so I don’t surely write in that bite. For example, now: on couch, catty-corner to Alice while she watches some reality show on Bravo. Usually, my eyes would be in formation with hers. But, I’m in a day taunting me exceptionally. Typing what I think. Or trying. I can’t get Kelly, my only consistent character, from head even if I threatened it so. And, tomorrow’s a day unusually aggressive with my evaluation after 8 hours tilting bottles for 1 ounce intents. This show.. reminding me of the question with which I’ve recently been battering Self: How can this clown own his own business, be so Autonomous? Makes me sick. Who? This idiot on “Flipping Out.” IT disgusts me the way he exists to and around those around him. Who does this vocal wart think he is? Don’t think I’m of the steadiest sway, swagger, but I’m not this theatrical. Doesn’t matter, I’m doing what I do. In these pulses. Especially with the poetry. I’ll never sit still on a couch, I’m too deliberative, much too affrontive.
Getting up for just one sip, in a second. Tomorrow night, opening something oeno. No beer. Need to study profiles more if I’m ever to make my wine on a generating level. Nearly to target.. Thinking about my office, the espresso machine by my desk. Tonight, when entering the complex’s laundry room, I saw that my dryer has less than a minute left. Thought the symbolism was obvious: just in time. Right? But, in time for what? Hopefully something. I need my office. I need the Road. I need difference, mobility, stories.. anything but the stationary.