No more new docs on laptop. Quitting technology, internet, completely. Well, almost. Just won’t use it as much. Today’s most meaningful event, the weather. Antithetical to yester’. Overcast, little drizzle, light rain on mountain according to friend at work. We were all miffed. This morning, thinking the MOD hadn’t yet arrived, I was in car, scribbling verse. Wound up logging 20 lines. On paper. No chance of it being forgotten, unknowingly erased, lost in internet or CPU space. It’s permanency revitalizes me. She parked in the back/side lot, by the crush pad, so she’d been there the entire time. No harm, was able to bleed that verse, which adds to day’s relished total, title. Closing all windows on this laptop, preparing to close one dependency level. Watching this scene in ‘Midnight’, when Wilson’s character, Gil, is talking to Hemingway. No technology, no devices, no unnecessarily luminous screens, trinkets anywhere. Just a Literary discussion. Actual interaction. And the Comp Book, right next to me– Well, that’s not entirely true. IT’s just over there, by the door, about six feet away, by that six-pack of wine I brought home from work the other day.
Planning on piecing together rhymes, lines, phrases, words.. randomly like one of my favorite Artists. Like I stated recently, I want my writing to definitively reflect my moment, thought process, urge. Then I suddenly slow, realizing I didn’t run today, and that Grandma’s gone. Why is that so hard for the writer to accept? Know it sounds incredibly immature, but I always thought Grandma would be here, like she was immortal, resistant to death. Can’t get that image from head, of her on that bed.. sleeping in her permanent position– how cold her cheek was when I kissed it for time final. Have to change subject b4 I’m derailed, sailing stale…
Looking at the recent cash stash. Still haven’t deposited, put toward house/business Schwab 1 acct. Will tomorrow, if I can. Going to campus early, to deposit SRJC check, if it’s ready. You never know, with time between Spring & Summer terms. Things get turned inside-out, diagonalized, deformed, contorted, ill-supported. Again thinking of Fall term, this new Literature/Reading/Teaching blog I want to build. Should I? Wouldn’t that just be perpetuating the habit, digging mySelf deeper into the habitual hole, abet my immediacy addiction? Maybe I should have this first book, or one of them, be what I want to do with this new blog. “Blog” … God I hate that word. I really do.
Tomorrow, my Friday. Why don’t I feel how I should, like it’s a Friday? I need to make mySelf feel that way. Sticking to this current Comp Book, till what I wrote on cover, “11/24/13.” I crossed out the old date, which I didn’t satisfy, one year previous to date [11/24/12]. No matter. Trying to stay situated, consistent. Think I may have a little more Viognier left in fridge. Not sure I want any, really. More in mood for coffee, or something sweet.. that sparkling water. So guilty I’m feeling about not running tonight. And I can’t tomorrow, with the scheduled dinner at Mom & Dad’s. First since Grandma’s leaving us. Not nervous at all.. it’ll be a reason to celebrate Zel’s Life. How DO I want to play the rest of tonight? Not feeling that affected from the 2 Sumpin’s. I’ll take a glass of the Viognier, as cap.
Need to stop typing, get to Comp Bk scribblings. Just what I’m doing, this scattered writer, embattled sighter. […] 9:54pm, Viognier in glass, wrapping up sitting. Can’t wait to listen to instrumentals, push Self into mode poem’d. This laptop, only supplying distraction.. the net, “social” media, whatever else associated.
10pm. Stopping, finally. News on, but muted. I’m not letting them talk, disseminate their fear-mongering. This Viognier, more peach and apricot-driven than last night. Should probably visit barrels tomorrow, top them before racking, no? Or should I wait till I rack on Wednesday? Either way, I’ll stop by lap, see if I can learn something quick.