Liked, Loved, Moderately’d

2/20/13.  Again roped into fantasies of travel, learning today that one of my co-workers is only days away from a 3-week promenade around Europe.  Starting in Paris, no less.  Was tempted to post a poem from phone, before sitting for this entry.  But then I thought, what’s more Artistic, what’s more likely to get me to my city, to Europe’s rest?  I will be typing after this, but for ONE of my books.  Nothing else.  I know, more promises from the writer.  But, reader, know I’m at a crucial precipice currently.  I either do, or don’t.

Had a tasting in lab, today, of five wines.  At first, I was told to just look for some type of common thread between the pours.  There was commonality.  And contrast.  Made me think of my writings, these standalone pieces.  I want there to be consistency, of course, but variation as well.  Bored with this topic and thought stream.. just thought I’d let you know what happened today.

Tasting Room, for the most part, quite busy.  Met two Canadians, an older couple from British Colombia.  The woman, discrete, a definite listener, whereas the husband refused to stop his sentences, questions.  Have to re-read something I wrote really quick, a letter of recommendation..  Be right back…

There.  One less item off writer’s plate.  My life has to be simple, if I’m ever to travel.  My friend told me he’s not checking even 1 bag.  Traveling light.  I would do just the same, on such travel.  The most prized artifact would be the journal.  And even that would be light, in note-form.  Just as I did when in Paris, in ’09.  I’d probably use device, in such instance.  Keep a photo log, or something.  Ideas bubbling, now.  Have to see world, write about it.  Going away to write for a couple weeks, as my Dad went away for his trips, then back home to my family– my little Artist, Jackie.

Without specificity, there was another reminder meteor that collided with my existence, emphasizing how cannibalistic this industry can be.. how NO ONE can be trusted; How you have to look out for Self, 1st.  And that’s what I’ve always done.  As Dad urges to me, “You work for YOU.” True.  I’m a writer, maybe a bit of a winemaker.  But I’m no one’s servant.  I say, sipping Chardonnay, 2nd night rowed.  When was the last time that  was written, typed, or even said?  Everyone knows I hold aversion to white Burgundy.  But, unexpectedly, I’m consistent, two nights, in its sip.

Most of today, in tasting Room, I simply thought, daydreamed about future, potential direction.  What I’m still doing, here in kitchen nook, at bow of dying roses I bought for Alice on Valentine’s.  Each head, pointed down, at tables crumby surface, garnished in Kerouac evidence.  Think they’re offering keys to road.  But I can’t translate.  Not right away.  Need to write out.. brainstorm, like my students.

Frustrated.  Just tried locating book efforts, and couldn’t.  I’m too scattered, on this evil appendage.  Done typing for night.  Off to paper.  This has seriously been happening for the past.. I don’t know, 14 years or so, since that first SSU term.  Maybe longer.  It stops tonight.  I need to see my city.  Again.  Soon.

And more.

On.  The.  Road.