Worlds Slept

34–  Here.  Turbulent morning, not being able to find a writer’s keys, but here I am…  Stopped by a mixer at one of the new tasting Rooms in the valley, Naked Wines, in the old St. Francis, then Blackstone, building.  Went with Jay, closely trusted cohort from work.  Saw many of my closest oeno-allies, namely Kaz, his daughter, son-in-law, my sweetest of sweet new writing confreres Crystal, and certainly Sarah.. my darling ever-trusted friend, sister really, from Napa.  Interesting day, turning 34.  No run with Carmen.  That’ll be Friday.  Tomorrow, grading [lots of it], then working evening at St. Francis.. the KJZY event.

Opening one of my ’09 Lancaster Estate Cabs.  Finally.  Was going to pair it with the Monti’s sirloin burger, other night, but wound up drinking only ’12 SB.  How that unraveled, I’m still unsure.. we writers, when we sip & scribble.  OR, tipsily type.

New idea for OFFblog log: deadline in late July.  Likely, 7/20.  On that date, print, then send to print.  Like 100 copies.  No more than 113 pages, like this first book.  I’ll edit as I go, like with the regular blog entries.  Seeing much, this day.. 34, angst, inner-turmoil no more.  The Comp Book, now calling.  For rhyme, song, poem, unreasonably rhythmically reasoned “rants,” like she says.  All Artistry, this night.  Whimsical space jaunts, paginated.

Hot weather ahead.  That means ripening.  My wines, sitting in their barrels.  Haven’t tasted since the last topping.  I’ll visit the holders, my two not-so-neutral barrels, Friday, early in A.M. Tonight’s mixer, still in head–  Celebrating wines, winemakers.  Then the occasions that those bottles beget.  Tonight, watching Capote, I think.  Haven’t screened that film in a while.  His short story collection, the one I have upstairs.. one of the selected texts for one of my classes.  Thinking his work’s more suited to 5, a more blustering canal’d critical, reflective bow.

Again, glassed in Kelly.  See her coming back from one of her tours, or out-of-state gallery visits, then attending another gallery back home, here in North Bay.  Me, the folder-over author, just silent, still.  And, quite frankly, too deep into the ’09 Lancaster Cab.  Too much dialogue, forth/back, from my character, hers–  Not sure what to do, but write through it.  To Her.  If I can, this Cab’s unusually strong, well as dramatically delicious.

Unusual spot, as all I want to do is envision her, that character, then try to write.  But how do I do that?  Kelly’s more than a subject, character.  Shame on me–  And WHY do I want to so formally?  Has 2B the age, this birth’s day.  Don’t think I’ll be able to run, tomorrow.  So, a bit of healthy, useful fasting coupled with core regiments here at home, in morrow.  Think night’s final cap, coming up.  Too much wine’ll hinder the first hours’ efforts.  I need the mornings, so I can’t waterfall too novelistically.  See us in docility.  I know you’re reading, but only before you vent on canvas.  I don’t blame you.  So explain to me if you’re inclined to decline, but not compromisingly.. trust me.  Write you letters, hoping you’re reading on the road, at least sympathetically.  What are you painting, now?  MY novel won’t finish till I know.  So I sip.