Trying to stick to writing routine strict, tonight. Book, blog, ink. That simple. My SB glass, quite full. Taking time with it. Want a little more oxygen in its borders. Watching a movie I first saw in Reno, 2002, with my old friend Chris. Haven’t spoken to him since 2007. Not sure what happened. To him, to us. I’ve stopped thinking about it in recent years, especially since having little Kerouac. In an awkward sitting position, with this devilish laptop on sofas arm, as that’s how far the power cord’ll extend. My right wrist’s inside, resting against device’s edge. Hurts, irks, a little. Hate this device dependency. You know what, with 27% energy, I’m unplugging.
Ah… My readers, much better. Freedom. And when I’m on ink, sheet, even more aflight. Looking at this blog’s “document,” here on monster.. 429 pages. I’ll be honest, I’m a little aback at that. And it’s not even really a significant sliver of my entire written body. Need to start compiling. Not mattering how unrefined. Want everything to have some semblance of title, and a page–may be shared or sovereign. Want to start a list. Going to call it, my “All List.” Will include everything, even efforts written on this “blog.” And I want every piece more or less dated. This is a monumental declaration for me as one of pen. I’m in meaningful re-shift. Written culture, MINE, inventoried. By me.
Haven’t had a sip yet, of this last SB glass. This morning’s tasting with winemaker, still on mind. Quite heavily, really. Not sure what my final reaction is. Some offerings I embrace, others I leave. That’s my right as one in “the industry.” But I don’t want to talk about “the industry” tonight. Want to enjoy my wine, my Art. That’s what she’d tell me to do. That’s how she arrive where she is, in true Equilibrium– just enjoying, doing what she wants.
Scattered thoughts. When in doubt, blame the wine, right? May be busy in Room tomorrow. Tasting. Room. […] Love those words when blended, the concept, stage, Art it represents. Just had a memory from the box, sorry have to note it: the flyer from winery, promoting all the owner’s winemakers, the new releases they’ll bring, talk about, on some cruise. I just thought to mySelf, “HIS winemakers?” Artists are NEVER owned. That’s why I proudly Self-publish. No publisher owns me, my work, has “rights” to a bloody line I’ve lit in any of my Lit. Just feeling that many times winemakers could do more if they fully believed in their releases. It’s a shame when some marketing team, or manager death squad, or know-all-about-wine-production owner steers the true creator. IT maddens me, actually. Dangerously. And I’m a free writer, so I have no hold in throwing these thoughts.
17% on this machine. Think I may early close. Tired of chasing power. The journal, needeth these moments.. random poetry prisms. Imagining where this session, this disciplined sequence’ll take the penman. Only imagined, at this point. Closer to my office, well as the Road, as I’ve ever been. Thankful I remolded my earlier mood. Needing another sip, now that I have something worthy of toast.