interest in creatively sovereign whims

This morning, rain, wind.  Time, 8:30a.  Me, with coffee, session’d.  Staying home from work, just to keep an eye on Mr. Kerouac.  He’s fine, no worry need.  Just want to be sure.  My heart, a bit wounded from the hold on project1 (chapbook), but I’ll keep writing.  I don’t think any of the “bloggers” that had their writing turned into books self-published anything, much less a chapbook, and they did fine, are doing…  But, that could be part of my “branding,” as it were, all the more justification for why I should go forward with it, even if the first run is 10 copies.  So what?  I did it.

Last night, started writing right when the rain began its knocks.  Now, its album is fully in play.  What do I want from this day off?  A healthy, happy Jack.  Then, writing.  3 standalone’s.  Kelly, with her decorated glasses, other art, doing more than well.  No sense trying to catch her.  And I shouldn’t think comparatively.  Ever.  Her audience is visual, where mine is dying.  People don’t read as they used to.  I could be fighting a losing “campaign” [hate that word, from the box].  Then I’ll stop fighting.  But I won’t stop writing.  If anything, I’ll write for me.  I’ll be my audience, I’ll read my work, be my devout bibliomaniac; a sturdy scholar of my own scribbles.  So what?

Need to renew my Poets&Writers subscription, just remembered.  Wonder if I can do that online…  On my desk, an issue of a magazine called “Fast Company.” Never bought this magazine before, but did about a month ago.  And I did because Martin Scorsese’s on the cover, with the heading “How to Lead a CREATIVE LIFE” imprinted over his presence.  In reading, I saw that Mr. Scorsese is often concerned about what his “bosses” will think of his work, and ideas.  This repulses me.  Why?  An artist of his magnitude, reputation, record, should have NO “bosses.” Ever.  If anyone’s earned autonomy, it’s him.  The article relays, “Will his bosses like what he’s doing? Will they give him another chance on another project? How much of his creative vision will get into this project? How much will the powers that be screw with his vision? When does he say ‘no’ to them? When does he say ‘yes’?…And how in the world is he going to get away with doing the work he loves for his whole life?” When I read these questions, I had to ask the same of Self.  Except, I refuse the existence of bosses, when it comes to anything, especially my Creativity.  I deny Them the right to speak, breath, step.  They are categorically, empirically, definitively voided.  So, I continue to create, WRITE.  My way.  I just read through the article again, really growing from Marty’s perspective on film, Art, and Creative subsistence.

Thinking this “blog,” its tie to wine, may have something I didn’t before see.  Won’t state what I’m realizing, but I’ll let it lead for a while, see what it may gift.  Me, this idea, on our own cavalcade.  To a street on Île Saint Louis.  To a café, with music like this [“Small Town” by Morcheeba].  So I can write more.

Back.  9:09am.  Wrote something quick for the other blog, the one I was set on assassinating.  So glad I didn’t, again.  Want to build it as my Wine Business.  Interactive, fun, educational.  Mom had a couple ideas for 1StopWineBlogShop that I’m definitely going to develop.  Have one customer in my database, a family friend, one of Mom’s closest’s, a lady who’s know me since the day of my reality landing.  Probably the single sweetest woman I know, aside from my mother.  Oh, and this database, not much of a database at all.  More like a single sheet of paper with the customer’s name on it.  Have to laugh.  And don’t most businesses start that way, anyway?  The whole “bare bones” appreciation…

Rain, still in stride.  Need more coffee.  My brain, more active than its been in days.  I would die if I stopped writing now.  I mean typing.  Wonder if the vineyards are as excited as I am with the arrival of this downpour.  The Wine Bar beats order me to relax.  Actually, they urge me to listen, type slower.  “Don’t try and keep pace with or catch up to your thinking, you’ll only counterproductively tire yourSelf,” I feel like it’s saying.

Going to buy that ink cartridge today.  Going to reprint the first twenty pages or so of the ms.  That’s where the fading begins to impede readability, from pg. 20-1, as it prints backwards.  Yes, forward with the chapbook, its anchoring piece, an untitled novella (17,000+ words).  Still unbelievably thankful for those Literary Lunches, how I isolated my Self from coworkers.  That’s what writers do.  Or, that’s why I do, did.

Recess.  Coffee pour, pours …

9:34am.  My fiction pieces, the Kelly writings…  Need to address some of those, maybe put them into a larger work, one continuous but not against my erratic moment-focused style.

And the music was right, I’ve tired mySelf.  With this off day, monitoring the mini-professor, I should try to fit in a movie.  Should I upgrade my Pandora, so there’s no commercials?  No, Mike.  Watch you overhead, PUBLISHER.  Need to have a fixed budget…  How about what I have in the stash right now?  Let’s count…  $170.  Have a 20 in my wallet.  Throwing that into the stash.  Done.  $190 to start a publishing/writing life.  Good luck, right?  That’s all I can afford.  Any lose change I can find, will be spent as necessary, not exactly thrown into this pot.  Putting the rubber band back around the folded notes.  Back into bag’s pocket.  Actually, I should throw it into one of those writing containers in the closet, the smaller thin one.  Done.  Need new biz card, a printing cartridge, to start.  Circles, scribbling, me…

The coffee’s really talking to me.  Should probably slow it down.  Jack’s mom offered to get me a mocha on her way back from errands, but I have to pass.  No more caffeine for the writer.  And I just noticed this writing’s become quite boring.  Sorry, readers (which includes my Self).  Breaking … But not before I cross 1,000.  So am I simply writing for the word count, when before I’ve decried such?  Yes.  Am I multidimensional, or just a bloody hypocrite?  Latter, obviously.  The rain, telling me to type faster, to match its decent.  I tell it, “I have no boss.  Answer to me, solely.  Go bark at someone else.” (9:40am)

Off to ink, paper, with this rain.  (3/13/12 — 10:47am)

Messaging, Weather Invoicing

Rain, holding to streets, lightly.  With a nightcap, an IPA from Oregon.  About to print tonight’s 3 pages for book.  Can’t get the first 3 from my head.  I see this book getting published.  Yes, it bothers me that I need someone to publish it, that I need permission to be a writer.  But, like Pac said, “…You have to work from one point to go to another…” I can be a sovereign scribe and still be subsidized.  How?  I won’t agree to anything that compromises the intended voice of my work.  If an editor makes adjustments, and I don’t agree, they don’t go to press.  And, I would never sign a contract surrendering a say in my work’s finalization, or the processes beforehand.

Watching Mr. Shakur right now, in “Resurrection.” He didn’t flinch, ever.  My character needs such.  That’s what these late PM drops order.  Tomorrow, no mocha.  If it’s caffeine I’m after when cubed, scribbling notes, I need the most furious of cups.  Blacker than black.  “My girlfriend, blacker than the darkest night…”

Managed to finish a verse at the end of my Lit Lunch.  No upload to 1Stop tonight.  Not in the mood, frankly.  It’s my wine business, as you may be aware, and if I’m not in the mood, and I’m not getting paid, I don’t have to touch a single key on this monster.  No writing for free; such thought, intensifying.  I have bills, obligations, as much as I’d love to disregard them at times.  They’re there, and life is more than sententious.  Not one simply writing; I’m writing to make a living.  One comfortable, relaxed.  See so many artists that know they should be getting paid for their Craft, who would never offer a single stroke gratis.  So now walketh I.  Those wanting me to freewrite for free: ungodly, devilishly wicked.  He would agree.  If he were here, he’d holler, ‘cause he’d hear me.  Sip, sip …

[1/19/12 – Th]


12:58p.  Left office at 12:47.  Just now sitting to write, as I was confronted with stalls.  But here I am.  Read through the first three pages of my book at my desk.  Not as bad as I was expecting.  In fact, the prose’s consistency and thematic progression is surprisingly engaging.  My mocha, in a pint glass.  Hot, like it wants to be heard, seen, like it’s angry that it deserves more attention.

Quite a few cubeNOTES scribbled.  My thoughts this morning, till now, tidal waves of sight.  Like my visions multiply, promising proximal tangibility.  At the back table.  Think this may be my new favorite writing spot in the café.  A young woman sits, sips in my usual seat.  She types on her laptop, but not at a pace which indicates anything Creative, reflectively Literary.  More like the composition of an email.  I could be wrong, though, as I often am.

The Cabernet, still on concentration’s operating table.  Know just how I would market it, if I was to sell.  Not this first vintage.  Shame, as it tasted sovereignly sculpted to my palate, the particular palates of Mom and Dad.  Tonight, printing three more pages.  Have a drop-dead due date for my ms: 3/19/12, exactly two months from today.  Will keep this promise, as I did the countdown at the end of mikeslognoblog, and as I fantasize about receive acceptance from a publisher.  Yes, I boast as a Self-publishing writer.  And I am.  But, this first book I want to disseminate and market traditionally.  Going to prove to my Self that my writing’s at such a level.  Going to show everyone the same.  Want to see it on shelves, do signings, TRAVEL.  Write while I travel.

That winemaker I met on Tuesday, his words, following me, my scribbles, following me to this small wooden chair, here by the bean bar.  He went ahead and did all his way.  Took tremendous risks that paid, brought what he envisioned.  Fruitful fruition.  Now, he travels with his bottled projects.  His stories.  I’m not far behind.  I’ve written too much, far too much to be stationary, for all my pages to just be stored on some “doc,” or shoved into that plastic container in the closet, under far reaches of work shirts.

1:12p.  35 minutes.  Is that right?  Typing fast, so math’s a bit strenuous.  It’s difficult when I’m relaxed, still.  Haven’t touched the spoken word yet, today.  For when I’m back at the desk, between tasks.  May have found a couple readings, casual open mics of interest, here in Napa.  But, my exhaustive ridiculous commute, how it squeezes my time like morning oranges, has me wondering if that’d be optimal time use.  Of course it would, it’s Literary.  Time, just passing, but these entries, shorter works (yes, that includes my novel, as it won’t be some trashy Twilight book-length effort, an aircraft carrier or tanker’s anchor of paper).  Brevity, where wit sits.  Is at my table, or that girl’s, over there?  Now I’m certain she’s not a writer, as she’s mousing around some site, with her left index finger skating around.  Am I a writer?  How do I know?  I don’t have a book out.

But I will.

[1/19/12 – Th]

coffee #2

This time, just a straight black coffee after my visit to the bookstore, drive up/over Fountaingrove.  Thought about drawing, painting, while speeding to the shelves.  Looked through a couple drawing magazines, books on art.  Not leaving the idea, at all really.  Putting it on hold, though.  But maybe I shouldn’t.  What makes me think I can’t paint, draw?  When a child, you just do it, and don’t really have concern for the finished product, if ever.  You just draw, submit to your teacher, or parents, and it’s displayed, be the gallery your classRoom, or refrigerator.  You draw, you leap.  Need to leap all I can, with time’s determination in aging me.  Saw an elderly man on my drive, on Brookwood & 2nd, barely able to walk with his walker’s support.  Right by the hospital.  Ironically, or not.  That’ll be me one day.  Or not.  Either way, I’m fighting time with art, one medium or another.  Or a blend of several.  Maybe that’s the right attitude, attack on several fronts, from multitudinous vantages.

This coffee, beyond strong.  It’s angry, ordering me to continue in types.  “Don’t stop!” it throws.  So I won’t.  Drawing…  What would I draw?  Trees?  Vineyards?  Wine bottles?  Full glasses, empty ones?  Back at my house now, wondering how to spend the day’s rest.  I can’t even covey how gorgeous it is on the other side of this window.  Perfect for drawing, painting.  I often see artists on the side of the road, usually between Kenwood and Glen Ellen, either snapping pictures, or painting.  The other day, I saw two older ladies across the street from the Pagani Vineyard, moving brushes under a shared umbrella.  Think I need to go back out.  Just one more time.  I could drive up the street, into the heart of the Bennett Valley AVA, see what I can capture.

Back in the tasting Room tomorrow, for the first time in weeks.  Eager, I guess.  Nervous, not nearly.  Hopefully my brother sees some traffic, can help him sell some of that amazing purist wine.  Have to temper my sips while behind the counter, keep the pen moving.  I find that many times sips take me away from writing fluidly, focused.  That doesn’t help at all in completing a manuscript.  So, tomorrow, no sips…

Okay, so I’m going out.  Where did I put that camera that camera that Mom and Dad bought me?  Think it’s in this top drawer…found it.  Off to be artistic.  As much as I can be pushing a button, stealing nature’s fruition.  [1/7/2012, Saturday]

8:18p.  Before I post, letting you know I have a beautifully smoky, rich, luminous ’09 Carneros Pinot in my glass again.  It just looks like a dark seductress, ready to be kissed.  What is she thinking, with her returning glare?  I’ll learn, when I sip, with palate swoon.  She’s Literary, cinematic, dramatic.  She tells me to never forget wine, especially her varietal.