gifted, allNIGHT


Home.  Relaxed.  Documented most of day, through photo, scribble, a little video.  Not that busy at winery today.  Not excessively, but enough to provide material.  So many, consumed with HOW they should talk about wine.  Have always found that interesting, but today I found it a bit annoying.  Time, here in home, 8:44pm.  Looking over notes, knowing they need to go somewhere, racked into some project, but where?

Had an interesting conversation on way to car, with Zach, my winemaker friend, on everything from budgetary approaches for a small label to different bond types.  So much to think about, almost too much for a writer.  Having to hold license to apply one’s trade, bothers me tremendously.  It’s the alcohol.  To sell writing.. I guess I need a “license,” or “permit,” but I’m not seeking one, not until I’m caught, or cornered.  And even then, the system’s going to have a scuffle in their cuddle.

IMG_2908Tonight, the winery’s ’10 Merlot.  Just opened it.. needs a bit of oxygen.  Speaking of wine, its contact with elements other.. didn’t get to visit my barrels today, as they were sulfuring the cave’s right side.  What could I do?  Didn’t want to experience what I did that one day, with the burning of eyes, chest.  Guess I’ll go in early, Wednesday, spend some time with my crushing comrades, see what else they can me teach.  Today, I learned a little about “de-alch-ing,” taking a little alcohol out of the wine, it it’s too hight [like if you have a Chardonnay with a BAC level unfitting for the style you want to produce].  WAIT…  Just had an idea: a Chardonnay, with Katie, for ’13.  That means I have to take break from my beloved Merlot.  Or maybe I could do both.  Sipping this one, this ’10, have to rethink again–

Last night’s SB, still on mind.  Maybe I should make one of those, too.  Katie could advise.  Or maybe I could do it all on my own.  But like I discussed with Zach today, it has to pay.. otherwise it’s just “added stress,” as he put it.  Certainly don’t need that, especially with trying to finish this book.  Between 113 & 120 pages, in total final.  First piece.. reminding me of some of my undergrad journal entries, with its speed, tonality, randomness.  And the address of my car, needs to again now be addressed.  One of my first expenses as a “successful” writer: new vehicle.  Not shooting for a Porsche, at least not immediately, but I need something to my song’s state, one fitting my character.  I want to be comfortable, and not obviously minimalist.  Have no idea what exactly, and I shouldn’t be spending time focusing on items, petty things [like a shiny sled].  I need B editing, scribbling more songs for stage.


On ride to work this morning, fully antagonized by the mocha’s 4shotz, listened to mySelf recite with whatever instrumental materialized in cabin with me.  Didn’t have a chance to write much verse whilst in Room, today, but I thought of numbers– how many poems SHOULD make a collection.  And I found: the author should revisit the reality, value of chapbooks.  Like mixtapes, they wouldn’t need much mastering, organization.. I could keep them raw; that would be a large part of their “marketability.”

And the glass, empty, sadly.  Need to replenish, but not with such rush.  Re-reading the book’s first piece.. some changes I’d make, but not many.  Too much editing would fine the moments in which it was scribed.  Or typed.  What would she say…  What.  Would.  She.  SAY??  Hard to tell what she’s thinking these days, as she’s always on road, with her pieces, separated from worlds like mine.  Hemingway might tell me to chase her, but she would tell me to focus on my projects.  So I’m abashed.  Her character, interesting to me on kaleidoscopic level, beyond her success, persistence, charm and challenge.  It her vision, what I see her seeing, if that makes sense.  And if it doesn’t, I understand, reader.  Just know, it makes sense to me, what I’m writing.  SHE, doesn’t make sense, which stays precisely why about her I fly to write.  SHE, my character, with those brush taps, on conceited canvases–  They, more time with her than ME.  I can only hate them, the immediate in their bend praise, for giving my character space to create.  Solve that.. I don’t want2.

In mood to play with language.  I blame the wine.  Want music, verse, none of this formalistic paragraph sludge.  My office, only encouraging the erratic electrical haphazardly blurbed sentence symmetries.  And that’s all I know how to do.  And she once told me, “follow through with that.” That was over a year ago.  I think close to 2.  And here I am, with dilemmas mirroring.  Rancor revel, disheveled–

After a long day in her studio/apartment, studio, she had to get out for a walk.  She needed air.  The outside.  Life.  She needed time.  She needed sound.  Life.

Walking into the coffee shop on 4th & D, she notices a homeless man with a sign, reading “Anythng, pleeze”.  She dropping in the empty jar all she had in her wallet, $3.74.  The man barely acknowledged her, just stared across the street at the antique hardware store.  no coffee this early afternoon, less she went to an ATM.  Nearest, five blocks away.  She’d walk there, but just for the walk.  She didn’t want coffee, she didn’t want “inspiration.” Just to observe.  To live.  She kept walking, till she was hit by an idea– something to add to her present piece, back in the studio.  But she decided to ignore it.  Yes, she was tempted to jog back to the brushes, large incrementally filled sheet.  But she ignored it.  She thought, “If it’s meant to be in that spread, I’ll remember and paint it when I get back.” She looked at the middle part of her left arm’s tattoo sleeve, the two cardinals hovering over water.  She knew why she wanted it, then.  But what did it mean, NOW?


Looking at the day’s photos, coffee to wine, all median.  Enlivened just knowing I’m past term’s midpoint.  Tomorrow night, already have new ideas to throw at students, see how they react.  Fall.. I’m excited to see what I do, really.  Authors of focus, for 1A: Faulkner, Hemingway.  And the 5: Poe.  Everyone sees him as this dark, perverted, deranged derelict.  Not fair, I contest.  If anything, he held and bravely offered uncomfortably honest insight.  He should be respected, STUDIED, for such.  Need another sip of this Merlot.  To keep the sentences rimes in river rampant, OFFblog.  Just after 10p.  Closing–