1000 Words, Road A.M. [stabilized]

Wasn’t going to bring laptop, but, as I stated in a note I took this morning, I rarely get around to transferring the writing, just ‘cause of my writing style–it being so fast, in-the- moment, streamed.  Time, according to this device, 8:51a.  Knew I wasn’t going to get here at 8:30, as I wanted to, or usually shoot for, since I made coffee at home.  Two strong cups, still swimming in my system.  So, hoped for 8:40a, but was held up by a bike race here in AV, all along Chalk Hill.  Lucky me.  Listening to Thievery, as always, with window down.  Thinking about day ahead, and this Sunday (my home tasting, Wine/varietal analysis).  Thinking I’m only going to do 1 wine.  And the varietal?  Probably Syrah, as I think it’s the most fun to taste, composition-wise.

Quite pleased with the stills I yesterday shot in Sonoma’s Valley.  The music stopped spilling through my phone.  Why does it always do that here, on 128’s side.  May be a signal issue.  Just noticed some vineyard workers to my left, and up the embankment, walking rows of a vineyard.  Never noticed there was one up there.  Should have known…  There’re vines all around me, why I love writing here every Saturday, Sunday so early.  Today, I’m betting, quite busy at AV Winery.  Can’t wait for the tours, the characters, their reactions to the wines, how they describe them.  Okay, music not working on phone, will play songs here on monster…


8:59a.  51 minutes left to Self, for the page.  Not sure where to go with this session, except to tell you how I can’t wait for Artistic Autonomy.  That’s towards what I’m writing.  It’ll be better for, certainly me, but more so Jack.  I won’t be gone 8 hours, 8+, five days/week.  And Self-publishing, I’m holding back for now.  Doesn’t mean I’m going to halt in allocating pages to this book idea, I’m merely holding off the actual publishing of the work.  Don’t think it’d be responsible to spend that much money on something I may not have adequate time to sell.  So what will I sell, in terms of written works?  Self.  I’ll be the product, the brand.  Why would someone want to purchase me?  Don’t have an answer for you.  Just have to put all channels of my heart into these syllables, and KNOW I’m doing the right thing.

Need new business cards.  Soon, AGAIN.  Luckily, I still have well over 100 to last me a bit.  Oh, just remembered I have a Cabernet at home I could use for Sunday’s analysis.  Completely forgot about that bottle.  That saves me some currency, in my evaporating balance.  Love the song that now plays.  Makes me think of France, Paris, traveling.  Can only imagine the sights that Mom and Dad are capturing, as I type here on the unpaved earth, counting down minutes before I have to “host” people on tours.  I love what I do, now.  But, everyone knows what I really want.  And, being only 17 days from 33, I continue to deteriorate into an impatient dust storm.  But, I’ll write my way through it.  And, I stall to say, this blog will help.  I can immediately release my reactionary prose, verse.  But, there is a deadline.  12/31/2012, 11:59pm.  After that, I don’t know.  Before that date, I will have my Autonomy.  My office.  My crafted Now.

Disappointed I didn’t wake the other morning at 6:20a as I targeted.  But, this morning redeems.  Love this cold air sneaking into this dirty cabin.  When was the last time I had this mini-tank washed?  Just had a flashback of my Literary Lunches on 1st & Main, with this current song, “Illusion (Rollercone Remix)” from the Hôtel Costes 5 Album, or one of the versions, I don’t know.  Either way, I remember having my second mocha, typing angrily, racing to soak into every drop of that 60-minute freedom injection.  Isn’t that more or less what I’m doing now, here in the XA?  Somewhat.  From here, I go to a beautiful winery.  From the Roasting Company, I always returned to a malignantly toxic, vile, office, surround by wine industry snitches and opportunists.  Topic next …


Kelly, recently went to NYC, I was writing the other night.  Her first time on the East Coast, in Manhattan.  The biggest break for her as an Artist.  A gallery caught news of her odd color blends, blurred images, visual voice.  A couple galleries, hosting a collective showing, paid for her flight, hotel accommodations.  Interesting writing about this character, being envious of her talent, progression, travels.  Can’t be annoyed by this paginated presence.  She, I feel, will carry me to what my work needs, that perpetual mobility.  Can’t afford to give her a book yet, with all those paper and copy costs, so she’ll have to settle for a stationary situation on these blog screens.  Sorry, Kelly..

Nearing my thousand.  That was quick.  9:21am.  Time passing cruelly, just like at that Roasting Co, with its airborne coffee essences, walled paintings, view of the 1st & Main intersection, passing characters [tourist, local].  You know what, giving Self till 9:30a, then stopping, cruising over to the Jimtown Store.  Maybe I’ll treat Self to one of those Chicken Salad Sandwiches.  Truck just pulled in behind, to left of XA, only to speed off obnoxiously, using the dirt as annoyance artillery, attaching to air.  Not bothered, only motivated to faster finish.  Back to the paper vs blog issue, just thought: Yes, as I’ve so many times before noted, anyone can write a blog.  BUT, there is only one ME; only one of my voice, style, page presence/persistence.  Just as there are so many musicians out there: So many have demo tapes, indi albums, singles, EP’s, what have… but it’s the ones with unique flight that reverberate with populace, stay in minds, and INSPIRE.  So yes, there are other Literary bloggers, or just writers with blogs.  But they don’t, can’t, NEVER will write like Madigan, Mike.

9:27a.  Over 1k, typed.  No troublesome transfer.  Should get on road a minute or two early to JTown, enjoy more air in this cluttered cabin.  Need that car wash, soon.  Need a nice mobile office.  Just had bikers pass, laughing, one of them saying “I’m getting tired, thinking of that wine already!” The other biker, his right, laughing.  Now, me, leaving.  Love the AM session, almost as much I infatuate with Kelly’s corner.


Track 2 — “Adamant”

About more, as I get older.  You can probably tell by now, I’m not settling.  And never wavering, in these Creative convictions.  Time, 4:21pm.  WELL over 1000 words for the day, and still scribbling, typing.  The 1st chapbook for 2012, more than half done.  I credit Mr. Jack, and reading an entry I wrote while on a Literary Lunch in January.  That box, still fresh in thoughts.  So relived to be out, yes.  But, miss my cubeNOTES, all my reflections.  The characters I captured in the cubes around me.

Would love to pop that 2002 Merlot downstairs, from St. Francis.  Can’t.  Told Mom we’d all taste it together, see what kind of character’s under that cork.  And I can’t touch that ’07 AV Cab that I scored at AV Winery the other night.  Thinking…  Maybe no wine.  And that’s more than fine, as the little one in the Room across the hall does more than keep this writer alert, at ever-ready.  Ginger Ale, like what I now sip, always suffices more than simply “sufficing.”  Will save my wine-anchored deconstructions for the morrow.

Wine, Winemaking…  Maybe I should try to produce a Pinot.  And not just to be another producer of the beauteous Burgundy.  I’ve liked Pinot for years, loved it.  BUT, not sure I’m at that oenological echelon just yet.

Opened the book, to spot quickly random.  Equipment, sanitation…  Where do I get equipment to make my wines?  How on this indecisive Earth could this penniless penman afford tanks, barrels, measuring tools, bottles, space…  Do I use someone else’s?  Should I be worried about this, already?  What would Katie say?  Maybe I should make a list of questions to pose her.

5:43pm.  Back into the book, a chapter addressing analysis and control of wine.  Can’t help but think of my writing.  While editing, I should analyze my prose and verse.  Deconstruct to determine how much control I demonstrate.  Wine, forever presenting itSelf to me as magnanimously Literary.  In a matter of hours, bed.  Then cometh morrow.  Time, quick.  But I’m of such precipitancy that it could never instill idleness.  Eventually, yes, I will stop moving.  But, till then, I’ll torment the hour glass and watch my pores end in showered mass.


2/25/2012, Saturday

WRITING not sequel

Feel discouraged at this table, the same I had yesterday, here at the Starbucks.  Yesterday I put 1000+ words into the book, then scribbled a good amount of spoken word.  Now, in this sitting, disliking everything I type, write.  Need more of this coffee.  And yes, I’m sipping straight coffee.  Black like space depth, with exception of the couple drops of nonfat I injected.  Thought of submitting some pieces to Lit mags, but not now.  Can’t afford it.  Don’t have time.  Self publish? …  Hurts me to say, but that’s reality.  I’m ready and confident enough to mail my writing off to these editors, publications which probably won’t pay it the littlest of minds.  Self-publish, can’t spring for that either.  So, all to blog.  Free reading for all, if anyone’s at all skimming my pages.  Or “posts.” You there?

Went to a winery this morning, over in Glen Ellen, atop a hill.  Just my visual palate, with the light rain, over-attached fog grips.  Listening to Wined beats now, with a slight cosmic stir.  Wine Bar/Shop? …  Miss music, performing, as I’ve said.  Need to find some reading, also as I’ve said.  Let’s see if I can find one…  Not immediately, and I don’t want to waste time traipsing around the internet.  This is prime for my pages, this Literary Lunch-esque etch.  Or “posts.” God I hate that word.  Just ran into a former student of mine, Lacy.  She was one my more favorite students in the 1A section I taught down at the Petaluma campus.  She just told me she had recently been in a serious car accident, colliding head-on, braking both her legs, also doing something to her right forearm, for which she’s due in surgery, matter of days.  She asked what I was up to, and I just told her I was doing a little writing.  “Of course,” she said.  Glad that one of my stronger, and delighted, students acknowledges me as a writer as much as an English Instructor.  I’m even more joyous that she’s alright, that nothing worse to her occurred.  Reminded me of life’s curtness, lack of predictability.  She’s on her way to class, stopping for hot caffeine on the way.  Didn’t want to keep her.  She somewhat reminds me of my Kelly character.  Not sure why, as she doesn’t paint, to my knowledge.  But she does conjure Kelly’s presence, brush strokes.  Sweetly strange.

Finally got around to reading my NYT I bought on Sunday.  So much happening in the world.  In so many regards, for so many reasons, in more than so many places.  Need to travel, soon.  Write everything I see, from the characters and what they’re wearing, to road signs, to how the streets greet an eye, to shops and restaurants, to weather.  Need to save, but not now.  Eventually.  Paris, remember, is most definitely on the “DEADLINES!!!!!!!!” list, on this laptop’s desktop.  Leaving at 1pm from this comfy coffee cave.  Loving this new table for my Lit Lunches, even though this is not a lunch at all, and this table is significantly more accommodating in span, surface.  The book, needing attention, but I can’t give it any now, I feel.  Just not ready to contribute to a “novel.” More in a journaling mode, mood.  All the writers in this paper, which I see as the best on any newsstand, where did they get their start?  How did they cross over to full-time scribe?

Think I’m going to buy a new Comp Book.  Need one, for the Spoken Word, and everything else too, I guess.  Just like the look of them.  This coffee, nowhere near as flavorous as my mochas.  Mood, sinking.  Discouraged again, just when I was just enough aloft.  Need a writing session with not so much “stuff” around me.  Have my bag, with all its baggaging contents, this newspaper to my right and up a couple inches, and the coffee cup, which doesn’t really count.  Would love to just have a pen, paper, and coffee.  And maybe music from the phone’s banks.  Just wishing again, as I always do.  How does Kelly session?  What is her preferred arrangement in her studio?  She, I’m thinking is a novel of novels, one intended for shelves, seller lists, all similar, relevant.

This coffee, disgusting me now.  Fully.  Yesterday, while out, about, stopped by Mayo Family Winery, tasted a couple Zins and a Petite Sirah that wrangled my focus and balance, and palate, completely.  Have always loved their wines.  For years, now.  Not that I want to make any of those varietals, but the notes are what made me think about a lot, in multi-shaded respects.  Love that darker, smokey, villainous quality to certain wines.  It just stands out more.  To me.  Not so much tannin, just seductive mannerisms.  As I continue in this sitting, I notice less people around me, except for one gentleman at my six, sitting at a table like this.  Think he’s just reading a paper, but I can’t tell.  He’s middle-aged, possibly–no, probably–bored.  What if he’s trying to see what I’m writing?  Again paranoid, just as I was at the Roasting Co.  Scooting the screen and its board right, directly shielded by my sternum.  Better.  Compelled, only by habit, to sip the coffee again.  But it’s foul.  Too blunt, no swagger.  After sip: yes, that is disgusting.  But, I shouldn’t get mochas, with this invisible, vaporous budgetary chamber around me.  Damn the box, I want to think.  Shout, here in this coffee shop, standing with middle fingers extended like 2Pac.  But no.  I need extend thanks.  I’m free.  Finally.  For prose, poetry.  No head collar (headset), cage (cubicle), terminal indoctrination (company manual, policies, habits, practices, ideologies; hypocrisies).  I damned the damnation.  Again, I feel opportunity, optimism.  Alive.

12:02p.  58 minutes.  Acting as though this is a Lit Lunch of old.  Going to leave this paper here, the NYT.  Not going to read the rest.  Really only bought it for the Arts section.  And Travel.  Not sure I look at the latter adequately.  In a minute…  Remembering something I heard an actor say in an interview, about his Craft and life, and other artists with their pursuits.  He said something like, “We don’t have time to be delicate…” That’s why I’m just writing.  Just writing.  Yes, I should be linear with projects, my contributions to them.  But first, more forwardly and fervently, I’m WRITNG.

Ugh.  This coffee is gross.  (12:07pm)

Literary Lunch, 1/24/12

Tuesday.  Finished a standalone piece.  600 words of fiction about one of my preferred characters.  Feeling entirely Literary today.  Creatively careless.  Clocked out at 12:44p, I think.  Sipping mocha2, no surprise.  Don’t really feel last night’s run, may have to put Self on another after work.  Then, still.  A little girl, probably 2 years old, with her dad, at table to right.  She plays with his cell phone.  I look at her and am reminded of time, how indiscriminately speedy it is.  As she dives into a fit, he strolls her out the door.  Even still, how did I get from that age to this one?  What happened?  Where did it go?  Where did I go?

Still devoted to the book, just not working on it now.  Events of the morning shaped my scope for shorter works.  Now, I have three written in ’12 that I could submit.  Working on some wine-grounded things outside the page that I’ll disclose later.  But, know, there are changes coming.  Ones that’ll find their way to a page, pages.  Books.  Or shorts.

The Roasting Company, nearly empty now.  A young man and woman sit in my usual seat, which is fine.  I’m by the stairs, Napa’s main intersection, the view of, at right.  So much traffic this afternoon.  This morning’s fog, promising, optically musical.  Wish I could have just pulled over, called into the the office, and wrote.  Just ink, page.  No laptop.  The buttons wouldn’t have paired with what I saw in Carneros.  Such visible dampness begs a brush, canvas.  Not a device.

Need a glass of wine, soon.  Miss the entity of wine, how it gravitates on tongue, provokes imagination, especially for me as a writer.  Getting tired.  Would love a nap right now.  Or, to just go home and write.  I could stay here, right?  Just counting down time left for me.  Hate that.  You know what, I’m just going back early.  Bandaid philosophy…

Saturday’s Ides

12:39p.  Literary lunch, but on Saturday.  At Starbucks on 12 and Mission.  Glare from ricocheting sun, from floor tile, bothering me here in the back.  Mocha2.  No prompt for this session, just to ingest all around me, let all these characters fall into the consciousness river.  Two ladies at 12, early forties, talking about goings-on in each other’s family, I think.  Have wined beats playing, but not loud.  So a little detected dialogue.  Two ladies at the small circular wooden table to my left.  One in a chair, the other, next to me, on this long cushioned booth seat.  Another man, older, at my 1, reads the papers, with a small cup of steaming black.  He too looks so eased by the Saturday reality.  Another character, an attractive 20-something blonde, at my distant 2:45, sips a drink through a straw, probably not to stain her teeth.  Not a cold cup, as it’s not in a transparent container.  She reads a book.  Also with little concern, like I and the 1 o’clock role.  Weekends, some living solely for their days off.  I won’t be that way, ever.  I hope.  Each day’s a working stint, something worthy of capture, for the page.  The lady next to me dumps sugar into her coffee, three packets.  Stirs it like there’s a rush.  She laughs with her friend, before the friend gets up to get a napkin.  The lady to my right, not on the cushion but at a singular table, types on a calculator, for her math homework, in a workbook of some kind.  Probably mid-40s, back to school.  Can’t help but feel happy for her, strangely proud of her.

Only 2 shots in my fuel.  Don’t think I can talk another 3.  Haven’t written here in years. The last time I had a sitting here was, I think, three years ago, just after xmas.  It was pen-to-paper.  Poetry, spoken word.  Yes, I remember getting that Poetry Speaks book, bringing it with me.  On a collection mission, with my verses.  Recent and past.  Again, staggered by how much I’ve written.  This truly is my theology.  These words, pages.  The language, the authors, books, thoughts, Exchange of Ideas.  Planning on leaving this coffee shop around 2p, which gives me, currently, 6 minutes with an extra hour.  Love weekend Lit Lunches, in their more accommodatingly situated frame.

No wine for a while, for me.  Empowered, even though I miss a varietal’s kiss.  This is out-of-character for me, something I’ve wanted to try for a while.  Probably why I’m enjoying it so much.  Man just set a bag down, table at right.  Feel too constricted, enclosed.  Do I leave, or stand ground?  His role: late 40, academic wardrobe, like he teaches math or Anthro at SSU.  Miss the classRoom, every time I mention anything studious or scholarly.  He returns, only to pull his table away from mine.  He stands with his newspaper, rocking slightly back and forth.  Not as settled as the surrounding cast.  He stands, minutes after entering space.  He reads, rocks, flips page, continues in teetering waves.

Have to use the restroom, but don’t want to surrender this seat.  Could ask the ladies left to watch my spot.  But I’m not that trusting, proudly.  The 12 o’clock ladies depart.  I dash…  No, halting Self.  Don’t want to be rude.  But what do I care?  Then, the professor’s wife sits next to me.  She points to the ladies’ table.  They rise, take possession of it.  Then change mind, take the table in front of the blonde.  Interesting.  Wife pushes chair along the tiles, about twenty feet or so, awakening all present, even me over music from my phones.  Even more interested.

[1/21/12 – Sa]

untitled ides

Keep seeing “Ides of March” referenced, on TV, in articles.  Not sure what it means, exactly.  Is this a sign of some sort?  Something telling me to steer a certain way?  Either way, day off.  Literary lunch-style.  Typing faster than fast over the next 60 minutes.  Rain, continuing, but not anywhere near yesterday’s vehemence.  Spoke word, this morning’s project.  In addition to reading 3 more pages of my book.  Not going to lie, I’m a bit behind on the editing.  Not as fun as the writing.  Have to get over that.  Now.  Sipping the mocha, listening to drops in the thin metal drain on the other side of the wall on my right.

Think I found a reading here in Sonoma County, closer to home.  But, again, time’s an issue, from my commute.  Frustrating.  How am I supposed to read if I can’t blend it into my routine of “responsibility”?  Don’t I deserve to have clock-in time for something I want to do, for one of my appointments?  The drive home last night, like driving through, into, a dozen fire hoses, all aiming at my little car.  Windows fogging, standing water on thinning tire tread.  Kept thinking to Self, “For what?” Still thinking that, here with my mocha, while pages 9-12 of the book crawl from this aging printer.  “Revolution solution,” says Thievery Corporation.

Looking through these pages as they settle on the plastic strip extending from beneath the paper bay.  Surprised with how much I write, a little I guess.  But more at peace with my voice, or “style”, as much as I avoid the term.  This stream of consciousness, throwing it to the page; unfettered, rapid reiteration of my trials, my steps as a writer.  And, wine’s the exact same, according to Professor Sis.  “Don’t second guess yourself,” she ordered.  And I don’t follow anyone, ever.  But, Miss Katie…  a soldier for her, her disciple.

“Ides of March.” I remember trying to rime a word with “tide” the other day in the café, and I remember the word “ides” slithered into my thinking.  “What on Earth is an ‘ide’?” I recall thinking, sipping mocha2.  Looked it up, and “Ides of March” resulted.  Refers to the 15th day of March on Roman calendars.  There are also ties to the assassination of Cesar.  From the Latin word “Idus,” translating into “half division.”

“The Ides of March have come,” Cesar spouted.

“Ay, but not gone,” the soothsayer said.

From Shakespeare’s masterwork.  A bit ominous, but more cognitively reviving.  Loved doing the research into the phrase, the lines.  Had no idea that such prophesy was attached to the Ides concept.  Sipping the morning mocha, I imagine again being back in the classRoom, my truest of elements.  Where I’m strong, sovereign, with purifying Pedagogical Freedom.  I will be back at the class’ head.  No spooky foreshadowing can stop me.  I’ve accumulated too much momentum.

[1/21/12 – Sa]

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]

Another Cab, 2005

Tonight’s pour, stronger than I expected.  It’s character, sophisticated, confident, commanding.  Don’t really want to write that much, as I did plenty today.  In the cube, at the café.  Still reflecting over yesterday’s slice into my shell.  Today, I was calm from rise, to commute, shift and Literary Lunch, to return home.  And now, in front of the keys.  Self-publishing, my FINAL resolution.  But, no such funding available.  So, all to these blogs.  Both, their own “brands.” As much as I malign that word, concept.  This is writing, wine.  I’m not a commercial clone.  Never will be.  As Dad once said, I have too much Creativity in me.  Another sip…  Surprised at its flex, this many years past its birth.  It is from Paso, though.  A place where Cabernets can startle you with their strengthened stride.

Even the stand-alone pieces, up on this blog, till I can gather funds to print pages, spread them like BB’s activity.  Miss teaching like I can’t even innumerate.  Lecturing on Orwell’s work, dissecting those pages with my Solano sections.  NVC, still not talking to me.  And that’s fine.  Obvious, within their structure, and spread agenda-smeared system, compiling insecurity.  Lovely, I’ve moved on.  Miss my students, though.  From Napa, Solano, SRJC, SSU.  Stanford, still radar’d.  Sipping to those images, fantasies.  Again.

Didn’t get to read much of my winemaking book today on my written lunch hour.  But, I kept mySelf in ink.  So many characters on that floor today.  Think I saw Jewel writing, which surprised me, as I didn’t know she wrote.  But can I be sure she was writing Creatively?  She must have been, the way she sat in the nook of the coffee house, on that bench, legs extended, looking out at 1st Street’s eastbound expand from that palm-print clouded window.

Want to print some pages.  But what would that do?  Can’t afford to copy them, a manuscript’s worth.  Frustrated.  I want a bloody book out, already.  You know what, I’m printing a page.  Just one.  1.  There.  Decreed.  That deserves a sip.  Spicy licorice, blackberry.  Tannins I’ve never experience before.  This bottle, an experience, honestly.  Would love to make a Cab like this, but Sonoma Valley can’t submit this character form to palates.  Don’t think the climate permits.  I could be wrong, though, mind you.  Should have Katie taste this, see if she agrees.  Maybe it’s this wine’s wise old age giving it such electricity.  Should probably get ready for bed, pound the rest of this pour.  Shame.  Should never rush wine, but time is time; A cruel devil.  10:20p.  Yes, need to get downstairs.  Wagering a lot, I just realized, giving all to these techno-dependent “blogs”.  Disgusted with Self, but I have to do it, given where I am in Life, what I want as a writer.  Oh, have to print my one–1(!!!)–page.


[1/11/12 – W]

Hurt, Learned

Sipping a formidable glass of 2008 AV Cab, as it’s warranted in a fashion of ways.  The cut on my finger today, during an other wise tranquil Literary Lunch.  Reaching into my bag for a cord to connect my iphone to the monster.  Technology, always.  But I can’t charge the gadgets.  I cite Self.  My dripping impatience, remedial anxiety, ever-present angst.  I recall reaching into that pocket like the bag was hiding the cord.  When I retreated my fist, the most sensitive sector of my left index finger was re-sculpted with an uncomfortably shaped, dimensional gash.  Blood took stage like it hadn’t been seen in years.  Gabby, one of my friends at Napa’s Roasting Co quickly came to the author’s aid, bandaging me, assuring I was fine.  Disgruntled that I couldn’t type, I forced ink to legal sheet lines.  Happenstance?  Punishment?  A blend?  It taught me to recognize composure’s boon.  To settle, embrace peace.  Wrote quite a bit after the learning wound.  Now, at home, with my deepest of Sonoma County Cabernets, I type.

Wine bar beats on.  Harmonious ending to tumultuous installment.  Thinking about Sunday at Kaz Winery, the fun group that came though the doors, on my first day back pouring in 2 weeks.  Felt wonderful to be behind the bar, seeing my brother, talking to people, taking pictures, writing in wine’s indubitable space.  Amongst bottles, dormant vines, characters tasting.  Always pleased to have positive people step to the bar.  That’s what motivates me to write wine-themed fiction, the spoken word, the journals.

This Cab, one I’ve had many times before.  Now, though, it displays compiled complexities.  More flocking fruit, more night-like.  A romance about its palate presence than I remember.  Making sure I sip slow with these typed scribbles.  Imagining mySelf in my Wine Bar, as I often to.  On travels.  Now, I think of New Orleans.  Have always wanted to walk those streets.  Listen to their beautifully interwoven Jazz numbers, experience the poetry in those gorgeous quarters.  Another sip, I’m defiant.  Thankful for this injury.  The bandaid, laughing at my situation in this chair, but only to encourage.  No more stress.  I’m done.  What stresses me is rather laughable.  The only thing I should be worried about, ever, is this writing.  If IT will sell.  I know I can more than impressively vend my own work.  As it’s what’ll change life for me, all I care for, with passels of peace.  Not just the money.  But pervading Equilibrium, tranquility.  Happiness, to be simply worded.

Thinking again about the group I met at Kaz, their carefree rhythms in the Room.  I remember wishing I wasn’t “industry,” that I didn’t know this life so well, so I could feel something like that.  But, it’s fine, honestly.  There’s plenty to discover, still.  Katie’s and my wine project, future collaborations.  And these pages, there in each step to capture my gnostic germination, continuation.  Wine, writing, writing with wine.  ALWAYZ.

Looking through pictures I took on Sunday, eager to get back, walk those blank rows.

[1/10/12 – T]