Lost Taxi

Tired from day.  One mountaintop tour.  Couldn’t believe the elements up there.  Would have just picked a plot, my own spot, if I wasn’t on tour.  Had planned to go straight to the Art supply store in Montgomery Village after work.  I actually skipped my usually post-shift SB glass to get there with timely tune.  But, just before needed turn, from Mission, I took left on Summerfield, back to castle.  What it is, as I see.. I don’t want anything, even another Art body, potential portfolio, to take from the writing, this book.  Not till it’s done.  Not till I’m on road.  No writing in book tonight, as I need to just freely hover.  As one penning.

Memory:  Walks Dad and I would take through Big Basin, I think it’s called, when we lived in Boulder Creek.  This whole day, pulled by memory hands.  Never see them coming.  They just shoulder tap.  Only tour to top, with a young couple celebrating an anniversary.  18 years, they told me.  Hard to believe, as they looked about my age.  Probably younger.  They were from DC [Daily City].  I couldn’t help but think of Palo Alto, San Mateo, Redwood City, Burlingame.. everywhere I used to stomp.  Then, for elemental story seasoning, a man from Menlo Park, in tasting Room, just before we close.  If I were one to read into progressions, this shift told me to look into past days.  But for what?  Need another beer.  Maybe the rest of that Cab, a little less than a full glass.  […]  Just opened another Little Sumpin’.  Giving Self deadline tonight.  11pm, in bed.  What’s my enterprise with 2nite’s sitting?  Just to enjoy the quiet downstairs.

Didn’t grade any of the papers I brought today.  Shame.  And even more critiques of Self as I submitted to urges in way toward Kenwood’s Market.  I’ll concede, I’m a pupil of the chicken salad sandwich.  And I write that with a  bit of humor, but that’s not the writer I want to be.  I want to be fortified in all realms; existentially well-rounded.  I should be balanced with all angles– financial [which I am], health, occupational, social, family…  I’m not accepting compromise with Self.  And this is all ME, acting as supervisor, or combatant with Self.  That’s why I have no urge to “go out” anymore.  But if I ever do, I’m always in writer’s wheel, gathering material.. content for these books.  Oh, and the new length: 206 pages.  As I’ve written so much, and with this goal of having EVERYTHING published by Self, BOUND, before I leave Earth, I need to chisel away at these pages stacks in 200+ page rushes.

Tomorrow night, Ms. Alice and I off to her belated birthday dinner, delayed as we were both injured by that viral invader.  I do plan to examine the restaurant in our revisit–  Shouldn’t say “examine,” just survey, or evaluate–  No, hate those words, too.  I’ll just be recording, either for blog, book, both, who knows.  Either way, this writer looks forward to a lovely meal with Ms. Alice.  Could use another sip from this bottle…

TV, muted.  Should just turn off the cursed thing, already.  Looking through these photos, their collective account.  Time, mounting a respectable ambuscade.  But I’m still writing.  And these 200-page unloadings will only help.  Time.. devil.  Saw a man walking out the winery’s doors today, just as I returned from cave tour: quite old, needing assistance of a woman at least 20 years his junior.  Thought how I’ll be there one day, maybe.  But I don’t know if I want to be.  Not something upon which I necessarily want to dwell, but it’s blipping more on my compass these days.  I forces me to draw Self in two shapes, for two worlds.  One saying “yay,” while the other knows only nihilism, the nay.

Need a ride.  To Cabernet’s land.  Need to see my wines, tomorrow.  Too busy to touch them today.  And I fall into slowness.  Present’s inoculation in past.. impasse.  But I only have 47 minutes left for composition, or any reading of former sittings.  Makes me think of how I used to write papers at the last minute, when on campus at SSU.. and when I lived in San Ramon, for my grad classes.  Speaking of, moved to take some classes at the JC, French and Art, after my friend telling me of his new mental endeavors.  He’s always researching, Self-educating in something, always active.  His French studies, the brewing, winemaking, gardening, Astronomy.. always studiously steady.  About 8 years MY junior, helping me as that lady did the man.. to stand cognitively straight.  All these papers I have to grade, only getting in a writer’s way.

Always want to be studying.  And this returns me to a category I left out of my well-roundedness mention.  The mental activity.. have to be studying.  French, French History, French Wine.. ART!  Thinking I should have gone to get those colored pencils, the sketch pad, pads.. if only to play with colors.. blend them and see what happens.  Want what’s left of that Cabernet.  Only about a half-glass.  And one wine, have to pick up allocation from AV Winery.. my 2010 Cuvées.

Wine, glass.  Capping night for speeded day.  Had a memory from last year, while at AV Winery, arriving to grounds during a vicious rain, hearing that all the downpour, accompanying storm, moved one of the vineyard blocks with sliding land, and pushing down a 200 year-old oak tree across the street, close to a cottage the winery owns, rents to special guests.  All these memories, like complimentary profiteroles.  Well, no, I’ve paid for them.  With Life.

10:36pm.  If I could, I’d go to Paris NOW.  Just for a couple nights.  For a fix of sorts.  I’d walk with my notepad, as I did in St. Francis‘ vineyard that one day, on lunch break.  I don’t even think I’d eat.  Or even have any wine, if you can believe that.  I’d just write, take pictures so I could write more when back here on Yulupa.  Paris, becoming my genre, my totalitarian topic.  Still listening to that Parisian Jazz song set I downloaded a couple weeks ago, envisioning me, back on Montparnasse, walking out of the hotel journaling whatever I hear, smell, see.  All around me.  Soon.

Need.  A.  Ride.

Don’t know if I’ll go to painting, drawing.  I see dependency.. in the materials.  Can I afford them, are the items in stock, is it the right color, or what have.  With writing, I could journal my inner vocals on receipt paper, if I needed to, as I’ve done in past.  This form, forum.. so FREE.  And that’s what this pen pusher just needs.  New truth phillumenist.  >3/10/13, Sunday