9:18 and at the Starbucks on the old block, Yulupa.. dealing again with a mood this morning but I refuse to let it wrap me any longer, and why should I? The collection, ‘interim stratum’ was published and now I just have to push and push and push it on readers and wouldbe readers. “Keep writing,” I tell myself. I don’t have to be stressed, I don’t have to be in a mood, and I don’t have to let anyone get to me. I thrive in transparency and affairs with wine and writing and literature and my own independent thinking, and with this coffee. There’s no judgement of me here, there’s no lack of faith, only support and jazzing vibes and the ZEN I need. After this I rush to Arista to be enveloped in more Zen and beauty and Literature. I will only grow in what I want and know I did my best and those strings Emerson spoke of, being true to myself and not letting any perception of me or what I’ve never done or what I do execute on page slither to my senses, ever! And I disregard that I pocket another number, an additional age, nine days. I don’t care and others shouldn’t either, ever, and not with this one especially, pushing into the technical “late thirties..” Goddamnit, why did I write that? I just acknowledged it.
I stretch and yawn and am bored with my words already, probably from re-reading the pieces in ‘interim stratum’.. oh well. Just heard someone here, a woman waiting for her coffee say “you attract what you want to attract”. Huh, I think, unexpected counsel in this corporate coffee brothel. I sip my coffee but it’s colding, or cooling, not interested in and or my present inferno. Want to write the dream I had last night, or sketch it, no more than 250 words, short like Kerouac’s sketches, and have it be more imagist than narrative, but how do I do that? I’m an imagist writer, and narrator, so I’m a mess, Mikey-a-Mess, again. Sipping this coffee more than slow now as I need to use the washroom, but I won’t give up or stop I need to accumulate in Zen and Self in this entry and shake this mood and forget about the negative claws that follow me. Transparency, my love with writing and words and Life, the characters around me and wine.. the making of it and the story in it, not quite or empirically the wine itself or the act of drinking or tasting it– not so. In fact that’s such a minor and trivial part or experience of the experience and story OF wine. If you must know, I’ve always held that the act of drinking wine completely if not overabundantly minimizes and degrade wine. Look at all the pictures you see on social media of people DRINKING [wine], and even tasting it to bring attention to themselves, have their persona elevated so that they’re look at as some brand or icon or authority, like the sommelier movement– that is NOT for an exploration or appreciation of wine as a artful and cognitive, LIVING, entity. Rather, it’s so the sommelier can be recognized as a sommelier, or “somm”. Watch that ratsbane documentary, and you’ll see that the “somm” is more interested in their image and appearance rather than the wine. There is no respect for the wine is haphazardly drinking it, or sipping it, or even blogging about it as so many of them do.
9:31, and I’m tired of this place. My mood returns and puts me in Montresor’s mind. I fear for my writing, my character, and the characters around me, what will happen to them in the next entry…..
Whomever embarks upon my insult, will enjoy the fruition of my revenge.