11/4/2010, Thursday. Have the whole day to Self. Need to take drastic forward steps today. For one, I need to record some spoken word, have something to sell.
5:36p. Lost the energy, willingness and vigor for a recording session. I’m not excited about again meeting the mic. Sitting here, aimlessly typing, documenting oddly coherent bursts, reflections, encourages this particular poet. I feel like a lot of time is spent recording. Fiddling with buttons, to adjusting levels, multiple takes to repeated mix-downs. That time could be spent writing. So that’s what I’m doing.
And that’s what Mike did. He sipped, scribbled. Ignored the social media; it was annoying him, plaguing his wiring with each clock tick. Tonight, for the novel. He loved poetry, the play it invited, but he couldn’t afford to play anymore. 32 next year. He didn’t fear it. By then he would be on the NYT list. He had to be, for his Self, sanity.
Harvest was coming to a close, and Mike thought of 2010’s potential. He wasn’t a winemaker, didn’t possess his sister’s vision nor grasp, but he was Human, could anticipate and imagine. The connection between the arrangement of a Literary effort and oenological demonstration, production, became even more clear to him. He wanted to dump his IPA in the downstairs sink, open something special to celebrate this session’s sensation, elation, vibration, the close of a tumultuous harvest. But no. He would just keep typing. The process of recording spoken word to an instrumental couldn’t gift this, he realized. Typing. Faster. He reveled in his creatively frenzied lunacy.
He realized that he just touched down on page 190 of his 2nd blog document, on the little monster laptop. How did he not have a novel finished? He needed focus. Time begged it. Reality begged it. He, the same.
With the Zin open, he was thin, frozen.