Kerfuffle

8:37am.  Giving Self till :41 to type.  Want to leave a bit early, do some roadside writing in Comp Book, then later rack into chapbook.  This racking approach with my writing, the formation of projects, seems like it may work.  And it has to.  I’m SO tired of restarting with book projects.  The one thing this blog has made me appreciate: the standalone piece.  Then collecting those.. the collection of writings from an Author.

Instincts, telling me to leave now.  Go to coffee house, don’t put yourSelf in a position to feel rushed be there a long line.  Just what I’m going to do.  Good day, reader.  We’ll connect at day’s close.  Maybe over a bottle of…

9:10pm.  Home.  A day so trying, I barely have push to further push.  And the bottle I’m set to open, a ’12 SB from the winery.  Not going to inject–I mean rack–3 pieces into book tonight.  Set on 1, just one.  The one I wrote today, on my lunch break, walking the Merlot block, left side of driveway.

Had another reminder tonight that I need finish my projects, get to Road.  Not walking you to specifics, reader, and I’ll probably forget eventually what I’m passively referencing, however just know I was motivated to faster move with these pages.. even with this infernal “blog.” Warm today, the few times I was able to get outside.

In the mood to relax, not work, write.  Just want to scroll through channels, watch anything.  Truly know what it’s like to be a potato.  Almost spelled it with an “e,” like that mindless noodle Quayle, only as I’m tired.  Wish I had another writer movie down here with me.. tired of the one I still have in this laptop, distracting me.  Need to be like Crystal, only write pen2paper at night, so I can’t be distracted by tech, anything it provides, or CAN provide.  That new writing movie I recently screen, with the main character keeping a journal throughout the film, actually taking a class on how to keep a journal– what a personal expository log’s supposed to do.  Think she, my new blogging/writing friend, has more discipline than me in certain arches.

No characters really stand out from today, unfortunately.  Trying to toggle through memory, but can’t find a thing, a single figure to record.  And because of.. my mood falls.  Maybe I wasn’t paying close enough attention.  NO, I understand, pulled from lull.  I was busy, almost more than I could handle, at one time handling a group of 4, 4, and 8 concertedly.  Can’t write between such pours.

Even more inspired, after tonight, to get to my office.. my Creative Think tank.  Has to be at least a half-hour from home, so to mentally be advantageously removed, for prose.. poem, song, CREATivitY.

Thinking of my character.. but she deserves more than my current state.  I’m the invalid writer, writing while listening to the news.  How serious does that make me?  Ridiculous, humorous, really.  Time for book.  “Logging off…” Sipping ’12 SB, finally.

(5/18/13)

“You know what, gimme two more to make it six,”

the Texas man, John said, exited to up the order of shipped ’08 Syrah.  These two days off, though, all verse.  Not in Fiction mood.  And, don’t have time for lengthy compositions.  Well, I shouldn’t say that.  Not during the day, I meant.  Still want to address the Lit Theory piece I wanted to write on Jack London’s ‘Eden’ & Kerouac’s ‘Road’.  In my little notes, I the other day wrote, “Knowing when you begin is when you begin.” Was on the Stanford site, earlier, fantasizing.  With my little Kerouac up early [was in his Room at 6:34am], I’m writing early.  Oh, and am I printing today, for book’s and poetry collection’s sake?  Assuredly.  -7:12am

 

A little chilly outside, perfect mocha weather.  So many notes from the little pages to transfer.  Finally sat down with Dad, asked him some aviation questions.  Started at preflight walk around plane to some taxiing procedures and cruising altitude.  One interesting thing he cited, of which he informed me was “Coffin Corner.” Not sure I fully understand it, but it deals with a compromised control of the aircraft.  Another topic addressed, with Mom and Dad, was the circumstantial randomness, unexpected connectedness of Katie’s rise to winemaker.  All possible stories.  And if not, more propulsion for the Writer.

Looking through these little pages almost exhausts me, with how much I write, how I’m utterly unable to put down a pen.  All these in-the-moment captures.  Like this piece of dialogue yesterday, from a man visiting with his wife, from Florida, saying “Get the dozer out, start pushin’…” Originally, he’s from Oklahoma, he told me, accent as thick as humid southern air.  He said this after his remarking on how difficult it must have been to carve and pave the road up to the winery’s mountaintop [and yes, “Mountain Top” is one word].  I thought it was a little humorous, as he was basically talking to himself.  Not knowing I was recording.  Actually, that’s the only note I took yesterday, shamefully, surprisingly.  Well, no, there was one more.  The about voicing, from the Texas gentleman in love with the Syrah.

Test4Self, today: print 15 pages of poem.  Know I have more than enough to satisfy this.  The printing, strictly for collection.  I will print, or try, a few pages for.. something.  Not a novel.  Not yet.  Thinking I want legal sheets for that, like Richard in “Crashing.” Mom and Dad said it best the other night, “Write your experience.” They suggested I document something I went through years ago.  But, I have to write what I want to.  Just don’t know what that is yet, in way of fiction.  The tasting Room?  Winemaking?  Aviation [although I don’t have the time, I don’t think, to address this]?  Well, with Aviation, I could write about someone wanting to write about it, just being fascinated with planes, what it takes to navigate one.  But that might appear escapist, evasive.  Need a mocha to think about it.

8:46am.  Drizzling outside.  Can’t believe it, especially when I think of how bastardly screaming in temp it was just days ago.  Had some rhymes in my head while carrying from the coffee brothel.  Forgot most of them.  All that’s in memory left, “bone brittle, shown little, a lone riddle, wait for drones’ fizzle, stick to ink like ice cream cone drizzle…” Just transferred to poetry/song doc, here on laptop monster.  Thinking of what I journaled about Gillian the other day, how Mom liked the entry.  Tells me I DO need to excavate past days.  And maybe that’s where this “novel” is.