Curled Singer

5/4/13.  Can’t write.  Not with the TV on.  And my book, a bloody mess.  Not giving up on it.  If I have to extend the due date–yes, again–then I’ll do that.  Much better day, today.  One guest recognized me from a pouring I did for him and his friends, his brother I believe, at St. Francis in ’11.  That made my whole day, really.  Was towards the end, near 4pm.

Need to finish this bloody collection.  Not letting mySelf find some clever way out.  Going back into that doc…

Night cap, poured.. red from last night.  Book, organized quite a bit.  Can’t believe all the fires flaring all over the Bay, so early in year, especially Napa.  Toying with winemaking ideas for ’13.  Thinking I may do something outside the winery, with sister.  Didn’t text her as I wanted to, today.  Didn’t have chance, ‘twas so frustratingly busy.  May taste my wines tomorrow, if I have a chance, but only at day’s end.  Or maybe at beginning.  No, end, better.

Can’t believe I pounded 1,000 words this morning.  AND, posted them.  Was almost late, but touched down just in time, thankfully.  Tonight, I’m trying to not write, but I can’t just sit here on couch, even watching a writing movie– well, obviously, that just makes me want to write even more.

TV, annoying me.  MUTE.

May have another chance, tomorrow morning, to write.  Just remembered, I’ve been up since 5:15am, I think.  Right around that time, with little Kerouac.  How am I still energized enough to write.  Think it’s the Creative act that livens me.  Now, the news saying that rain may enter the valley tomorrow.  And if not, much cooler atmospheric palm.

My run today, not long.  Easy, as my legs still stand a bit pained from Wednesday’s jaunt.  Nine minutes to finish entry [time, 11:21pm].  Need to start timing Self more, with posts– I mean WRITINGS.  Hate being recognized as a blogger.. and even worse, a wine blogger.

Thinking about the upstairs monies, finally publish these pages, get them out to world, and ME into my own office.  Just watched a video I shot today, on lunch break, of Kenwood Winery’s vineyards.  So rich, lively.  Want to stop writing, but won’t let mySelf.  What would Austen do?  Joyce?  This summer, I’m reading anything I can.  Just read one of Hemingway’s poems, “Shock Troops.” Love the simplicity of this piece, the bluntness.  Those infamous short Hemingway lines.  This poem also makes me shiver, thinking of going to war, knowing I may not survive.  How anyone goes “happily to death”, I’ll never understand, or even remotely appreciate.

See a poem titled, “Montparnasse,” and I find the unexpected.  Death, horror, then realization.  His voice, simply honest.  And one can only appreciate that.  I certainly do, immensely.  Truth, never can be shorted, or over-appreciated.  All writing need to be dominated by the painfully honest colors of Life.  That’s what makes it Art.  Stage, not at all.  But Life.  The realest of Life shots, pours.  Wine, indelibly, folding it all into something more palatable.

Why I’m sipping.