Home sick. Thought it was food poisoning. But it’s the stomach stint Alice had. About to nap, just wanted to check in. I have been writing a little today, reader, mostly pen2paper, as my philosophy, PRACTICE, demands. Off to dreams. Be well… [2:40pm]
Woke at 4:45p, about. Groggy, still sick–light-headed, achy, nauseous–worthless. After a couple Ibuprofen, I’m ready for light sessions. Want to go to work tomorrow, redeem Self for material today not gathered. Thought stretching through day: how energetic Jack is, at 5:30 or :40-something when I go to his room, answer his summons. Glad I’m not to have any wine tonight, fall asleep earlier, much earlier, than usual. Focusing, or re-focusing on being healthy, everything from what I ingest to exercise. To write, I have to be living.. with the living, to capture them as Characters.
No work bag down here with me. Just this monstrous button batch and screen, little notebook, and Comp Book. Again, simplicity. All in my Creative practice has to be simple, clean.. findable! Just looking through some of the old photographs I “retouched,” uploaded to blog. Need to play with photography the same way I play with wine. Not take it seriously. Another sip of this dwarfed 8 oz Ginger Ale can, I think of all the pictures I’ve taken with my cameras, phone. Or, PHONES [as a couple of them have died.. devilish tech]. But I don’t want to stray from my writing too much. Or at all. Have to find some Equilibrium taste somewhere in that curiosity/imagination cloud.
Was only at work this morning for, maybe, an hour. Felt horrible leaving my crew. I’ll make it up to them in morrow, while still satisfying what I need done for this book. OH that tasting Room, its characters. Challenging, hilarious, maddening, revolting, encouraging, lovely; innocent, curious, persistent, eager– There’s nothing I don’t love about them. Once more, for the WRITING. Everything comes from them. They ARE my stage. Need another pour of these sweetened Canada bubbles.
Symptoms: occurring, recurring. It frustrates me, as I want to be in a newly heightened health, be “high on life,” trite as it trails from my writing, or typing, fingers. Alice ordered I cancel her birthday dinner tomorrow night, at Equus here in Santa Rosa, so we can both have the celebratory outing in our best states. I’ll concede, I was a little disappointed, anticipating I’ll be much better in tomorrow’s intro through conclusion, but it’s her birthday. She decides, not I. And, quite frankly, she’s right. I do look forward to exploring that wine list, menu. Trying to keep Self from wine, or any artisanal beer I love, till then. Part of my existence intoxication aim. And, I want to see how MY character changes when I don’t have a glass of wine with dinner, or beer when I arrive home, or usual sipNscribble sessions. Like I said days ago, and really have been saying for a time: I. Need. Difference.
Managed to get a poem out earlier. The little writing I mentioned earlier.. Want to play more with language, do what poetry allows. I am collecting my prose for book’s sake, yes, but I’ll always love the freedom POETRY demands, gifts. Think I should have some soup, just to inject some fuel into this writing barge. Rest of night, cubism, in this Comp Book. Already looking forward to bed. Can’t sat it e-bloody-nough: I hate being sick, to any degree. Only 7:06pm. If I fall into dream’s land soon, I’ll be more than ready for that little barking Artist, his newest movements. Alice and I, today especially, amazed at how fast he’s grown. Time, winning again. So I keep writing. I have to.
8:27pm. TV off. Set for bed. But there’s laundry that needs finishing. Interesting situation, really. 1 hour. Of COMPLETE quiet, down here. So what else would a writer do. But write. Know I said I’d hop over to Comp Book, but I want to keep this Room dark. The keypad: bright, brazen.
Don’t want to stay home tomorrow, honestly. HAVE to check on my wines. Maybe top both barrels. I’ll rack the Merlot on Tuesday. IS their Adventure in this sitting? Yes, if I fictionalize, imagine mySelf– No, put mySelf in Paris, or Barcelona. Kelly, probably in some hotel right now, sipping a glass of whatever Syrah’s on the menu. She never really goes for white wine. The red, she feels, especially Syrah, fits her moments painting. She feels that white wines lack the virile nature she needs for her works. I see her in Barcelona, with a small sketch pad, and camera, trapping what’ll pay her rent, fill her fridge, keep her away from Their clocks.
8:36pm. Would love to fall asleep right now. But I have to stay up, to pull our clothes from that dryer. Alice said that all three washing machines were motioned, and I don’t want another sludge from this complex to take our clothes out, put it on that filthy forsaken table. I’m infuriated to no limit when that happens. So, I’m keeping Self conscious. And I get to write a little, so…
Dark Room writing. My office, I’m sure I’ll have a number of these sittings. Know I’m close to Autonomy. Right. There. […] But I have some puzzle needing solving. One I can’t find. Unfair, yes, but a challenge I’m quite sure I’ll enjoy. Composition Book, right in front of me, resting on the ottoman. Should really logoff this monster, get to real writing– Boring Self, topic next. But what? I’m not sipping any wine, which does feel incredible, I won’t lie. When Jack and I meet in the morning, he may not be ready for my readiness. I’ll walk into the tasting Room with a sharp steadiness in my scribbling strut.
Distracted again by device, social media. This stops tonight. Right now. I envy the time when these evilly colored trinkets didn’t exist. The characters enjoying those free days.
Paper, ink, waiting for their host.