Eleven

Went for nice run, shortly after landing back here, castle grounds.  This sitting, or post rather, my only usage of computer this evening.  Rest, in newJournal.  Want to fill those pages in same style as that English 5 student.  Looked at that picture a number of times, today.

Only 1 mountain tour this day.  Remainder, not much of note.  Could only think about Stanford, my lectures– actually, there you go.  Just had an idea for tomorrow’s sessions.  I will let both go early, as they’ve been intensely laboring over this first paper.  But, I want them to walk away with a couple thoughts before moving into next block.  90 days from now, we’ll be in finals’ week.  My ascension, or “master plan,” must be in full bloom by then.

7miles exactly, my run, according to google maps.  Didn’t time it, as I didn’t want Time involved.  At all.  Need another Rosé glass.  Nearly stat.  Enjoying the pizza from last night, that Alice brought home.  Thinking of the final drafts students’ll be submitting tomorrow.  Completely in admiration of what they put into their submissions.  How hard they work, they’re pride.  I’ll again reference that one student with the illustrated journal.  The ownership evident in her pages.

Lost in entertainments, fantasies.. Paris, Me.  Just writing.  On Road.  Latch Self to these lectures.  Tomorrow morning: run for 30 minutes, no more; 2) write for 30 minutes, not a clock tick, or tock, beyond; 3) dash to Petaluma.. write pen2paper in library.  Near swearing off social media, blogging, this device.  Anything that could too closely track me.  Want to continue more as chapman than a bloody blogger.  I don’t care what the ‘Julie & Julia’ author did.  I’m not writing those kinds of books.  So horribly need another glass of that Rosé.  Near the Road, I’m sure.. thinking not only positively, but pragmatically.  I don’t want “it” to happen.  It has to happen.  Tomorrow.

10:27pm.  Finishing Rosé glass, thinking already, as I always do, about tomorrow morning’s coffee.  Turning off TV.  Want to stay within head, force “imagination.” Sorry to put that in quotes, but I feel about the word ‘imagination’ as I do “inspiration.” It’s overused, too easily voiced, and simply too expected.

There, off.

Not even on mute.

It’s bloody off.

Could use some music, though…

Feel like I’m in that one bakery at which we stopped, in Paris, ’09.  Still haven’t “done anything” with that footage, on the old video camera.  That hotel, loved the coffee in the morning.  How I heard French soon as the elevator landed on that bottom floor.  And one of the last days, the Luxembourg Gardens.  Kelly’s been there, I’m sure.  I’d just want to be there, capturing every single character I could.  I don’t need much exposure to passers by, just singular glimpse.  Maybe that’s an assignment for students.

Characters…  1) Couple from Chicago, asking questions about everything to trellising systems to varietals and how they respond to microclimates; 2) man from Delaware, only wanting to talk about the fish he catches on his days off, but he did say how he always paired them with certain wines, mostly whites; 3) local wine club member, bringing clients to mountain tour, showing them what the estate entails, how she’s “on the in,” as she put it.  I’ll never tire of people, what they say.  I’m trying my harshest to speak less at winery, write more.. OBSERVE.

Not letting mySelf write after 11p.  And I didn’t get to newJournal as I’d hoped.  To late for decaf.  Maybe I should brandish nJ as I watch 11 o’clock [news].  How they sensationalize EVERYTHING.  Everyone today at winery talking about POSSIBLE rain on Friday.  So what?  It’s rain.  And then the “Storm Tracker” reports will come on.  So annoying.

Little Kerouac, notice him changing.  Saying more words, reacting with specific facial expressions.  He won’t be little forever, I know.  Need to keep with my running, to keep up with the little Artist.

New writing approach: on characters.. I’m a fiction writer, so it makes sense perfectly.  character other day in tasting Room: girl, probably mid-20s, quite drunk, with group of blonde friends [all female], all from Napa; constantly talking about Napa wine, and how it just tasted better; they pretended to be apologetic, but it was just covert bragging, far too obvious.. especially to the writer pouring for them.

7miles, and barely sweated.  What do I do?  Run tomorrow.  Maybe for 45min.  Have to charge device.  Felt so lovely tonight, being without one.  Just enjoying run, as writer.  Traffic, all the noise, annoying.  May start trail running, much I hate admit, to avoid all these humans, their vessels, commotion, disruptions.  (11pm)

Police standoffs.. the news loves those.

OH, and building disruptions, holdups.. that seems to be popular too.

Traffic accidents, especially the fatals, as well.

Criticize, criticize.  Solutions?  Oh yeah, that’s not their job.

They only “report.”

So now they’re saying “Rain on the Way?” Like

they’re unsure.  Or to build suspense, like this

is a show.

Aren’t they supposed to inform?

Now I’m really confused.

But forget the news.  I’m swimming through characters, possible characters.  Much I hate managerial bullies, I dearly love them.  Their insecurities, their narrow aims, loyalty/ies, self-lamented baldachin.  This, precisely what deems them target-worthy.  Characters for plot-pushing, their extermination, paged.  Carl, Christopher, Harry, Adriana.. and all before.  The “manager” at Dry Creek Winery, Lolette.  I could easily have a character forcefully escort her to desolate space in outer Healdsburg, end story.  That’s Poe-esque romance, the lasting Literary.

Autumn beginning Sunday.  OH welcome.  Introduction to conclusion.  Like my stance in wine’s “industry.” That so many hold dear.  That so many mold theologically.

And my Self-portrait: one of cyclical pendom.  Self-punishing.  But dedicated.  Everyone analyzed.  My new genre.  Forget the spoken word, sporadic poet bursts.

9/19.  9:52am.  Crazy morning thus far, but I can finally sit to write.  Will work on 41pg-er later, throughout day.  Only collecting paper today, sending them off, both sections, with prompts.  So quiet in condo.  Love.  No music.  Don’t want anything to disrupt this time for Mike.  Back typing, after walk downstairs to get bags.. thinking of what I want these chapbooks to do.  And what I want them “to do,” quiet simply, is change everything.  Make a modern chapman, peddling my pages.  Get me away from this device, and others.  Solely sequence as one of the pen.

Today, collecting characters.  Students.  Different shapes, voices, manners, demeanors.. whatever I can trap.

Just typed 321 words in book, for a vignette sequence I started Tuesday, while writing/typing in that “Reading Room.” Music on now, here in castle.  Still quite a few sips left in mocha cup.  Should get in shower, though.  And shave.  I have the unemployed lumberjack look, that I always cite, about me now.  Uncomfortable.  Itchy.

Throat, scratchy.  Uncomfortable.  Are symptoms returning?  Hoping not.  Don’t want to bring laptop with me.  But I may need to.  Will contemplate, debate Self, while readying for departure.

speckled retro

8/19–  7:04am.  Disappointed.  No run this morning.  Will sub for other exercises tonight, possibly.  “Planks,” or whatever they’re called.  Coffee at ready.  No wine tonight, again.  Another decaf, blended with choc milk.

Note sure what else to note for first day, tomorrow.  Don’t want to have the whole session, both, scripted.  They’re just meant to be notes, springing points.

Just posted to pedagogy blog.  In full mode to teach.  Bringing newJournal to work.  Think tomorrow being first day of class will more fluidly wake me for 5:30a run.  Let’s hope.  Need another cup.  Definitely.  Hopefully I’ll be able to taste my wine today.  Or maybe I should just leave it alone for a while.

8:28am.  Jack in chair, at desk.  I write from floor, from his right side.  This little Artist, supporting me this morning, nullifying my nihilism.  He speaks to me in his tongue, with the occasional ‘yeah’.

 

10:04pm.  Class tomorrow.  More than ready to re-enter pedagogical ring.  Alice, with gig tomorrow, I’ll drop the little Artist off at 8:30a, at Ms. Lisa’s.  I’ll be back home by 9:15a, departing from base by 10:30a, for Petaluma campus.  As I see, I start writing a new book tomorrow, one that’ll change current stage.  Sipping ’11 Zin from Estate line.  Capote, Faulkner, on-deck.

Hoping I wake earlier than usual, to put more on lecture docket, notes, offerings to encourage students.  Just going to take tomorrow as it presents itself2ME.  All I’m looking for, from 2morrow: engagement.  Know I always use that word, but for what I want from this term, it’s crucial on 1st day.

On news, fear-mongering with “possible” thunderstorms, using the term, over and over, “instability.” “Possibility” won’t “diminish” till Wednesday.. keeping the “threat” of thunder till later this week.  So funny, really.  Thinking I’ll go for a run after I drop off the little Artist at Ms. Lisa’s.  Can only afford 45 minutes, I think.  Not going to try to fool Self into thinking the 5:30a run’ll happen.  It won’t.  Not tomorrow, anyway.

Done with ’11 Zin glass.  Just relaxing now.  Want to dive into some curiosity.. something completely unrelated to wine.  What am I curious about, I have to ask…  So much.  Turkey, as a guest suggested I visit the other day.  Would love to, in addition to so many other countries.  Just want to be on Road.  And I’m certain that this semester will be the one that puts me where I want to be.  I know, while lecturing I’ll make mention of points I didn’t prepare.. that’s fine.  I’ll note what I remember, after-fact.  But I’ll write as much as I can b4.  To write my Road, what I know benefits student approach to Lit, writing, thought.  What benefits ME, as an Artist.  At some point, I have to accept that it’s okay 2B Selfish, to a point.  Almost to 500 words.. so I’ll end by saying ‘NO FEAR’.  EVER.  I’m just going to act.  In fact, plan less.  That’s Artistic– no, that’s truly POETIC.

11:56pm.  Should be asleep, but watching a doc on Poe, how he was destitute, without money, but made himSelf a Self.  So why am I so concerned about this stash into which I’m dipping for Jack’s childcare?  His letters, poems…  To be at the ‘mercy’ of publishers: DEATH, to/in itself.  I, as a new writer, refuse to be scratching for coin.  MY writing’ll be unfettered in compounding coals.  Chronically, if necessary.

 

8/20/13–  Great first day of semester.  Just posted to pedagogy blog.  This semester, a book.  The two classes, the 2prongs.  Already into Capote, Faulkner.  Just have to stay organized, do something everyday.  Putting that other book project on hold.  I know, I know…  But I have to.  My topic, my voice:  Literature, writing, teaching.  Wine, shoved far into background, only being pulled forward to drink.

How will I focus tomorrow, after such a day, one fueling me as I don’t think any other 1st day has.  Going to try again to wake early for a run.  See how it goes.  Would be lovely to get that out of the way.  The timing on my teaching days is perfect, with the time between dropping off Jackie at Ms. Lisa’s and English 5, then between 5 and the 1A.  Plenty of time to write, plan, contribute to this book.

Sipping night’s cap, I can only think of the semester.  Expand upon material, the selected authors.  And, what the students say.  This’ll be a test for me, certainly, staying with this 1topic.  But I can do it.  I have to, at this point in my Life.

The Capote interview I assigned, English 5: perfect way to begin, I think.  Capote’s speaking to us about everything from upbringing, to Craft, to success, to habits.  But I need to find other sources for furthering discussion– or, write some unexpectedly charging, commanding, lectures.

For example, “meaning” of a text.  What is this ‘meaning’ supposed to do, and after it’s experienced, or observed, digested.. then what?  If I’m to have classrooms devoutly devoid of tech, I can only bring applaudable material to each session.  I also think I need to have students dive into more descriptive writing exercises, as means of sharpening their journalistic blades.

TV on, but on MUTE.  Off to study Stanford syllabi.  Have to make Self wake for tomorrow’s run.  This beer, my 2nd, and LAST.  Hoping to hit Lawndale on Saturday after work.  Hope the weather won’t be 2harsh on the writer.  Feels somewhat hot, stuffy downstairs, here from this couch.

Time to be lazy.  Just think.  Best part of being a writer, sometimes.. when you’re writing but not; Doing more living, writing ALL in head.

 

8/21.  Harvest, off ground.  Couldn’t go in at 6 as I wished, having to drop Kerouac off at Ms. Lisa’s.  Again, aiming at 5am run tomorrow morning.  I’m committed to making mySelf pass through that front door, device around wrist to track progress.  Looking 2do timed run, more than one distanced.  Could be quite dark when I launch, so I don’t want to sprint too speedily.

Fellow blogger friend stopped by tasting Room today, bringing an ’09 Syrah.  Would open tonight, but I’m not failing in what I want from tomorrow’s earliest hours.  So when will I open it?  Syrah IS, after all, my character Kelly’s favorite varietal.  Tomorrow night?  Guess I could, since I won’t be running again till Friday night– no I won’t, it’s Sat and Sun I have the Lawndale jaunts planned.  Looking 2do 4 impressive runs consecutively.  Tomorrow morning, Friday morning, then Saturday and Sunday eves.  Have to be more stringent with planning.

Won’t be touching tomorrow’s lectures too much, tonight, as I want to pressure Self into rushed energetic composition tomorrow.  And I think I need it be handwritten, then copied, to show students how much I detest devices.  Almost lost a poem on phone today.  Or maybe I did.  Don’t know.  Precisely why EVERYTHING should be written in ink, on PAPER, first.

Just checked, nothing deleted today, that I can see.  But the fact that I even bloody had that concern bothers me immensely.  Last straw talk, I know, again.  Need to make a copy or two of some other Capote writings to give students a sense of his style, sentence rhythm.  For 1A.. Going to dig up what I can on Mr. Faulkner, also handwriting my lecture.  Have to write slow, not my usual sloppy syllabled stripings.

Have over 2 hours to prep for 1A.  Eng 5, about the same, now that the syllabus has been copied.  The first day’s always hectic.  Looking at the few stills I shot today.  Love new fruit, especially Sauvignon Blanc for some reason.  Ugh.. so tempted to have that Syrah tonight.  It’s there, in the entryway, taunting me.  Won’t let her win.  Not tonight.

My character, my sweet Kelly.. need to put her on page more.  The timing simply hasn’t been write– I mean right.  But after today, I’m newly shoved.. deliciously driven.

10:09pm–  Running shorts, socks, downstairs, on ottoman.  All I have to do, roll out of bed, come down here, depart.  OH, have to charge device.  And I found out about an hour ago I have Friday night free for running, but I’m staying with another early sprint set, followed by the two evening Lawndale runs, the next two nights.

Finishing a book this semester.  About my return to the classRoom, about this new rhythm to my lessons, lectures, this restructured passion.  Tomorrow, day2 of semester.. and with Jackie getting better about being left at Ms. Lisa’s, I should be back here to write, I’m hoping, before 9a.  If I leave promptly at 10, I could be on PC [Petaluma Campus] by 10:40, ridiculous latest.. which would give me more than enough to compose for class.  But how would I copy it?  NEW PLAN:

 

= Post to Pedagogy blog, on Capote interview, from home

= Write lecture at home and/or on main campus, copy, then leave for PC

 

Each session, each lecture guiding it, has to be significantly more poignant than what preceded.  That’s how I’ll get this book done.  AND, stay organized, simple.  This pedagogy blog.. a key thread in this semester’s book.  Maybe I could post a couple entries before I leave for campus(es), even getting a couple paragraphs down right after run.  If I leave at 5:20 [latest] and– no, that won’t work.  Wait, stop…  I’m overplanning, overthinking.

10:20pm.  Should be in bed.  I’ll be running in 7 hours.

 

Falling asleep, in

the character’s animation.

Her words, picture, fall.

Wouldn’t want other

ways to lay day.

 

Hopefully soon, steeped in

Syrah.

untie

11/16/12.  Had a chance to thank Regina, the coworker who voiced appreciation of my work.  Had to tell her, I felt.  As I this type, rain enjoys its return.  My cough, still striding.  Tonight, all poem.  With the novel only lines from rough draft surfacing, I’m in an odd stall.  So, in lull, to characters from tasting Room…  Had vineyard tour in early AM.. well, not that early, 11:30am.  Three ladies, 4 older gentleman.  Managed to sell some wine, but not as much as I’d hoped.  Later in day, after looking at clock for periods long, as if I expected it to speak back to me, complete a manuscript, I met a couple from Minnesota.  The lady voiced how interesting she found it that everyone on my side of the bar, at other wineries they’d visited, had stories, such compelling backgrounds, tales, dreams.  Funny, I thought, I see visitors the same.  All these people, coming to wineries, to discover, see what it’s like out here.  Like the couple from Maine, who’d always dreamt of visiting “wine country,” to “do some wine tasting, how it’s really done,” the Maine man said, next to his wife who couldn’t scrape her vision from the tasting lineup.  Towards day’s end, and I mean literally minutes before closing, a couple entered, saw me, stormed my counter sector.  The man was from Hungary, his wife from Poland.  She was sweet, interested, open to information.  He, quite expectedly from his self-establishing grimace, knew he had to lecture me on wine around the world; tell me about his business trips to China, India, Argentina.  When done with the tasting, he told me they had some coupons or vouchers in the car, to comp the tasting.  But they never motioned to sprint to their ride to pull those tickets.  Still shocks me how so many expect free tastings, so reflexively.

9:47pm.  Thinking again of Regina’s remarks, feedback on this “blog.” She cited the “story” in my page sequences.  I’m humbled, as I’m not envelopingly coerced that there’s a coherent composition in these descents.  Well, maybe there is..  My topic?  Writing, I guess.  The Artist’s tale.  Or portrait.  Listening to rain, about to take first sip of night’s cap, the topper to day’s tale.  Little Kerouac, asleep, speedily, upstairs.  This front, over Yulupa, telling me to type faster.  But I don’t know what content to convey.  My Merlot barrel, somewhere in that cave, topped with Primitivo.  Should probably taste it tomorrow.  OR maybe Sunday, when it’s slower.  But that’s not a given.  Anyone who’s been behind bar on Sundays, in any Room along 12, knows that Sunday can roar just as audibly as its predecessor.

This new device, annoying me.  For some reason, the “notes” I made on the old phone transferred to this new one [I have, then, that “string of haikus,” well as other topping types].  Okay, so no writing lost.. but the stills of my son, still limbo’d.  Why did it save those random rays, not the pictures of my most valued character?  Speaking of characters…  She’s waiting for her paintings to be reviewed, a major publication–  But I have to save for novel next.  Troubled writer, with his heaping pour.  And for some reason, this prose is boring me more than I can care to courier.  So, onto Comp Book’s pages.  ACTUAL writing.  Ink.  PAGE.  Me, poetry.  No time for order.

11/17/12.  Rain, on hold.  My thoughts, coated in day’s hour, hours.  Tired of anything, everything connected to TV.  Especially “news.” Just want to read, invasively.  Everything.  Plath’s entries, at side.  Tuesday, getting closer.  Rough draft’s deadline, trotting towards my tower.  Wine tonight.. not sure.  Probably nothing.  May go with the beer.  Hard to concentrate with that TV on.  Have a training session on Tuesday, 9a-12p, I think.  Right after, to coffee house, for novel’s sake.  May do a tasting, somewhere.  Maybe somewhere in Russian River, get a Pinot for the tentative Pinot tasting I’m to attend that night.  Pinot…  Not sure what to make of its role.  Sometimes I find it magic, others I just see difficulty, trouble, moodiness.

Reader–  I’m all over the place, with these pages.  Make me finish this novel.  Already I feel pulls to distraction.  Frankly, I’m too old.  This effort, I have to finish.  Don’t let this happen to you.  Words other.. don’t let your love of writing make you hate your Creative habits, the results, lack in/of.  Wishing this rain would come back.  That’d make me write something worthy of readership.  Hate that word.. “readership.” Sounds like a mold word from a Literary Theory dictionary/encyclopedia.  Still have that book from Coleman’s class.  That was Fall ’99.  So long ago.  This laptop, fading in energy.  And I am, too.  Bored with page.  Sure you are, right?  Hate when I’m like this.  Need to take break.  But if I do that, I’m not writing.  Listening to what’s on TV.. a lady owning a beauty salon, something…  Judging everyone around her.  But she’s self-employed.  How did SHE do that?  Is she better at her styling, or whatever, than I am with pen?  Meditation–

Looking at 2day’s tip money.  What would I do with these bills, if it was all I could budget for my “startup?” Good question.  Or maybe a ridiculous one.  Either way I’m entertained.

10:17pm.  Night’s cap, seated.  Off to Comp Book.  Stanford on mind.  And in academic frame, still have that letter of rec’ to write for A.C.  I’ve started, actually.  Just need to finish.  Why do I keep looking forward to Tuesday?  Isolation, concentration.  Manuscript completion, finally.  Took notes today, captured characters.  In little pages, notebook, right-rear pocket.  Why am I too lazy to type?  ‘Cause I need a night.  Speaking of, which day is it?  Saturday?  Yes, as tomorrow’s my Friday.  Sunday.  Now I’m confused again.  When bottledaux gains its independence, there’ll be no smoke.

It’s late.  I guess.  And I’m at a loss.  Seeing what Ms. Plath has to say…  She tells me to de-chain nouns from warden verbs, monstrous modifiers.  Scenes fold out like roses under shy moon.  Imagination decrescendo.  Fed excess, best.  Proserpina, singing to retreating fronts.  Heard the song, once–  Love when mind skips like this.  Off to ink, lined sheets.  Reader, forgive me, 4 the force-feed.  But at least it’s free.  Another sip [needed, session’d] … Self-attrition.  Scheduled re-write.

A coworker’s husband may be able to retrieve the lost photos of Jack, on old phone.  If he can’t, I have to let them go.  It’s hindering my Creative breaths, that old phone, how it just died on me.  And how angry with Self I am, relying on tech so much, not developing all those photos into actual pictures, putting them in some album.  Less tech, more Life.  Sip, sip … “Would it be too childish of me to say: I want? But I do want: theatre, light, color, paintings, wine and wonder…I must find a core of fruitful seeds in me.” -Sylvia Plath (193)

Disturbed turtle through corporate whorish hurtles–cheetah with ideas.

Ancient plaintiff, aided; re-scribble my fiddle–two memoir missiles;

Looking for odd words, cops heard; my freethinking by BB mocked,

curved.  Sing a sonnet slung; unlock my gun; their clock just rung–

I’m a writer, stop at none.  Free thru paragraphs, what I’m about

2do at altitude; wow the Room, a crowd now consumed. empty

lots, plenty knots; ..recite to Self on flight to wells deep; thesis

carefully crafted, never sell cheap; a quelled creep, my approach

in a slow note’s anecdote throat. now I’m too poetic, ‘cause I’m

true, no edges. between my diaries and politician’s, plenty wedges.

other than this chair, my Artistic welfare, no pledges.  Simply my

tendencies, beget set empty breeze.  No more calendar marks

my heart can finally start.  surviving from scarred Art–partial

meditation like carnal martial; combat attack, not like Iraq.

papers flat from sitting on tables in such high stacks.  why

act when i can just relax?  evade the marvel–I’m hardly startled.

My momentum, decelerated.. need more air, so I can read more

fair; their pleas; pour, tear..  I’m implored, where?  Never respond

to dares.  Critics only get despondent stares, know I’ve said that before,

but now I’m on the other side of the door, soliciting more; clock stopped

at 4.

[8/11/12]

appointed pages, a beer bottle

Finished yesterday’s 3-page stint.  Now, just writing, relaxing.  Enjoying these Wine Bar beats.  Tomorrow, first day at SV Winery.  Nervous…  Not even a little.  More excited, now.  May have been a little nerved, yesterday.  Also on mind: publishing.  Was paid at 12a this morning, doing budget.  Only going to allow Self $100.  That’s it, that’s final.  Have to remind Self that budgeting is not about how much you’d like to set aside for business, or how much you THINK you need..  It’s how much you CAN allocate, how much you can honestly afford.  For me, now, $100.  Probably more than you need to know, reader, I know.  BUT, this is what truly independent writers [almost wrote “Self-published writers,” yuck!] should have in scope, always.  If they choose to ever go beyond an expected, fashionable, blog, if they started one.

Next to Jack, now.  He lays in his little bassinet, looking up at me, telling me to take a break from this device.  But I do think he likes the music.  Also looking down at my favorite little character, I again sit shaken, wanting to make this little one proud of his father.  SO, I have to keep writing, stay in constant session.  Trust Self, edit minimally, know I’m right in my streamed consciousness flight.

Last day off before returning to 5-day runs.  Speaking of runs, running, I’m setting  Self to run a couple miles later today.  Have eye on a race later in year.  One of the crew members at AV put me onto its time.  Clocking out for a small break, to have a talk with Little London/Kerouac, here.  Till later…

 

3:12pm.  Haven’t had one of these in a while, java chip frappuccino.  Sounded better than a second mocha.  After this entry, off to review SV Winery’s site, just to arm Self with some selling points, truly immerse Self in their wines.  Not like the box, when they’d hand us some packet before a winery visit.  “Go ahead and read this,” C2 would often say, tossing it onto my desk–or rather, into my cube.  So much healthier, now this writing’s away from that devilish wine labor camp.  And don’t think I’ve forgotten about all the notes I took while in that chair, with that headset, staring at that screen.  No run today.  Disgusted.

Looking through this Comp Book, the new one…  Need to finish this one piece I started just before leaving AV.  But instead of saying how I’m GOING to, why don’t I just DO?  My ever-present problem as a diarist.  Can’t get travel out of my head, must be why I’m so turned around, coupled with how fast Kerouac’s growing.  Almost 4 months.  Already.  How could that ever be possible?  Makes me only hate time, even more than I did before he was born.

Going to jump journals, again.  Over to Comp Book.  OR maybe that little black journal I bought a while ago, at some office supply store in Marin, of all places.  Tired of key pushing.  And, to be brutally honest, of wine to some extent.  In only microscopic moment, I’ll be in the car, en route to retrieve a bottle for tonight’s 1StopWineBlogShop beer tasting.  How many invited?  1.  Me.  Two, including whichever journal’s elected.

(6/5/12, Tuesday)

Scribbled Serf

1 tour today.  3 girls from Hawaii.  Oahu, I think.  But I don’t want this entry to be like my others.  I want to focus on the symbolic significance and gravity of barrels, and bud break.  Both entail promise.  Found I have $300 in stash, with an extra $100 for petty cash.  Or, “pc” as I noted in Comp Book.  The barrels, housing the winemaker’s creativity, creations.  Eventually, it need be bottled.  Like with my countless notebooks, journals.  Their bottle, for being time–this log.  The blog.  Ox, finally to be bottled.  I have a couple extra dollars to self publish now.  But, I can’t release large mss.  And if I did aim for something heavier, I couldn’t have a large copy run.  So, all to blog.  This is the bottle.  The case.  An eventual library.  And the buds breaking off East Shiloh, in Windsor, telling me I need to break.  It’s time to produce fruit.  And that’s what I’m doing.  My timing, I believe, even after all the vacillation: enviable.  Perfect, practically.  This is ART, Literature, expression; wine-influenced cubist composition, continuously.

Now, sipping ’07 Estate Cab from a winery with which I’m rather familiar.  But before the wine, came one of my preferred brews, Pliny the Elder from Russian River Brewery.  Been stalking the Whole Foods down the street, for their next shipment.  Their Pliny palette arrived two days ago, and tonight I enjoyed my first ever Pliny here in the writer’s cave–  Their palette, showing for my palate, incredibly.  Lovely.  Not convinced I agree with its shape as much as a Racer 5, but it’s close.  Weather in AV, making me want to make up some excuse to leave before 5:30p, write on some road’s side in car, with Wine Bar tunes urging my progress, assuring I did the right thing.

Was picture-happy today, again, in caves.  Love the feel of that structure, built into the hill.  Today, I looked for a reason to stroll up there, into its palms.  Thought of something “productive” to do in there, so I could secure some stills for the blog.  Can’t get over the barrels, how they situate in those excavated walls.  I just took picture atop picture of the French Oak wood, their towering collective character over the ajar writer.  Thought the candles had some indicatory purport, but don’t see them with much awe.  They’re there for effect, an ambience additive.  Not much to do with me, the writing.  I suppose if I looker further, I could force my perception to unveil some token.  But I’m stopping with barrels, breaking buds.  Now is my Now.  May have stated that before–in fact I’m sure I have.  But this morning’s commute, today’s shift, confirmed.  This ’07, opened last night.  It’s throwing the same orders as the wood and Shiloh’s enlivening vines.  More even, in and with this sitting.  Telling me not to even halt for a nanobreath.

Listening to the Wine Bar station.  No, the $300 stash isn’t going toward any collateral.  This writer, never a slave to anyone, much less some demonic sludge plop of a bank.  My brand, ME.  Product: Art; the Writing.  How much overhead does that demand?  Kelly, as a painter, has far more consistent, substantial, expenses than this wandering scribbler.  Another sip…  Realizing, I have cameras, and I only use pics when I’m in the mood to do so.  No need to spend money on another one of those buttoned things.  A mere device.  I buy wholesale, build inventor from brain.  And it’s bottomless.

All, quite set.  Runway clear.  Takeoff.  Write more, with wine at side.  Typing till I touch Maui’s sands, the other islands’.

[4/5/12, Thursday]