12/4/12. Tuesday.. Should be editing book. But again, an excuse. Tired, today’s. I did print 10 pages, though. Sticking to my 12/15 deadline. I want real pressure, real stress of having to complete, like a winemaker producing bottles from someone else.. like the winemaker that showed me his chart, indicating that he had so many projects to get into bottle “before vintage” [before harvest started, a couple months ago]. Here at Starbucks, on my block, sipping away at mocha2. Well, haven’t taken 1st gulp yet. But I need to. Already started writing 2nd. Not sure if that makes sense. And I don’t know if it’s book2, yet [oh, that’s too “extra hot,” how I always order..]. It’s just blogging not on a blog, if that makes sense. [Do I ever make “sense?”] A word processor journal. And I hate that I’m doing that, as I want to be more, eventually ALL, pen2paper in Craft. But, I figure if I just start typing now, in this loose style, like “blogs” [or my style of “blogging”], then I can get the ms out there quicker, sell it. Have my office sooner, be on road. Need to start my music through these phones.. the music here is self-pitying noise that only scratches at my drums rather than push pages 4ward. Right now they’re in, these little earpieces, with no music bouncing from. Wonder if these characters around think I’m listening to something. Pretty egotist of me to think I’m pulling at any attentions. Two older ladies to left, 10 o’clock. Just looked up, and one of them was looking at me, the one whose back isn’t pointed to my bow. Okay, so my playlists…
Samba Tranquille, Thievery. One of my favorites from their songscape. Wrote a verse last night, after flying through some of Plath’s work [paired with the ’10 Cab] from her entries. Need to collect my poems more consistently.. And just poetry! No prose. Only rhyme, meter, odd line, structures. Against formalist flabbiness. Have to stay focused on this book, though. Tonight, I’ll have a couple hours to Self. Using them with one target in sight.. Autonomy. This put back in the writer’s purview as I found an interesting article last night on Kant & Autonomy, also after reading my thoughts on Autonomy this morning, from the Literary Lunches I wrote in Napa, 2011, a little ’12.. while at that devilish box.
Have to be back to domicile in 40 minutes. Looking for 1000 words from this session, to put in barrel [on blog]. “Honesty,” that’s what I keep telling my Self. All my writing has to candid, forward, aggressive with its truth-telling. Wine helps in delivery, but often slows this particular scribe. That’s why this mocha, its 3-shot scaffolding, treats me well, like a candidate in running. And I am campaigning, for MY vote, and yours, dearest of dear readers.
Woke this morning thinking about this blog, it as a business.. MY business. Also thought about how I think about it in vein same EVERY morning. The writing, the Art; photography, the short videos; relationship of all my pieces to wine; my office, being on my own clock. Just noticed more people sitting. None behind me, in eyeshot of this screen. Tilting it more toward me, screen down, swivel device right so only the wall appreciates these types. Me– still the paranoid poet, like 2Pac.. and I love that about mySelf, that I cherish [much I hate that word] my work to such a delusional degree.
= Elderly gentleman dressed rather nicely, seated in booth to left, but with backwards hat. Doesn’t go with rest of character. Interesting. He crouches, writing something, or tallying some dollar amount I think, as his cell phone is open, seeming utilizing its calculator function. Speaking of elders, could only reflect today, when visiting grandma; the aged characters, with their slow-paced charm, words, admiring little Kerouac in his stroller, feet in darling dangle.
Wine, in mind. Want to open another Cab tonight, I think. Or maybe that Pinot I have in upstairs “cellar.” Want these poems done.. these BOOKS, done. Want completed projects. If I were a winemaker, and these were wines that hadn’t been yet bottled, I’d be fired.. or out of business, if I were independently producing. So tonight, reading, editing. It’ll bother me, I can already tell, that I’ll be fine-tuning instead of churning new pages. But the sooner I get it done [this bloody BOOK], the quicker I can return to session, freely write.
Tasting Room.. stage play. No.. screenplay, but written like a stage play, so I can fit more material [esp. more dialogue] on pages. If I could sell one to a … whatever, that would be incredible for a little writer like me. But if not, I’d just sell it as a completed project. Hope you forgive me reader, I’m trying to write through this exhaustion. Almost forgot, the Bottled Ox has been up since 6am, with my little poet. The mocha’s not helping as I thought it would. My cell phone just to right. Not signaling any alert, completely dormant, for now. But still distracting. That’s what I mean, in my hatred of tech. It’s always around and in us. My students and co-workers still pester me about not backing-up those photos on old phone, especially those of little Jack. Just writing that event, again, makes me never want to type another page. Ever. Again.
Only. Ink. Paper. […] What. Real. WRITERS. DO.
4:19pm. May reach 1000 words, but I don’t know if they’ll be groomed nicely, put up on blog. That show’s on tonight, the one on BRAVO, about the startups. Yes, I’m going to watch, as I do admire what they’re doing, even that beetle-headed harpy, Sarah Austin. I’m critical of her, again, as she self-presents with this persona-dousing luminousness, as if she isn’t to be questioned. I ask: does she write? Does she Creatively express, think critically? Does she write well? [Not that I’ve found.] And with some of her “life casting,” is there any substance of enriching ingredient? [Haven’t found any, yet.] But even still, I do admire her urge, her persistence with her “vision.” Oh, and she’s a “TV personality.” Can’t omit that accolade.
Closing session. Class tomorrow, cutting short, as the students are all but flighted with their research topics. Hopefully by now, as I sit here, they’re typing. Next semester, poking at my anxiety’s puddle. I’m swirled in ambition, trepidation; fearlessness, restraining fright. I have to do it, as I know I need the funds for this blog, if it’s ever to be a “business.” I’m not tapping even 1 investor, “VC,” or potential partner.
Aiming 2B a 1man show, like Kaz.
And like my lovely, ever-effulgent mother says: “At this point, it’s all or nothing.”