working, writing, walking with wit

9:07pm.  Back from Mom’s birthday dinner, Rosso’s.  OF course the food was amazing, those artisanal pizzas they do, well as all wines poured.  Mom and Dad, at Mom’s selection, brought an unbelievable Cab, ’07, from Sbragia.  Haven’t had a lot of their wines, but this was of Howell Mountain fruit, and it silenced any criticisms I could have counted.

So glad to be in home.  Silence, right now.  No TV.  No writing movie.  No music.  Just me, the typing sounds.  Poured Self a little Cab, remainder of the Roth I popped last night.  Oh, had a glass of some Cab right before we left Rosso’s, but can’t remember what it was.  Delicious, either way.  Tonight, definitely with my varietal.  OenoRomance.  Want to do some REAL writing tonight, with Comp Book, but I think that may be upstairs.  Too lazy at moment to it fetch.  Still tired from last night’s Gatsby outing.  All intricacies, saved for book, what I tonight put into Comp Book, but I noticed something about alcohol, how it makes people act.  Honestly, when I think about it, a certain level’s consumption never leads to good.  Ever.  All is bent, buried.  Never a positive.

Today, in Room, a struggle, to put it mildly.  Going to bed early, tonight.  At restaurant, I could only think about the day, how I pushed through.  Not many notes taken today in Room, but it was lunacy, maniacal mayhem behind that new counter.  Feel like I need some wine just thinking about it.

Still haven’t had my first sip from glass I just poured, here in home.  And, more importantly, I haven’t touched page 103, as I’d hoped.  It’s only 9:24p, still have quite a bit.  Want to wake at 6-something tomorrow morning, do the morning session I the other day intended.  So this has to be my only glass here in castle, tonight.  Need a sip.. off to kitchen–

Couldn’t believe the winery today.  That moment on the patio, where that one colossal gust took a handful of tables, umbrellas, wine glasses.  I’ve never seen wind like this.  That I can immediately remember.  It’s still gusting out there, right now.  Can hear it, actually.  Like atmosphere pushing against the front door, the new screen–or metal–door we just had installed.  Just put on the same writing movie I’ve been watching over, over, for the past two months.. Midnight in Paris.  Hope I wrote that tile right.  Going upstairs to get another film.  Want poetry tonight, music.

Loved listening to my sister detail her travels, at that Rosso table.  Hot in Texas, the 3 cities she visited.  Chilly in CHI.  42, I think she said.  […]  Just found the movie I wanted, upstairs.  Think I’ll bring my Cab from kitchen to here, by couch.  Can’t tell you how happy the writer is to be in his house.  Quiet, peace, stillness, solitude.  Not moving for anything, like the earth surrounding the winery’s cave.

Feel Self slowing in this writing.  Maybe I should have a couple glasses.  Mr. Hemingway: “Write drunk, edit sober.” Something like that.  I don’t know.  I’m just filling page.  […]  Don’t believe in wasting wine, don’t want to spill mine out, nor do I want to drink any more tonight, so I just shot the remainder in glass, which was quite a bit.  It’s just starting to hit the writer.

More flashes of last night.  That music, the lighting in that one place.  So happy I made it through today.  Saw a club member I haven’t seen in a while.  She reminds me of Kelly, in her tonality, her word structure, accompanying motions.  Setting alarm for 5:30am, actually.  That’s when Kerouac has been waking, of recent.  This book, taking me to Road.. hoping to intercept Kelly as my sister did with one of her winemaking colleagues, in Chicago.  I guess she missed her by a day. Can’t wait to travel with my pages, from my pages.  […]  Just transferred 1000+ words into BOOK.  Thinking of experience, writing, the relationship, especially with my scribed shape.