Home in Final Form

Up.  7:16am.  After going back to sleep for an hour.  Kerouac, poeticizing since 5am.  He’s at my 12, only eyes visible from screen’s height.  He’s reciting.. something.  Doing laps with his singing walker toy, with the farm animal sound bites, down the hall, back through the kitchen, then back to me.  Could watch this all day, honestly.

Reconsidering book’s length, well as release sequence.  Thinking 206 pages may be a little long.  AND, costly to circulate, sell.  A coworker told me yesterday that she was accosted by the city of Santa Rosa for selling her Art online, on her website.  And by “accosted” I mean they demanded she supply funds for a business license– as in, she’s running a business out of her home.  I just remember feeling even more resentment for the system.. how dare they tax us, Artists, for Creative Acts, wanting to make a couple extra dollars aside.  Like Art is an intoxicant, or some kind of substance.  Effrontery!  Are we going to need licenses or some kind of permit one day to think for ourSelves, differently than what herds hold?  How I see this: we now need licenses to be Creative, much the same an indie winemaker needs to be bonded, or something like that.  Understand this: I’m not seeking any licenses, permissions, permits, bonds, grants, or anything, from ANYONE, to write and then my pages vend.  I’m just going to do what I’ve been doing, what I’m setting to do.

Going in, to winery, in a little bit to write those wine club letters.  Why do I let mySelf get so backed up on those things?  When I should be writing for book, then, I’ll be writing those laborious notes.

Looking at old pictures, taken in (I think) 2011, right after my release from that Dry Creek joke winery.  So much material here, more than I need to start a business from bottledaux.  Want to start writing about different wines.. more different wines, more, more often.  Just more WINE.  That’s the grounded motif in what I do, what I’m set 2do.  Kerouac, smiling at me, about to throw his little basketball with both hands.  […]  Do I have any grading to do, tonight?

“Don’t you always?” I can hear Jack saying, to his father that can barely wait till semester’s end.