Thought I had another mishap with the blog at my bow, just now. But now. Had to rush downstairs with laptop after putting little Kerouac down. Watching him by way of this mini-monitor to left. Considering this a trial run for retreat tomorrow night. When am I going to get around to editing my book? With future projects, edit IMMEDIATELY after sitting’s finished, so as not to in this position again be. I’ll edit 3 pages at some point tonight, promised.
2 mountaintop tours today. Nothing much else to report. It’s like a day full of wine tasting: it’s all starting to blend together. In other words, nothing stood out about today– well, except for the baby rattlesnake the catcher and mySelf found up there, while I was setting up. This little one, ready to attack.. rattling, hissing, showing fangs, biting at the catcher’s boots, even coiling, lunging at me. Just how I need to be as a writer– more confident, vicious, aggressive with release schedule.. not caring about results, just putting ALL out there, for readers.
Think I’ll sip some of the ’12 Rosé tonight, pair it with the quiche Alice made last night. So schedule, for tomorrow night.. and from this, no breaking:
8-9: 1,000 words in OFFblog log
9-10: bx, 500 words
10-11: Comp Book.. 3 standalone spoken word pieces
12-1am: freely write/create
Of course there may be a bit of deviation, time slot overlap, but that’s how the night’s set to progress. And for dinner, thinking something simple, like a burrito. And yes, I’m still opening the ’09 LE [Lancaster Estate] Cab. From that, there will be no shift, wobble. I’m not making the same mistake I did a few weeks ago. In fact, Sauvignon Blanc is outlawed for tomorrow night. Noted.
Already feeling poetic urges for tonight’s purses. Should at some point tomorrow night “revisit” the old blog. Wow.. just realizing I started mikeslognoblog in ’09. Crazy, this Life, how time escapes us, how we can never escape IT. Unfair. Again thinking about grandma, with this perspective.. a little frightening. It’s all too short. So the only thing a writer can do, WRITE. And sip.
Think I need to open that Rosé now, thinking about all this. Life, challenging me, now, in realization’s shape. I’m 34, but not slowing. My sprints, long distance runs serve as evidence of that. Speaking in, of.. not running tomorrow morning as I’d aimed. Giving Self an additional day off. Sunday, however, after work, running 8+. And I’ll be shooting for distance, not time.
So quiet down here. No music, no sounds but a couple passing cars on Yulupa. Wonder what my sister’s doing on her “business trip.” Time for Rosé, to wish Self back to Beaune, sipping Pinot and Chardonnay in that winery’s basement. Oh, and the Rosé I had with that omelette. Seems like so long ago, 2009…
8:35pm. Back from short dinner break. Rosé paired impressively with that Alice quiche. Still no TV, no music. Lovely quiet in this Room. Relaxed in a way I haven’t been for weeks. And the fact I’m not even interested in music should tell you how serious I am about holding to this state.
Just broke stillness, putting on that writing movie I was last night watching. Glass [stemless] of Rosé in kitchen, stretching pour’s Life. Only in mood for Art, Life, requiescence. Should probably turn on this light to left. But the dark seems to have more Creative value. Not letting Self stop with these types. Wish I would have brought the Rosé into Room with me. In not stopping, I pressure Self. Isn’t that healthy? Just wait till this Writer has his OWN office. Getting tired talking this fast– I mean WRITING, writing at this pace. Babbling, maybe.. just know I’m always in obsession over, in, about writing, wine, writing about wine, writing while whisked in wine. Okay, need Rosé. Tomorrow night, only victory. Cutting book1, maybe. The chapbook approach has marketability, from its brevity, its uniqueness. But more pen2paper, much needed. That’ll give way to more projects2vend. Only seeing future, now. Time won’t muffle me, Mike Madigan. Maybe I will go for a run in morrow’s cruelest hour. AC just came on, again. How warm is it in here? Jack’s Room’s meter reads 77’. Interesting. Doesn’t feel hot down here. Should be on paper, not these keys. Forgive my abrupt cut, reader. Now, I’m off to kitchen, to Rosé.. to INK.