8:47PM. India and I in the res room. A wine club member voicing her appreciation for my writing, pulling my b/log to her phone’s screen. Now, one–in a perceivedly more ‘prestigious’ occupation–may dismiss such, so as to state “so what, how do you make money from compliments?” “Exactly,” I’d wield. We ACTUAL writers, figures who actually speak for ourSELVES, not letting some corporate dragon dictate our doings, don’t need tender right away. It’s already initiated its arrival, and I know the flow’s only to increase, so I don’t address those people. I’m engineered differently, just accept that.
Sipping a Racer 5, after dinner with Mr. Dwight. The ’08 Napa Valley Viader he brought, already open when I arrived, poured and breathing.. more than impressive. And as the oxygen made its way into the streets of its pervasive glass puddle, it only intensified, but not obnoxiously. This wine, assures me I’m fit for winemaking, as from my sensory reaction to it hold. I had the steak with garlic mashed potatoes while my brother had the burger. Would have had that if I didn’t get that burger from up the street, last night (ordered the mushroom and instead got the bacon.. still can’t believe that..).
Didn’t count the stash in car, in that Hood Mountain lot, as I planned. With this $44 from day, I’m quite sure I have over $400. So that envelope will be sealed, locked away, and summoned as soon as the poetry chap’s completed. And it’s only going to be 24 pages, so I can submit it to more locations.. contests, publishers, publications.
Tomorrow, Saturday. Day of always crazy. Should go for a run in A.M., if I can. Depends on how little Kerouac sleeps this night. Think I’ve had too much already for a run tomorrow morning. Sunday, after work, Carmen hopefully will join me for a jaunt up Lawndale.
I look at these 1’s, 5’s, the single 10 dollar bill on the table, left of this laptop.. think of my office, what I’ll write about there, alone, drinking coffee, or espresso like I had before leaving the Café tonight. Have to say, and I’m not that dueled in espresso variations, or types, but that palate, to that shape of bean, how it danced into my senses… amazing. Would love to have that in my office. I will. I’ll have it right near my desk, close so I can refill. And the extrapolation of coffee house visits from my budget.. no… That’s my fuel, just as our cars, Alice’s and mine, need gas.. so does the writer.
Putting together a quick colony of 6 poems, to send to New York. Yes, The New Yorker. Should probably get started on that now. But not before another beer. The Racer to me speaks… Over $400 in the stash. So, there it is, now away stashed. Have to gather the poems, now, no more procrastinating, even thought that’s the most Literary of tendencies– This has to be the IPA talking. Good. I don’t want to be engineered. What yarling, disgustingly.