2 tempestuous

waiting for storms.  just a little tune shift.

i’m looking for keys to my kindness.  r they

in this room with me?  barreling my recent

personality blend.  hope it sells well.

if at all.  box my wildness, confining

it to more lessons.  to teach… what?  echo

again, just for them.  stand by stop sign, think

i felt a drop.  or not.  not so much.  not at all.

oxen bottled, for amusement– then sleep, sip

to awake stay.  air grumble– happier.  hold to its

outline.  write around that.  i will.  my age, only a figment.

more amusing than anything else.  then, fronts change

their minds.  lottery for hotter breeze.  additionally,

numbers might be backwards– the forecast in 4 casts.  flat.


3: count

Decided not to post the 1000 words from yesterday.  Putting it towards book idea.  And who knows where that’ll go.  But either way, I didn’t want the 1k to be free.  Or, “for free.” Wrote quite a bit of verse this morning, before work departure.  But now, with much cooler temperatures outside, actually saw fog on way home from Whole Foods [those burritos, again], I’m lazy, sipping this ’08 Syrah.  Where are my writing efforts going?  Want to Self-publish, but don’t hold adequate funds.  At least not yet.  And with this blog, again I’m thinking I’m wasting time.  But I can’t do that.  Sticking with plan.  In fact…  Going to post it after this entry.  Just to show you that I wrote yesterday, into later hours.  Taking break now, dinner..  Completely unmotivated to write.  Hate this feeling.  Need road, travel.  Not vacation, just mobility.  Told you that so many times before, though.

10:04pm.  Posting yesterday’s 1k in tomorrow’s early time bracket.  Before sitting for these words, was not in any mood to write.  And quite honestly, I’m still not feeling utterly Literary.  Have my night’s cap, a gorgeously full glass of the ’08 Sonoma Valley Syrah.  Taking inventory of my spoken word pieces, verse.  More than I thought I had.  Rather surprised.   Not going to say “impressed,” but I’d like to.  On my lunch break, while at that umbrellaed table, watching the water spout, looking out at the Chardonnay block, took some Kelly notes.  But I need more development.. have to wait for her to speak to me.  But I want a novel FINISHED.  There, I said it.  Need to handwrite it.  All.  Right now, at this hour, I see her watching a movie, not doing anything Art-centered.  Just enjoying her evening.  What I thought of doing, before here sitting.  What I should have done.  I admire that she’s not as obsessive as me, with Craft.  Need another sip, to further settle.  With this bottle, noticing much more mint on nose.  Not sure how I feel about that in a Syrah.  Palate: blackberry, a chocolate touch, thin jammy winks, playful sensory embrace.  Like what I’m tasting, but I’d have my Syrah much different.  We’ll see how much fruit I can get ahold of this vintage.  Hoping the heat returns, and my sources manage their canopies favorably, so possibly I can do an SB, Syrah, and Cab [the entire whoso lineup].

Met a doctor today.  He was humble, generous, conversant, kind.  I noticed he had no hesitation in telling me he was a physician, could tell he was proud.  Want that sensation with me everyday.  And with this 3rd day, certain sets become even more clear, near.  Then, looking at these newly developed pictures of Jack, I’m even more focused, secure in what I’m doing as a writer.  And everyone urging me to be cautious with my words, being in “the industry,” are completely right.  I should exercise more caution in what I write, type.  But I won’t.  I write, then release.  I’m unafraid of consequence.  Again, like Dad said, if I’m so worried about what others think, how could I be thinking for mySelf?  If the wine world has a problem with a Literary animal in its borders, then it’ll only be gifted more obstacles from what I, and others like me, write.

Sipping again.. love this varietal.  It’s telling me to close my laptop, stop typing on this device.  It won’t even let me finish the verse I started typing this morning.  It orders the most organic, purist of journalistic practice.  Pen, paper…  It wants me to tussle with ink.  In the little notebook.  So that’s what I’ll do.  This wine has me so wooed, that I’ll follow, for once in my life.  And not ask a single question.  It even promises to–  Just thought, it’d be a waste to post those thousand words to blog tomorrow, as I’m surely going to post again when I get home.  And how many would actually read it, understand it.. appreciate it?  To novel.  I said it AGAIN.  Novel.  Novel, my NOVEL.  Can poets write novels, someone once asked me, in the St. Francis tasting Room.  Just remember how foolish they sounded asking me that.  I do now, even more especially.  Kerouac, Plath.  Climbing towards their sultry summit.


Friday, Autonomy-Bound. In Wine. Writing. Art. Peace.

11:25am.  Sonnet written.  500+ in book idea.  Thinking of nothing but wine, rime, on way to AV.  Listening to these spoken word pieces from some New York artists has me all the more motivated to just be me.  Not spending my life in seek of please.  That being said, I’m riding on positivity’s sleigh.  Mocha gone.  Saddened, but only briefly, as this morning’s meeting has me more than empowered.  For the first time in a while, I feel in control of my journey through wine’s cloudy industry.

How many pieces should I have prepared for my open mic, next week?  Well, if I can find one, that’s what I keep realizing.  I know Sebastopol has some, from time2time.  And North Light, in Cotati.  And if I don’t find one, I’ll just record [for the first time in probably a year…  I think].  Whatever I have to do to share my words, pages.

Hate commercials on Pandora.  Buying an upgrade when home tonight.  Also going to buy direct video upload capability for 1Stop.  True, my focus is on the writing, but 1Stop’s my business, the only effort I can afford.  And the footage addition isn’t that much.  Only $50-something, I believe.  Will have little pages on person at AV event, note moments for Wine Bar idea that’s been slithering in my sights, quite forwardly in days recent.  Why are they there, these fancies?  Where would I open this bar?  How would I fund it?  Don’t preoccupy Self with such, I think, sitting here, counting down.  “Just enjoy the ideas, the fantasy,” I hear Kelly saying.  Autonomy, my career goal…  How hard could that be, right?  Again, if those derelict swine statues [all the odd, socially inept idiots I’ve met over the years, owning their own shop] can be successful [at whatever operation type they hold], then I’m sure to be soon in comfortably tasty peace.