Mike arrived home from NewWineGig voiceless. He needed the stillest of stilled stills. Looking at the pictures he took yesterday morning before work. Carneros territory. In chair, he sipped to vines. He wasn’t ready to write. He didn’t want to do anything but sip, see. Breathe. He didn’t have to write if he didn’t want to. And he didn’t. He felt autonomous in his inaction. Peaced, advantageously paced. Post to the blog, he though. No. Definitely not. What would that do, but spoil his situational purity. The screen canvas deserved no piece of peace. Or pace.
More than ecstatic to be home, in his zone, writing throne. He remembered how hungry he was right before lunch, writing like an escapee in the Comp book. “I need something to fuel this battled being. Wish I didn’t have to wait. Save me, pages.”
12:04p. Wondering what I should work on, tonight. Didn’t post to the blog yesterday. Didn’t really have anything to report, express, or even “say.” Might check out a tasting Room I discovered on my lunch walk yesterday, after work today. Can’t afford to stock up on wine, which is antagonistically frustrating when I hear these people talk about how much wine--no, how many bottles--they have in their basilica-dimensioned cellar. I’ll write my way to a cellar of mine wine. House. New car, need one. A partial roster of what I scribble towards: 1) Paris revisit, 2) more wine; much, much more wine, BOTTLES for Self, family, 3) Unplanned Travel, much more Travel ... Want to add more, but I’ll wait, let the pages tell me what I deserve.
The Room became cold. Mike didn’t mind, until a page was blown from his desk’s evenness, by the new summer at the window screen’s opposite side. Again, his vision saw writing. But he dismissed. The immobility was far too gratifying for separation. Opiate-esque, Mike estimated. He sipped his ’08 Napa Cabernet, like one back from expedition. But wasn’t he? The weeks at NWG peeled his person, like scavenging packs with kills. He thought Kelly would visit tonight, but wasn’t sure. He thought of what she might be doing. But, couldn’t conjure accuracy, even in fantasy.
Comp book, partially exposed. He helped it, in exhibition. Mike read. Page 1, to 39. He wanted the notepad full by August 3rd. Six months precisely from when ink was first introduced to its barren sheets. He wondered what he was thinking in some scribbles. Others, he was glad he inked when he did. As the Cab took different shapes, Mike decided to gift himSelf a new collection of lines.
This weekend, life a holiday set. But it’s just a regular Saturday-Sunday couplet. Tomorrow, blogging--yes, blogging, but also journalistically covering--an event in Kenwood. Still agape over these photos I snapped yesterday morning. Glad I woke well before my alarm. I remember being tempted to sleep more. 25 minutes, additionally. But some rhythm ordered me into Creative delivery. Love continuances, such. Looking at one: vineyard, vineyards; illuminated, bold, expansive; artful, truly Aesthetic, mysterious.
Sunday, no agenda. Love that, the lack of plan. Looking through this Comp’d manuscript, I find some screenwriting. Forgot I even wrote this. Wait, no. I think I wrote this at the Napa Coffee Company, or whatever it’s called. On a lunch break, when I started NWG. Speaking of which, the repetition drains my coins of sane, if that makes sense. Visual stimuli, utter deprivation. But, I’m learning. Accumulating material, more importantly. Novels, over novels, there. A note from the Comp book, carved 2day: “3:02p: Some guy just told me, ‘Go ahead, finish your spiel.’ Don’t want to be one with a ‘spiel’. A wine salesbot. This book better be good.” Love this note. Why? My conviction of challenging and demanding results from the Self serving health, here proved true. But, I could be talking mySelf into certain sensation, elation. Fabulous, this color of Self-fulfillment.
Flying, in motions pertaining to her. Kelly wan’t there, with him. But Mike found symphonic sequence in his currency. Why? The thoughts. He could hear her words. See her smile. Appreciate her progression, even in the Room’s stillness. He sipped again. The 2008’s carmelized raspberry steps made him further lazed. Delusions delicious. Again, her. His one always-and-ever-preferred varietal. Kelly. With her dark tones, innumerable perfections.
He heard the neighborhood cat whining from the parking lot, on the opposite side of his condo, from where the studio was. Was it telling him something? He thought. Craziness, he terminated. The Room, for another few frames, silent. Still. Peace. Mike thought of twelve hours prior. Antithesis. Mike wondered if the office deserved him, his cognitive traveling. They deserved better, he thought. He was only a writer. That’s it, he knew. No wonder he was fired from the last WineGig, even if it was at the claws of an incompetent bipolar tyrant. The only thing made for him, he knew, the page. Fine was Mike, in a like light.
“What should we watch?” Kelly asked, pulling the rustic red, slightly shagged blanket over her knees. “Is there something you want to watch? I’m kind of tired, I’m so sorry.”
He was torrentially relieved she was on the couch with him. He took one more ’08 Napa Cab sip. That was it. He wanted to enjoy her character. There. Inches close. Not away. Not anymore. The wine, powerless in any skirmish against her for Mike’s assiduity.
She descended into him, his nearness, his equal instability, centrality. She enjoyed a certain stillness about that mise-en-scene. “I’m calling in sick, tomorrow.”
“I just want a day off, at my wish. Have you ever read Alice in Wonderland?”
“I wrote my Master’s Thesis on that, are you serious? Why do you ask?”
“I feel like the restaurant is like where Alice finds herself. Nothing makes sense. But to THEM, it makes compete sense. It’s sick when you think about it. Do you know what I’m trying to say?”
Mike sipped. Smiled. Smiled, still. Stillness. Peace. “I do.”