Toss Stairs

1/18/13.  7:58am.  Paid.  Not sure how to divvy funds.  Have to think.  Almost to house savings goal for month.  Need to think about it over mocha.  Shooting videos today, definitely.  Not saving them on camera.  Only posting to blog.  Book almost done.  Feels good to type prose again for bx, this morning.  Logging off.  Needing office.  MY space, my BUSINESS.  MY WORLD.

9:43pm.  Mood, sunk.  Not sure what it is.  Well, I quite do.  All this writing I do for “blogging,” still no moving manuscript manifested.  Sipping some sparkling something.  Not fond of it, frankly.  Doesn’t help me feel free.  Took quite a bit of  notes today, in tasting Room.  Honestly, right now, I’m asking mySelf “Why are you writing for the blog?” This should be in something salable.  Haven’t I been typing and writing that for years?  Relaxing, taking step back.  This semester, my most reverberant project ever.  Just refilled glass..  Was going to open that bottle of ’11 single vineyard, 100% clone 1, Sauvignon Blanc.  But Alice’s gifting of this bubbly bottle has me oddly cast, motivated.  The author’s having trouble with concentration, he won’t lie.  Not from the sparkles in this cylindrical scope, but more so from my currency, memories of the box– that cube, the computer, the phone, the weird lunch breaks at “desk,” with that horrible Texan-mimicked food.  Wish I could return to that cube, to be honest, as that’s where real feeling, in anger, resentment, materialized for marketable material.  Now, I feel, the author may be too comfortable.

These blogs, nothing but thorns.  Not manuscripts.  Finding that novels won’t immediately be my tree.  Just collections, just as Ms. Plath did.  Kerouac, other like-poets.  Keeping my fingers in actions.  More tired than I thought I’d be at 10:05p.  Last glass of sparkling wine, fighting.  The show that’s on, what is it saying?  My paragraphs, a petty punctilio, I’m understanding.  But maybe that’s my genre.  Looking at these photos, from today and over last 7-8 days.  Not posting them, as I want to be seen as writing fiend, not with a tech sept.  And, the yawns swarm.

What do I do?  Tomorrow, behind the bar again.  Where the writing stays.  Characters today, rather forceful with inquiry.  How many barrels are in 75,000 cases?  Asked myself, “And what will it matter when I give you and answer?  What will it do for you?”  Love the wine, will always.  But the industry, some consumers making it an “industry,” just aggravating.  Is that Art?  Of course not. 

In the 20’s, in Paris, there were no blogs.  No social media, email, tech distraction.  No devilish cell phones.  Times were simple, truly Artful.  This entry, more Wine Retaliation, as I’m only interested in drinking it, anymore.  How can something consumable be taken seriously, have any theory or serious study circling its sphere?  Clownish…  Need whatever’s left in bottle, which I don’t think is much, as Alice and I have been attacking occupant.  Before bed, envisioning binding, what this semester’s going to write, type, publish for me.  All thanks be to course…