A day of encompassing poetry.  No prose, as promised.  Only now can I let Self swim in sentence.  Back to work, come morrow, in Alexander Valley.  I was told we may visit some gifted library bottles, from another winery.  But we’ll see, and I’m entirely excited even at the prospect of palate contact with the bottle questioned.  Rain may be returning later in eve, which would be wonderful for finishing the spoken word song I started writing this morning; Think I only have 12 lines to go.  Wrote the chorus this afternoon.  Not posting this to blog.  It’s music, song.  Want it to be real writing, on a page, like wine in its bottle.  Tangible, not virtual.  May write more in bed, start a new poem project.  All day, had rhymes, meter floating in my vision.  Dominated by musical writing, words.  Not my day–it belonged to poetry.  I was steered by meter, verse.  Felt sensational, to be dominated by song, my songs, a song I’m writing.

Highlight of the day had to be when little Kerouac woke this morning.  Never seen him laugh and smile with such frequency, force.  Would have finished my song if I hadn’t heard him cooing, sounding for his father.  Little Jack controls all aspects of this author.  Thinking that when I do finally get whoso cellars airborne, I want to name a project after him, one I do year to year.  And speaking of winemaking dreams, realities: Mom, during her visit with grandma today (a Kerouac visit), told me that Professor Katie said to tell me to be patient with our project.  All we can do right now is wait, which is precisely the struggle with this instantaneous writer, when it comes to a winemaking life.  Wait?  How do I do that?  I want to taste, especially now that ML is done.

Tonight’s nightcap, completely rare for me.  A Snickers and a chilled glass of milk.  No wine tonight.  First, no bottles were open, wasn’t in the mood to pop anything from the small salvo I have.  And, I wasn’t of mood nor mind for wine.  And when I say “wine,” I mean beer as well.  I plan to be up late, even though I’m due at AV Winery’s estate in a morrow’s morrow.  Want to get a couple more standalone’s written.  They’ll be shorter, obviously, than the one I began this morning, which brings 3 verses and a short chorus.  Want to read to crowds.  Want to perform, sings, interact; hear cheers, screams.  Artistry, life for me…

About to read through the current issue of Rolling Stone.  Springsteen on cover.  Rockstar poet, me.  A wanna-be, I see.  But one day.  Want arenas overflowing…  Think I hear rain, drops in the drain, or gutter on the wall’s other side.  Approaching word limit.  Just fantasizing tonight.  Tour dates.  Onlookers singing along.  Soundchecks.  Wine in my hotel Room, writing in a rime log.  Much of such verse won’t be on any ridiculous blog.  Too artful for wine’s road.

[3/30/12, Friday]

lone cordon

9:37am.  Second cup.  With a little mocha mix that Mom brought over yesterday.  Day 3, no mocha from the coffee brothel.  Relaxed, after 6 straight days of wine-centered labor.  Shouldn’t say it like that.  Day off, either way, lovingly welcomed.  Reading the current issue of Poets & Writers.  Makes me want to go on a writers retreat, go back to grad school to earn my MFA.  Among other things.  Love this magazine.  Need to be better about reading my issues.  In fact, I need to renew.  But should I?  Dumb question.

Writers Residency, an article titled “Dare to Step Outside Your Comfort Zone,” by Elizabeth Greenwood.  Never read a piece of hers before this morning.  Like what she says here.  Definitely along my thoughts’ lines, especially lately.  Need to remove Self from all comfort and usualness.  Plunge into Autonomy, away from solicitation for work.  So demeaning.  Filling out applications, interviewing, trying to prove mySelf to some saggy slobbish clotpole.  And for what?  The wages here, in “the industry?” Comedy.  Thanks for the chuckles.  After this entry, straight to the chapbook.  Tired again, just as I was yesterday at the winery.  Almost the exact, identical feeling.  Losing interest in the writing, but not the thoughts.  Done with second homemade coffee cup.  Real enervation, collapse, approaches.  Bent, now.  Luckily, the day’s mine.  And Jack’s.  He, my new little friend, rests removed in his Room.  His space, cosmos, terrain.  Off to see what he motions…

3:15p.  He again rests.  And I, fighting the urge to nap as well.  My desk, beginning to clutter again.  And, I’m getting a little tired of this keyboard.  No offense, monster.  Off to pen, paper.  Had an idea for a spoken word song, but forgot it.  Must have not been “worth” remembering, but still I hate when that happens.  In the mood for a beer, but will wait.  Mom and Dad came by earlier, to see Cpt. J.  His effect on all meeting him, stirring for a writer.  Is it solely because he’s a youthful character, or is it his already- visible traits, actions, the fact he’s a “cute” baby?  Think I’ll name a proprietary blend after him, one day.  One vintage.  Should text Katie, see what the next step is with our wine.  Need to be more independent with my winemaking efforts, though.  Not so dependent on her, or anyone.  And that’s what real Artistry is–sovereign steps, efforts.  No?  Another beautiful day.  Been inside most of it.  It’s fine, having had time to write, relax, get to better know Mr. Jack.

And the idea came back, for my verses.  Off to scribble before they again escape.  Looking at my winemaking magazine, atop the printer, plus the book Katie gifted me, sitting behind this screen.  What should I do first? — Was just startled by a horn honk, outside on Yulupa somewhere.  Need air.  Need sounds, characters, something.

2/24/2012, Friday