Sunday. Wine. Like a comet into my cognition. Put another 500 words into book. Thinking it’s more suited to a length of 300 pages. But would someone read that? YES! If it’s prodigious in its paragraphs, perpetuation. That’ll be my challenge to Self. I have to produce a lambent Literary work, with this release. Tonight, sipping 2010 Cab. And it’s genius. It’s above my analysis, written reaction.
Editors, no need to with those slugs deal. The vineyards tonight, when shift ended.. cinematic. Above awards, media, this entry, the footage I shot with my friend Sam. How do we appreciate what’s around us here in Sonoma, adequately? My Artistry, angular– Negative, from analysis itself.
Turned off the documentary I was watching. Now, Channel 7 News. Poured Self night’s cap. Would take a picture of glass, for this “blog,” but it’s a logo [glass] from that molded Dry Creek facility. Seems like so long ago, with that incompetent “manager.” What do any of these wine “industry” managers know? They’re managers, attempted directions. If they knew so much about wine, they’d be making it.
Wine, again. I whine while I write. A blogged vent. How I protrude fangs at that word, “blog.” Hemingway never dealt with this tech omnipresence. He just wrote. Pen, paper. Really, I see mySelf as a victim, of my time, the available immediacies. If I were to be alive in idealized time, it’d be between 1939 & 1969. Or anytime where there was NO internet. What happened to BOOKS? Kindle = DEVIL. Need another sip.
Loving my wine.
The oscars. Why do people care so much? What about independent films? Projects that don’t need some monster company’s “okay.” Grooming, or re-, my perspective. Attitude abscission. Writing my way through–
Weather. Where’s the rain? Now, a report on privacy. Makes me need more wine for my writing. Maybe for night’s rest I should dock my dialogue, diatribe.. just enjoy the wine.
(2/24/13)
***
2/25/13 — 1,000 words into book. Tired. Would love to just vegetable Self into this couch. But I can’t. Why, I’m a writer. Yes, I do this view a curse. Looking at the page amount, or count, for this document.. 447 pages. And no book because…
TV, death. Visual death capsule. Reminds me of the News, all these reality shows pushing us into complacency. Separate subject, today’s weather: utterly inexplicable. Supernal. Like Spring. Took much more stills than I ever projected. And, managed to get in some writing while setting up Mountaintop. The view from up there… I should find a way to have an hour’s session on that deck, see what results. Already fantasizing about tomorrow morning’s coffee. The afternoon sitting at whichever coffee shop I elect. More than likely 12 & Mission. The one on Farmers.. not sure, just an odd dynamic, tone, feel. Was going to transfer the day’s notes, from Comp Book and little pages, into book project. But I’m simply too tired at this point. These old writings, not scaring me anymore. Wondering why I was ever scared to read past efforts. And what would I have done with them, if I’d never returned out of fear? Just leaving them in that plastic box in my closet? Not tolerating fear, of any of these prior sheets.
One entry, from February 2003: “Grad school. I’m here. Finally.” Found this notebook in my desk’s depths. But, asking myself where this page’ll go.. don’t know. Why can’t I stop writing, just enjoy the rest of my evening? Going to. Now. Not offering Self options. I’ll stare at imaginary stars, see what happens, see what she says. Idea rest.
2/26/13. February’s end, already. 7:39am, up with Kerouac. Coffee in progress here in condo castle. I keep Self in futile vacillation over what shape my books should take. Why am I OVERTHINKING? No more.
Jack tosses my phone on floor. Don’t blame him.. I’d love to destroy it altogether. One less connection, anchor for the writer. DECIDING… My first book will be 102 pages. Again, DECIDED. I’ll be compiling and writing [adding to] it this afternoon, in between papers. Just had first couple coffee sips. Maybe I should pick a different writing spot this afternoon. Would that would bring about more truth? Have to break pattern as much as I can.. find all the New I’m able. Jack, now, right by keyboard. He’s telling me to stop typing, enjoy my morning with him, my coffee. To live for a bit, I can always write later. And I will. I have to, if I’m to be a writer. This “blog” not Literary. Yes, it shows that I’m writing, thinking about writing, my books. But it’s not Literary practice.
Second coffee cup. Watching little Jack play with some auto-rolling ball that speaks, sings, circles back to him. I really should follow his urgency, I’m thinking. If I feel something should be captured, I’ll trap it in Comp Book. This morning actually has the feel of a “day off,” believe or no. Not many characters in tasting Room yesterday, but Sunday and Saturday were abundant; luxuriant, plenteous. What that Room, the wines within poured, then sampled, does to characters, I’ll always find astounding. Maybe “astounding”’s too strong, but that’s how I’m reacting right now.
Thinking of my coworker, who’s over in Europe, traveling, observing, exploring, actually LIVING.. can only imagine what I would write with 3 weeks in Europe, with his itinerary. Looking up pictures of Barcelona, of course my city [Paris], Rome, Venice, Naples… Just starting at the stills of Barcelona has me even more impatient for travel. How else am I to experience anything as a penner? I have to travel. But those jaunts must be warranted, specially commissioned by some level of success. So, with this first release, I’m selling all. Specific objective: not so much monetary as it is familiarity, recognition and reputation. Tired of being referred to as a blogger, or worse “social media guy.” One lady the other day, someone from 3rd floor, said, “Well I’m not quite the social media guru that you are.” I cut her off, civilly but candidly, responding, “I’m not a a social media guru. I’m not a social media GUY. I’m a writer. I just know how to use social media and make it work for me sometimes.” I’ll soon be known as a page peddler. Selling my actual pages. Not worry bout links, or “tags” when I post. That’s something that’s really been digging into and under my armor: tags. I just had a thought, how would Picasso’s work have been different if he had to consider all this nonsense, especially tags? He didn’t. And he wouldn’t now. He’d reject it. He’d find it limiting. He just created, then released. Precisely what I see him doing in 2013’s parameters. This technological, digital, “social” element.. ceaseless in how it me abrades. So, I change my Creative curves to it combat. No more reliance. Only definite defiance.
9:15am. Still typing. 28% left on laptop. Now, Jack thumbs through the book I bought him at xmas, containing animal pictures, poetically abbreviated prose, other engaging visuals. Then he looks over at me, “Did you hear what I said?” I imagine him thinking. I did, indeed, yes, but this is addictive, this capturing from consciousness, molding into composition. Jack, tireless. Tried putting him down for a little early snoozing, but he refused. so he’s already familiar with persistence. He’s now on the floor, solving realities, certain innocent cause & effect examples. Already over 500 words for morning. Alice, at gym, bringing me a mocha, my usually morning 3-shotter. Not sure I need it, but I will persist with this capturing list. Have to put mind in teaching mode, at some point. Can’t get the Barcelona photos from my sight, what my friend must be seeing there. Actually, I don’t think he’s there yet.. probably still in Paris. 23% now. Logging off. Hate that phrase. Just closing, for now.