Sipping Pinot, the one my friend Ed gave me a couple years ago, or maybe early ’13. Not sure. It’s a Pinot; earthy, light fruit, a tad vegetal. But with a refinement I haven’t encountered before. 9:33p, and little Kerouac very much in his little dreams. Takeout from up the street, Legends, and I elected my usual, the mushroom/swiss burger with fries. Not the best pairing with the burger, but that wasn’t my aim, anyway. And now, I’m truly tired, ready for bed, but I want to research the authors I’ll be using for Fall.. no time. Can only think, and as I research Kerouac, watch that Big Sur movie, over and over, I understand that the best act I can tell is inaction, just taking it all into character. So I will, without over-thought.
Tomorrow, I hope something interesting happens, anything, some story, some development. I don’t know.. I just want something, for the story, so I can be with them.. Scott, Glenn, Bob, Crystal, Dav… But I can only hope, write, write while I hope and hope while writing.. somewhat deconstructive and destructive. But that’s Art, strange, and liquified, the more Pinot I sip. Ed, once a clock-puncher now a wine-wielder. How? And why can’t I transcend and time-bend? I’m not with talent like he.. and he has strategy. I’m just a fucking writer…
Alice’s shows violate my auditory, like bees, or something that stings, sneaking through screens. I’m hurt, disrupted, I hate the TV, and anything on it, except for Nat Geo docs. I can’t wait for my marathon, Santa Cruz, May 2015.
And the Pinot’s gone, thank the good of ness. What if I could sneak in 3 miles tomorrow morning, or even 2? I’ll see, and then have more coffee. And if those devils are reading this, they’re probably laughing, or scratching their heads, ‘cause Literature, true Writing, hurts, as it makes them think, and thinking isn’t for everyone, especially Them.