Appropriately Proportioned [2/10/13’s 1,000 words]

Keeping tonight simple, with these entries.  Today, on Mountain.  2 tours.  The last beginning at 3:30p, the most serenely cinematic set of conditions to which I’ve ever been exposed.  The sun, just beginning its descent, gentle air with poetic shifts.  Blending my wine with winemaker on Tuesday.  Excited, immensely.  Did a little research today, before my 2 tours, on supply costs, carboys, tubes, yeast strains, oak cubes, what I’d need.  Also read an interesting article on the dilemma of finding space, for home winemakers.  As I live in a condo, with Alice and little Kerou’, here is NOT in any way an option.  Didn’t take many notes today, as I was in & out of that musty van.  But, I did note some suggestions from the ’09 “Estate” Cab, which I’m now entertaining, in home glass.  “Shape sense fence.. enigmatically electric, colorfully yielded.” Not really sure what I mean by any of that, but that’s what I wrote in moment.  That’s truth, fully forthright.

Thinking of my former student’s question the other day, “What’s your prime project?” Not sure.  And why do I have to have one “prime?” Why can’t my curve continue kaleidoscopically?  I know she wasn’t surging interrogatively, but it ruffled me.  Why can’t the process be my project?  Not sure…  Distracted, here in house, with all these floating objects, nebula nudges.  So what does a writer do, to get on the Road, to see his beloved city of Paris again?  Keep writing, I guess.  I mean, really, what else can I do?  When I think of my city, how far away it is, I fall through optimism’s thin glass sheet.  And now my mood AGAIN descends, seeing the power of this laptop.. 18%, battery’s fill, red.  Sick of tech’s neck, its rip.  Need another sip.

The views from that mountaintop, again in sight.  Need to do tour on day off, as tourist.  Immerse Self in others’ role.  That’d be platter silver for writing’s liver.  Need difference.  And with deconstruction in my current octaval obtrusion, I can only see growth in doing everything opposite.  So by that rationale, I should stop with these ’09 sips, no?  No.  My excuse: studying to be a winemaker, catch my sister, start my own label, write about it.  ALL.  That would be my “prime” project.  It’s much bigger than this page.  It’s all leading to…  And as I’ve said:  Many times the most Literary act is not writing at all.  ‘Cause it’ll slingshot you into fruition.  You hold it interiorly for so long that you have to rush a manuscript, purge what suppresses you, haunts your progression.  I’m probably not making sense, so I’ll go ahead and blame this cubist Cabernet contortion; its giddy palate impromptu architecture; Why would I NOT want to make wine?  I’m an Artist.  I have to.  Bottled contents serve as annex to my journaled hurdles.

Tomorrow, my “pseudo Friday,” as I say to Mary.  Class Tuesday night, all about how to turn brainstorming into paragraphs.  How do I know that I have the answers?  I don’t, honestly.  I only have suggestions.  But what if my suggestions hurt them down line?  Part of the reason I think this might be my last semester, ever.  Well, till Stanford.  Down to 8%, so I have to turn off this little rodent convenience.  Off to newJournal.  Only rhyme, the most disorganized efforts I can separate, scribe.  That’s Art, all in which I hope to ever live.

10:09pm.  The ’09, having me think about MY varietal.  It has to be Cabernet.  What else would it be?  Definitely not Chardonnay, or even SB.  Syrah, Merlot.. don’t know.  Have news turned on.  Mood changes.  Can’t take this seriousness.  My character, she’d turn it off, listen to music, paint.  When can’t I step in her clef?  Think I sipped that Cab too quick.  Waiting till next.  Me, statue.. trapped, glued.

Want my objective flown before 11p.  But why these limits, or even “goals?” This nature, surreptitious.. they see me suspicious.  But I just record what’s observed.  Qualm curved.  I might be exaggerating, the paranoid writer.  If I were in battle, it’d be appropriate.  What if I volunteered to “ride along” with patrols in Iraq, Afghanistan, for the writing?  Would the people around the penner approve?  No.  And they shouldn’t.  I have a son.  So what should I do?  I guess research.  And yes, this provoked by Mr. E.H.  I’ve never been TRULY tested.  I need to be.  Outside character.  But I’m just doing the wish list thing, again.  Creative affray…  End day.

If were at war, I’d only have memory.  I couldn’t sit, scribble as I usually do.  Just what I need, really.. to not write in moment, then later scribe solely from recollection.  The tasting Room, war sometimes.  I mean, with my perspective, world view, which I suppose is somewhat sheltered.  It’d inject discipline, valuable habit.  Feel like now, even with “responsibility” of a son, I glossily wander.  Shame, another.

But maybe I should do something with this cozy front.  What?  Make something up, right?  Isn’t that what fiction writers do?  Isn’t that what she, my character, Kelly, does with her paintings?  Wanted to stay simple, but I get complicated, too quick.  IT’s okay, this thought drum’s warranted, fiercely, honestly.  My wine, future tasting Room, speaking to me.  Feel like it’s disappointed, this vision, with me, its abetter.  “That’s unfair,” I want to say.  But I’m a Self-slay.  Especially with this social media.  No games, this I flag a true struggle.  A new juggle.

12 minutes till 11p.  Haven’t sipped the Cab in a bit.  Should I, now?  Not sure.  Should be studying French, as I was a couple days past.  Okay…  Lutte!  All I know, these days, especially as one of pen.  But the still I just saw of Mr. H was him connected to legal sheets, it looked like.  This typing, bastardly, I feel.  This, a device.  Not happy with what I feel pushing these buttons.  Let it be known, in this session:  I hope I wake hours before I usually do.  4am, would be incredible.  Record only notes.  That’s more Literary than these bloody screens.  Think I AM at war.  With what I love most.  The process, the act of Creating.  Why can’t a manuscript materialize, already?  Why can’t this be as formulaic as making wine?  And yes, I just offered that.  Has to be the hour talking, now.  But I fall into date’s closure thinking about war, trial, what shape this writing would take if I were truly tested, if I had survived something.  Find Self watching war documentaries…  Stalingrad, Verdun, Basra.  Feel like this writer hasn’t contributed to causes mirrored.  Would have loved to fight against evil, at any point.  Me, here, still on couch, writer–  er, typing.  Cabernet, gone.  Good, the writer need sleep.  Eager, another 4shot mocha.