aggression guess

10:34pm.  Only 86 minutes [Did I add that right, subtract?] left in ’12.  Sipping an ’09 Zin.  One of my favorites.  Just saw a writing movie, one new, that has me flurried, ever more in praise of efforts on actual paper.  I’m just doing this for blog, again to let you know what I’m thinking.  MY list of 2do’s for the next 7 days, increasing.  Much of it involving wine, food, writing, publishing–SELF-publishing, and simple Life enjoyment.  The publishing world, publishers, so corrupt.  That’s accusation mild.  So EVIL, artless.  Need a sip just thinking of it.  That’s why I’m Self-printing.  Have to.  Won’t carryon on with it, just going to sip…

This wine, reciting lines.  Wonder if it lies, as I want it to.  A friend of mine, from the old neighborhood, posted on a social media account that 2012 was the best year of her life, career-wise.  At 13’s close–no, at its mid–I’ll be just as joyous.  More.  These coming 7 days, rewriting everything.  Writing more somethings.  BOOKS.  All paginated.  I’m not waiting for some devilish, anti-Literary/free-thinking/expression/integrity building demon to accept my work, give me permission to be what I see.  I’m independent.  So Equilibrium’s achieved.  Autonomy.

Just venting.  And yes, it’s the wine’s lines.  But Mom’s right.  I need to read more, starting with these 7 days.  My goal list, or TARGET list as I’d rather it call, expanding.  Some I just leave off, hoping I satisfy them capriciously.  Heater just ignited.  Wonder how cold it is on this window’s otherworld side.  Looking at my journal, the new.  What am I writing tonight?  About wine?  OR rhyme.  I’d rather jot songs, speeded.  But the Zin’ll make sure that’s a bit challenging, I’m sure.  And as I write, hoping for honesty, I find repetition.  Again, blaming wine.  Sunriver, where Mom and Dad are.. that snow, that REAL cold, actual weather conditions, would birth something showing shine, sign.  But I can’t keep this wish list going in my paragraphs.  So, report present.  But what’s that, right now?  I’m at the same table, typing on the usual laptop, sipping a wine from the winery.  Same story, boring.  Over these next 7 days, going to attempt, deathly, to find difference.  New experience, glowing story, that newness I need.

Maybe I should take a cruise to Bodega Bay.  Write in new journal, stopping randomly on road’s side while west.  And then when there, write more.  About what I see, while alone.  A writer’s mission, that only writers, and true readers, those devoted, would understand, appreciate.

One year ago, I was working at the box.  Well, I was writing in a countdown on the 1st blog, getting ready to start the new, this one.  And here I am, counting down with everyone else, like a cowardly clown, in drowning gown.  Doesn’t have to be that way, though.  I’m standing alone, like my pieces, this sitting.  Not sure where I was going with that, reader, but I’m on truth’s carousel.  Thinking of graduate school, when I found I was accepted.  I was at my desk, in the insurance office.  Got a call on my cell phone, the lady saying “Congratulations!  Are you excited?” Was I “excited.” I nearly hopped onto my desk, starting Fred Astaire-ing.  That was in late ’02, I think.  10 years ago.  TEN.  Time, again reminding me of its arsenal.

Waking early tomorrow, to take Alice & Little Kerouac to airport.  Just remembered.  Should be back in base by 12p.  One, latest.  Soon as the author returns, I’ll be authoring.  Need these two books finished.  Money’s aside, set.  This solitude, promised to be my most profitable yet.

10:55pm.  And now what.  I’m just writing, passing time.  With wine, of course.  Wish I was in Oregon, with Mom and Dad, Alice & Jack, playing in snow, me writing in earliest of hours, to home-brewed black.  Have to get up early, so I should retired pretty soon.  Really soon, actually.  Hear Alice watching the countdown.  She should get to bed soon as well.  Poor thing, sniffling, symptoms, slow.  And she has to be on a 5 to 6-hour plane skate with our discrete monkey.  Hate thinking about them by themselves, alone on that plane.  But that’s how I am, neurotic, unrealistic, frantic, crazed.  That’ll kill me before the wine does, I’m sure.  But anyway, just going to miss them, here.  Especially little Jack, his intensifying audible range.

It’s the end [at first wrote “ned” .. wine showing itself] of the year…  Aren’t I supposed to write some opera entry, affirming, re-affirming, declaring something?  No.  I’m circling.  But I’m seated, typing.  And sipping Sonoma Valley Zin.  Lovely.  And ugly.  Dichotomy, duality.  Me.  Gemini ride.  Just heard the 11 o’clock news come on, reporting on the “fiscal cliff.” Frankly, I’m indifferent.  My life won’t be contrasted one way, or other.  Know that sounds ignorant, dismissive, but that’s what the Zin’s telling me2say.  Probably won’t post this till tomorrow, as I’m too tired to edit.  And I’ll be up in less than 7hrs.  Least I’m writing.  NOW.

Many Jack items on this table.  His Life, at his bow.  What could he be thinking, at THIS stage?  It’s so early, I know.  Would just like, LOVE, to know what’s going through his thoughts.  How it’d be worded.  How he’d it word.  53 minutes away, my newest year.  Again thinking of what I was writing 365 days rear.  My mind, then, volatile.  Blame the box.  And that book WILL be written in this year’s crook.  It has to be.  Want to put that whole polluted patch behind me.

Just took last Zin sip.  Let it breathe for about an hour before 1st sip.  So now, it’s been in air for over 2, probably near 3.  Oh yeah, definitely.. easily.  Want another glass, but saving Self for tomorrow’s simulated office session.  Going to pretend that this condo’s my office.  How would I have it all arranged, set?  Where would the wine stash be put?  Where would I sit?  Where would the owner/writer write?  11:11p.  “Make a wish,” so many twits post on social media.  But me, I just try to fill a page.  In ’13, thinking of new approached with this “blog.” Incorporating more of what’s antithetical to a “blog.”

And Alice is upstairs, to bed.  Waking at 6am.  For some reason, I’m strangely excited, looking forward to cruel morning call.  Makes me think of Dad’s career, how he strong he was with those brutal arrivals, departures.  How DID he do that?  Could I do something of that scale?  Probably.  I’ll find out when I’m traveling with my journals, jumping state-to-state, across water bodies with my pages.  11:20pm, at I’m over 1k.  Should have timed Self.  How long did it take me to get here?  Can probably measure that out…  Think that could serve as prompt for many aspects, elements, road-crossings in this writer’s Life.  Next year at door.  Want to write more.  Off to paper, ink.  Wined think.