siren cycle

IMG_0037No more new docs on laptop.  Quitting technology, internet, completely.  Well, almost.  Just won’t use it as much.  Today’s most meaningful event, the weather.  Antithetical to yester’.  Overcast, little drizzle, light rain on mountain according to friend at work.  We were all miffed.  This morning, thinking the MOD hadn’t yet arrived, I was in car, scribbling verse.  Wound up logging 20 lines.  On paper.  No chance of it being forgotten, unknowingly erased, lost in internet or CPU space.  It’s permanency revitalizes me.  She parked in the back/side lot, by the crush pad, so she’d been there the entire time.  No harm, was able to bleed that verse, which adds to day’s relished total, title.  Closing all windows on this laptop, preparing to close one dependency level.  Watching this scene in ‘Midnight’, when Wilson’s character, Gil, is talking to Hemingway.  No technology, no devices, no unnecessarily luminous screens, trinkets anywhere.  Just a Literary discussion.  Actual interaction.  And the Comp Book, right next to me–  Well, that’s not entirely true.  IT’s just over there, by the door, about six feet away, by that six-pack of wine I brought home from work the other day.

Planning on piecing together rhymes, lines, phrases, words.. randomly like one of my favorite Artists.  Like I stated recently, I want my writing to definitively reflect my moment, thought process, urge.  Then I suddenly slow, realizing I didn’t run today, and that Grandma’s gone.  Why is that so hard for the writer to accept?  Know it sounds incredibly immature, but I always thought Grandma would be here, like she was immortal, resistant to death.  Can’t get that image from head, of her on that bed.. sleeping in her permanent position– how cold her cheek was when I kissed it for time final.  Have to change subject b4 I’m derailed, sailing stale…

Looking at the recent cash stash.  Still haven’t deposited, put toward house/business Schwab 1 acct.  Will tomorrow, if I can.  Going to campus early, to deposit SRJC check, if it’s ready.  You never know, with time between Spring & Summer terms.  Things get turned inside-out, diagonalized, deformed, contorted, ill-supported.  Again thinking of Fall term, this new Literature/Reading/Teaching blog I want to build.  Should I?  Wouldn’t that just be perpetuating the habit, digging mySelf deeper into the habitual hole, abet my immediacy addiction?  Maybe I should have this first book, or one of them, be what I want to do with this new blog.  “Blog” … God I hate that word.  I really do.

Tomorrow, my Friday.  Why don’t I feel how I should, like it’s a Friday?  I need to make mySelf feel that way.  Sticking to this current Comp Book, till what I wrote on cover, “11/24/13.” I crossed out the old date, which I didn’t satisfy, one year previous to date [11/24/12].  No matter.  Trying to stay situated, consistent.  Think I may have a little more Viognier left in fridge.  Not sure I want any, really.  More in mood for coffee, or something sweet.. that sparkling water.  So guilty I’m feeling about not running tonight.  And I can’t tomorrow, with the scheduled dinner at Mom & Dad’s.  First since Grandma’s leaving us.  Not nervous at all.. it’ll be a reason to celebrate Zel’s Life.  How DO I want to play the rest of tonight?  Not feeling that affected from the 2 Sumpin’s.  I’ll take a glass of the Viognier, as cap.

Need to stop typing, get to Comp Bk scribblings.  Just what I’m doing, this scattered writer, embattled sighter.  […]  9:54pm, Viognier in glass, wrapping up sitting.  Can’t wait to listen to instrumentals, push Self into mode poem’d.  This laptop, only supplying distraction.. the net, “social” media, whatever else associated.

10pm.  Stopping, finally.  News on, but muted.  I’m not letting them talk, disseminate their fear-mongering.  This Viognier, more peach and apricot-driven than last night.  Should probably visit barrels tomorrow, top them before racking, no?  Or should I wait till I rack on Wednesday?  Either way, I’ll stop by lap, see if I can learn something quick.

(6/9/13)

Rationing My Reason

[6/4/12]  Coffee, heated in house this morning.  Light rain, outside, if you’ll believe.  Kelly, still in thought.  Only goal for today, print pages in addition to “posting” to “blog.” Yes, you can tell by the quoted marks I’m not much blog-happy this A.M.  Why?  Because I want to write, not blog.  So, in Kelly’s spirit, that’s what I’m doing.  Or, WILL do.  Wonder what’s going on at AV this morning, how they did yesterday.  Won’t lie, I’ll miss those grounds, the wines, the people on my side of bar as well as opposing.

Kelly sips her coffee, just watches the rain.  She knows she should be painting, but would rather just live instead, for now.  Enjoy her morning.  The coffee, a little hotter than she likes.  But the Miles Davis track bouncing around her Room makes her forget the degrees.  She thinks about the other night, that wine industry Art show in Glen Ellen, just past the Wolf House; How she didn’t sell anything, and how her account  lowers in level, like Tahoe snow in late-Spring throws.  She feels more domesticated than she’d ever want to be, right now.  So she just paints.  Whatever comes to mind.  Shooting for the free.  Noting in tow, no appointments tying, anchored.  Painting her way through this damp delirium.  She thought about her upper division French classes, when she had chances to study abroad.  Not going, to stay where she was, with her going nowhere of nowhere boyfriend, his hope to be a superstar dirt biker.  She thought nothing foul of his sight of riding, if he tok it seriously.  Which he didn’t.  He wanted fame, flash.  Celebrity.  He anesthetized himself in his own dream, capsuled in a custom coma.  She did eventually go, after graduating, seeing all the New she could.  She only sketched while on roads, boats, the hopping plane rides traveling just over borders (some flights lasting just over 25 mins.  But she always wonders what it would have been like to STUDY there, in any of those countries.  In those streets, at those aromatic spots (the cheeses, warmed breads, wines, other baked finds), in those libraries, the museums.  Kelly hated wishing, as she was one easily annoyed hearing people around her, or even passing, voice their longings, focusing more on what they didn’t have; This probably stemming from him, whose name she could barely stomach in thought, much less herself verbally recount.  Should she just book a flight, use what money she does have?  She could see herSelf skipping down that rectangular hall to the plane’s doorstep.  She’d think about, seriously think about it.

The coffee’s starting to wear off.  Need a mocha.  More of that bitter, excessively audacious black French doesn’t appeal.  Where is my morning mocha, for this manuscript?  Just down the street.  I need it, to feed these travel fantasies.  New on the list, Croatia.  Want to see all beaches, villages, try all wines.  I wouldn’t mind simply staring at those century-old walls in Dubrovnik.  This may even take precedence over Austria.  The travel bug legion about my inner rivers multiplies, diversifies.  The roads, flights, waters…  Much closer.  They have to be.  Wouldn’t mind keeping a travel blog, but a pocket journal pairs better with notions and elements adventurous, spontaneous, expeditious.  Technology would only muddle experiences.  And how romantic is that, dragging a laptop with me on my stomps?

Researching Croatia…  Have to go.  Thinking about the pictures Dad showed me the other night, feeling impatient.  Don’t want to leave life without sipping distant unfamiliar sights.