1/24/13, 5:30am. Barelycorn session. Somewhat. Jack’s up. No time for book. Can’t be still for long, give it its deserved attention. I’ll do that later today, when on campus. Or not. Not sure. Like how I don;t have a chance to edit, how I have to guerilla-write my passages, entries. Jack’s speaking, calling my name with congealed annunciation. Think he may have a cold. Or it could be teething. Either way, he’s providing the writer challenge. Hard to get a sentence onto screen. When I do, its own successful standalone. Jack’s defining my new style. One utterly moment’d. Right now, even at this harsh hour, he’s sings.. snifflingly silly.
***
4:04pm. At Strbucks, 12 & Mission. Been up since 4:53a, when I pulled Little Kerouac from his crib. Leaving for campus in 12 minutes. Have to copy the notes I typed. Glad I typed them today, as it leaves me with somewhat of a standalone for day. And that’s how I have to look at it, these two classes, if I’m to survive the semester, not get exhausted.
The blending seminar–or TRIALS–this morning with winemaker.. amazing. That’s all I can say, use an overused word. Recharging my passion for barreled/bottled Creativity. We had a great discussion after our work involving everything from barreling, yeast strains, fining, bottling, to budgeting. And I thought, “There it is again, budgeting.” Just as my sister emphasized. I need to establish a budget for mySelf, for ’13. Only doing 1 wine, but 2 barrels of– or maybe a blend. Not sure. But winemaking’s on my mind more than this night’s classes, hate to say. 4:07pm. This mocha’s 3 shots, forcing writer to type fast, faster.
The book. I’ll look at it tonight. Not sure how awake I’ll be to donate anything useful. Leaving in 7. Now 6. And I hit block. not even paying attention to characters around me. I’m in my world.
For 1nce.
Have to look at older entries for 2nd book. Both blogs. And all my little notebooks, Comp Books.. and the wandering sheets. But where do I start? Well, with my writing style, which responds to how little time there is (especially with an 11-month old), it doesn’t matter what pages I pull. they all make sense, adhere to my thematic/elemental consistency.
Listening to music in these last 3 minutes. Don’t want to go, at moment. Would rather be home with Kerouac, write, open something red. Should I let them out early tonight? In my honest paginated lean, I have to confess that’s what passes through my petrified pulse. Should I have a coffee for road? No. Rely on words. But will that work? Does this penner fool himself full?
5:13, :14pm. Instructor’s lounge. Have notes printed, 30 copies each. Starting to feel a little hunger nudge. And the caffeine wears. How am I going to get through these hours? I’m just going to. Push through it. Just do my job. Just going to move slow, but keep movement moving. Can’t wait to be home, in bed. All I’m fantasizing.
Just how tired the writer sits.
9:31pm. :32. Home. Just had light dinner, last night’s burrito remnants. Sipping Little Sumpin’. And now, not tired. Hope little K sleeps, sleeps well. Tonight’s sessions: lively, rich, interactive, valuable. For me, yes, but hopefully students all same. Can’t stop thinking about this morning’s blending trials. I found it all too artful, how when the wines were blended they offered their own inclusive steer.
NOTE: Wine club member [wife] complementing how I speak of the wines.
Back in reserve room, morrow. Tonight, the writer needs sleep. At least five hours of. All I’m hoping for. But, in no’s event, I’ll assume wine soldiery. Sip, scribble way through day. The only way. News’ll be on soon. Only going to watch for its white noise effect. Already heard enough informative chords this morning, when playing with Jack down here.
Wish I had my own vineyard, someone to show me how to care for it. Want to start making wine IN the vineyard. Next wine I open, to be one with stepping sequence. NO, stomping progression in its tide. Have a couple in mind, I think. Promise I would look at book, but honestly, I’d rather finish the rhymed bits I started before class, touched when back in car after sessions, and on way home. Poetry, 4ever calling ME. Need another beer. Why? Just want to enjoy my evening, as Hemingway enjoyed his sittings with wine. In Paris. OR at least I’m imagining.
Kelly, not concerned with my table. Or I should say, she WOULD be concerned with a table like mine. Its contents. She IS what I’m envisioning. Freedom, Art, Travel, Ease. MY fate– That Equilibrium I’ve always mentioned. Starting to even more so think that poetry’s going to get me there quicker than prose. Have to continue writing as songwriters do.. quick, truthfully, moment-based– when it’s fresh.
2nd, open. Now, news on. And just as I thought, everything I saw this morning. This isn’t “information,” it’s a re-sell. This is just accumulated nihilism speaking, curved by exhaustion. Can’t believe I’m still awake. Another sip. Slightly celebratory. New story.