11/16/12.  Had a chance to thank Regina, the coworker who voiced appreciation of my work.  Had to tell her, I felt.  As I this type, rain enjoys its return.  My cough, still striding.  Tonight, all poem.  With the novel only lines from rough draft surfacing, I’m in an odd stall.  So, in lull, to characters from tasting Room…  Had vineyard tour in early AM.. well, not that early, 11:30am.  Three ladies, 4 older gentleman.  Managed to sell some wine, but not as much as I’d hoped.  Later in day, after looking at clock for periods long, as if I expected it to speak back to me, complete a manuscript, I met a couple from Minnesota.  The lady voiced how interesting she found it that everyone on my side of the bar, at other wineries they’d visited, had stories, such compelling backgrounds, tales, dreams.  Funny, I thought, I see visitors the same.  All these people, coming to wineries, to discover, see what it’s like out here.  Like the couple from Maine, who’d always dreamt of visiting “wine country,” to “do some wine tasting, how it’s really done,” the Maine man said, next to his wife who couldn’t scrape her vision from the tasting lineup.  Towards day’s end, and I mean literally minutes before closing, a couple entered, saw me, stormed my counter sector.  The man was from Hungary, his wife from Poland.  She was sweet, interested, open to information.  He, quite expectedly from his self-establishing grimace, knew he had to lecture me on wine around the world; tell me about his business trips to China, India, Argentina.  When done with the tasting, he told me they had some coupons or vouchers in the car, to comp the tasting.  But they never motioned to sprint to their ride to pull those tickets.  Still shocks me how so many expect free tastings, so reflexively.

9:47pm.  Thinking again of Regina’s remarks, feedback on this “blog.” She cited the “story” in my page sequences.  I’m humbled, as I’m not envelopingly coerced that there’s a coherent composition in these descents.  Well, maybe there is..  My topic?  Writing, I guess.  The Artist’s tale.  Or portrait.  Listening to rain, about to take first sip of night’s cap, the topper to day’s tale.  Little Kerouac, asleep, speedily, upstairs.  This front, over Yulupa, telling me to type faster.  But I don’t know what content to convey.  My Merlot barrel, somewhere in that cave, topped with Primitivo.  Should probably taste it tomorrow.  OR maybe Sunday, when it’s slower.  But that’s not a given.  Anyone who’s been behind bar on Sundays, in any Room along 12, knows that Sunday can roar just as audibly as its predecessor.

This new device, annoying me.  For some reason, the “notes” I made on the old phone transferred to this new one [I have, then, that “string of haikus,” well as other topping types].  Okay, so no writing lost.. but the stills of my son, still limbo’d.  Why did it save those random rays, not the pictures of my most valued character?  Speaking of characters…  She’s waiting for her paintings to be reviewed, a major publication–  But I have to save for novel next.  Troubled writer, with his heaping pour.  And for some reason, this prose is boring me more than I can care to courier.  So, onto Comp Book’s pages.  ACTUAL writing.  Ink.  PAGE.  Me, poetry.  No time for order.

11/17/12.  Rain, on hold.  My thoughts, coated in day’s hour, hours.  Tired of anything, everything connected to TV.  Especially “news.” Just want to read, invasively.  Everything.  Plath’s entries, at side.  Tuesday, getting closer.  Rough draft’s deadline, trotting towards my tower.  Wine tonight.. not sure.  Probably nothing.  May go with the beer.  Hard to concentrate with that TV on.  Have a training session on Tuesday, 9a-12p, I think.  Right after, to coffee house, for novel’s sake.  May do a tasting, somewhere.  Maybe somewhere in Russian River, get a Pinot for the tentative Pinot tasting I’m to attend that night.  Pinot…  Not sure what to make of its role.  Sometimes I find it magic, others I just see difficulty, trouble, moodiness.

Reader–  I’m all over the place, with these pages.  Make me finish this novel.  Already I feel pulls to distraction.  Frankly, I’m too old.  This effort, I have to finish.  Don’t let this happen to you.  Words other.. don’t let your love of writing make you hate your Creative habits, the results, lack in/of.  Wishing this rain would come back.  That’d make me write something worthy of readership.  Hate that word.. “readership.” Sounds like a mold word from a Literary Theory dictionary/encyclopedia.  Still have that book from Coleman’s class.  That was Fall ’99.  So long ago.  This laptop, fading in energy.  And I am, too.  Bored with page.  Sure you are, right?  Hate when I’m like this.  Need to take break.  But if I do that, I’m not writing.  Listening to what’s on TV.. a lady owning a beauty salon, something…  Judging everyone around her.  But she’s self-employed.  How did SHE do that?  Is she better at her styling, or whatever, than I am with pen?  Meditation–

Looking at 2day’s tip money.  What would I do with these bills, if it was all I could budget for my “startup?” Good question.  Or maybe a ridiculous one.  Either way I’m entertained.

10:17pm.  Night’s cap, seated.  Off to Comp Book.  Stanford on mind.  And in academic frame, still have that letter of rec’ to write for A.C.  I’ve started, actually.  Just need to finish.  Why do I keep looking forward to Tuesday?  Isolation, concentration.  Manuscript completion, finally.  Took notes today, captured characters.  In little pages, notebook, right-rear pocket.  Why am I too lazy to type?  ‘Cause I need a night.  Speaking of, which day is it?  Saturday?  Yes, as tomorrow’s my Friday.  Sunday.  Now I’m confused again.  When bottledaux gains its independence, there’ll be no smoke.

It’s late.  I guess.  And I’m at a loss.  Seeing what Ms. Plath has to say…  She tells me to de-chain nouns from warden verbs, monstrous modifiers.  Scenes fold out like roses under shy moon.  Imagination decrescendo.  Fed excess, best.  Proserpina, singing to retreating fronts.  Heard the song, once–  Love when mind skips like this.  Off to ink, lined sheets.  Reader, forgive me, 4 the force-feed.  But at least it’s free.  Another sip [needed, session’d] … Self-attrition.  Scheduled re-write.

A coworker’s husband may be able to retrieve the lost photos of Jack, on old phone.  If he can’t, I have to let them go.  It’s hindering my Creative breaths, that old phone, how it just died on me.  And how angry with Self I am, relying on tech so much, not developing all those photos into actual pictures, putting them in some album.  Less tech, more Life.  Sip, sip … “Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theatre, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder…I must find a core of fruitful seeds in me.” -Sylvia Plath (193)