gear grumble

Time will win

But not without me dying with a pen


The day, slowly in circular stream.  Know people are watching, listening to a writer in his tilts.  But I’m not Self-censoring.  Ever.  The rain, finally here, but not nearly as gravity’d as projected.  Night’s cap, at right.  No wine, though.  One of the writer’s firm IPA’s.  Heard a story about one of the interns, “Iowa” we endearingly her tag, having her cell phone stolen, just shrugging it off, calling it “a wash” after finding she landed an assignment in Australia, or New Zealand.  Why can’t I dismiss the affair with my old cell, its untimely refusal2recharge, so jubilantly?  Something else on mind 2day.. a co-worker having all his cameras, related-equipment, 3 YEARS of WORK, stolen from his home.  I asked him, in eagerness’ blunt bumble, “How did you get over that?” He told me it was difficult, but he did.  What else can you do, he inferred.

Honesty, evermore a necessity in these entries.  Have to look at my book’s content tonight.  Even if only a couple pages.  Can hear the rain outside.  I’ll confirm my attention’s posture, but I’m not impressed.  One of the wines I tasted today, strangling my inquisitive falls, pulling me to fantasy.. that ’09 single vineyard Cab.  AGAIN.  Three years ago today, I wrote about mySelf going wine tasting.  And that was it.  Probably my most concise, honest entry EVER.  Not sure where I was going with reliving that briefest of brief blurbs, but I’m in that set, right now, here at this table with this IPA.

Met a nice couple today from the Foothills, owning their own winery.  Nicest couple I’d ever hope to encounter in the Room.  Glad I did, as my winemaking intent is ONLY amplified, elevated, multiplied.  This rain, telling me to let mind wonder far.  Be free, as that’s sure to hook more candor.  Fangs on my syllables’ strings.

Reading through the pages of this book, I remember the class I took at SSU, undergrad, the Personal Essay section with Sherril Jaffe.  Where, I feel, I began to appreciate narrative, one’s OWN story.  And the story I’m telling, right now, one of a writer, just hoping to soon hook Equilibrium.  This, what’s sure to drive me down to Stanford, one of those classRooms.  Speaking of, need to start preparing for these pre-1A classes next term.  Won’t put on disingenuous bravado, I’m a bit nervous.  Tangibly timid, really.  Just need to log thoughts whenever they buzz idea’s tipping tower.  Hoping this rain sprints through eve’s overconfident hours.  I need it, always writing more engagingly with fronts passing over Yulupa’s Avenue.  Or wherever I stand, sleep.  Like–and I’ll say it again, again–Paris, 2009, looking down at those streets while Alice sleeps after reading her day’s book.  Need to mimic her reading habits.  Truth from a writer? … I need to finish this Kerouac book, already.  Been much too long, 2many excuses.  Just FINISH IT, already.

My friend Alicia, with her own business, settling into a new office, ordering new supplies, celebrating…  More charge for this writer.  This day, as optimal as any.

11/29/12, Thursday