journal, quick

9:02pm.  To bed, quite early.  Woke this A.M. at 3-something with a bit of stomach unrest.  Fell asleep at 4-something to be woken by Kerouac at 6:05a.  Today, at winery, frenzy.  Stress.  Material difficult to gather as it was entirely scattered.  Unloaded 5 palettes this morning with coworkers, which I’m sure adds to this fatigue.  Current: I type in complete dark; encompassing visual void.  Only light provided by this device.

A lot of people from San Francisco, surprisingly.  Many of them working around my old neighborhood, on Peninsula.  After work, had 1 SB glass.  And that’s it.  Not in much mood for fermentation tonight.  Need to keep sipping this bubbly water, push this ‘whatever’ from my systems.

The walk I went on, at lunch, looking over the vineyards bordering 12, with slight overcast.. again making me think of travel, what I’ll see when on roads, especially those across oceans.  Wrote one poem today, while on walk actually, but haven’t “posted” it yet.  More than likely saving for book.  This is Poetry Month, so rhyme, random line, always breathing with this tired lion.  Was hoping for 300 words, but that seems so far from here, from this ending line.

Sunday, just hours away.  Should probably be quite busy, come morrow.  NEED to top both barrels with that Zin!  I’ll do that on lunch, hopefully.  Feel bad about not finish Mom’s dinner tonight, but honestly, I couldn’t.  This devilish mite has now truly aggravated the writer.  I feel sorry for it, frankly.  The book, not being ignored, just kept in place.  Like my wines in their barrels.  In that convincing cave.  Have to stop with my thoughts, wandering like this, about wines mine.  I’ll go far past marker.

Thought today about academic writings, how I need to throw that into its own motion; (1) Deconstruction, (2) page value to a reader, (3) trapping nature of journal…  All on plate.  Just a matter of days.  -9:15pm, 4/6/13


4/7/13.  Need a thousand words before Alice’s return from gym.  Jack, down for night.  “Night,” should have written, as light still itself shows. 7:09pm.. feel as I should– healthy, tempered, calm.  More reflective than normal, after this bout recent.  When health is compromised, different perspectives sprout.  Plan on introducing such to class come session next.  Today at winery, all frenzy.  One mountaintop tour.  While setting up, hours prior, took several photos, one short video.  As the buds break, new visions take.  2013, may finally be MY vintage.  And not just for wine.  Looking at vintage’s concept differently, now, this Poetry Month.  And on such note.. I’ve been scribbling a poem each day, for me, my manuscripts.. for Autonomy, oenobellion.

Been rather tempered with wine intake, of late.  Feels incredible, this new sight.  And with current silence in this Room, exception of just-ignited refrigerator hum, all more shaping, re-shaping.  Wine, not negative, in any respect.  But it does deliver heard steps.  So, I’m a bit more cautious following this last bug bout.  Still bothered from missing my Thursday classes, but I have to past move.  Adjustment, inevitable like a tax due.  Suddenly, I’m called by music, more poem.  Something delivering mood assistance.  My theme tonight, I hope, one of advance, resembling attack but not as affronting.  A stance, new conviction enlistment.

My two barrels, outside the caves, to boost ML’s pace.  Not sure I like seeing them out there, this morning, being drizzled on.  But what can I do?  I have NO idea how to operate one of those forklifts.

Dinner break.  Excuse me…  couple thin slices of pizza Alice prepared, and ONE [yes, only one] glass of Kunde’s 2010 Red Dirt Red, that I took home tonight.  Keep TV off, as I loath everything it represents.  This coming weekend, writer’s retreat.  First in some time.  Have dinner scheduled with Particular Palates on Friday, but I can come home and write after.. won’t make it a night late.  Saturday, have tentative plans to celebrate friend’s birthday downtown.  If I do, I’ll bring little pages, document everything, pretend I’m one of Hemingway’s characters in ‘Sun Also Rises’.  Everyone, and everything they say, will be trapped, possibly putting finishing touches on novel.  Bringing me that closer to Road.

Done with dinner.  Have 1 glass’ remainder at right.  Sitting on other couch.  Trying to remember any other moments worth recording, from day…  None at moment.  This morning’s mocha, though, strangely convincing.  Almost telling me to leave wine for coffee.  It’s pretty much what Kelly did.  She only has wine at some of her conferences and showings, and that’s it.  And yes, with me, occasionally.  But still, it’s entirely tempered.  I’ve learned from these past authors, how wine can push composition’s creator close to cliff.  But not me.  I need to keep in scribble’s swing.  For my little Kerouac.  Speaking of, I feel bad for the little Artist, as he too goes through a sniffle skirmish.. cough constant, rubbing eyes and face, visibly uncomfortable.  Wish I could take it away from him.

Honestly having trouble keeping up with all that I write.  Can I write about that, even though I all but promised I wouldn’t write about writing, anymore?  Well…  I need to finish this 206-page book, then instantly start collecting the next.  And then Next.  Next, next.  How else can I show I’m COMMITTED to page?  A blog, hardly page commitment.  Yes, the content can be Literary, but it’s not a page.  This morning, before clocking in, I scribbled in the Comp Book, some verse, rhyme.  That’s page.. that’s TRULY.  LITERARY.

That’s Art.  Artistic.  You study Art History, you don’t see web pages, internet channels.. you see artists in their studios, Picasso in his shorts, no shirt, arms folded, looking through his pieces.  Art entails simplicity.  IT doesn’t need layered tech ascension.  Feel like I should incorporate this in Tuesday’s lecture.  I want it, the “lecture,” to be nearly a comeback fight progression, delivery of Literary ideas.  Should open that doc, here on monster, start typing.  But then I again interrupt the drive at 1k.  OH well.  IT’ll be done before I fall asleep.  Promised.

The fridge again starts its hum.  I haven’t sipped in over 15 mins.  No need when I have this page–  I mean, screen.

9:24pm.  After screen, comes paper, ink for my sense of something serene.  Watching a writing movie.  Those knowing the writer know what my eyes enjoy.  Poured night’s cap of 2010 Red Dirt.  It’s in kitchen, as always, slowing my sips.  Then, sparkling water, lemon, like night last.  Quite looking forward to that clean consistency.  Almost want to chug the red to quicker get to my livelier water.  IS 1000 words a day an admirable artistic habit as a writer?  I more or less think so.  Why do I get so dumbed-down by definitions?  Society’s done that to me.  As has time.  Already need a break, I think.  Has to be the day, and yesterday.  Think 4/6 may have out-madness’d 4/7.  But today’s pace seemed more digestible.. more Literary, for me.

Riled in idle chatter, miles compile while

the isles lather..  chat with a mad hatter–

evade the clock, my ever-enemy, braced for

shock, raining fervor, my days are blocked…

Need to get on page quick, before these rhymes, odd lines, me leave.  Need to finish that glass.  Funny, I look at it as chore.  Think it may be raining outside…  Anyway, I almost don’t want to drink it, this red blend, what it me sends.  Don’t have palate for.  And I love this wine, strangely.  Must be the post-bug lull.

Kelly, sipping last of her espresso, 1:58am.  She looks at what she painted.  Not in like or dislike.  Not in anything slight, elevated, aflight.  She just stares, happy she did something with her evening.  She could have gone out with her friends from the restaurant, and she did, want to, but she knew she had to at least try to produce something she could sell.  Bluntly, she needed the money.  And she had to stop with the free-painting, just enjoying being a “successful painter,” self-employed, supposedly free.  She liked this piece.. grey clouds with blackish underbelly, contrasting potent green of budding vineyard blockettes.  She pushed the button again, for another shot.  More colors.  More creation.  More Art, her Art, to sell.  She’d re-sewn her hologram’d hand.