Punch, 12:49p. Mocha2, at side. No cap on this one. Love the open-top blending of whip, caffeine concoction. Learning the these Literary Lunch hold much more gravity than I previously estimated. Jewel, my cherished candied character, swiftly arranged my Creative crush, threw it into cup. Told her she didn’t have to do so. “Oh, no problem,” she returned. Just learned her name, today, finally. What I love about this house, Napa’s Roasting Company, is that it pairs with me, the prose, poetry. All expressive consistencies. Another sip, confirmed. Instantly posting today’s session to log, thanks to one of my closest wine allies, Dan, owner of Back Room Wines, sharing his wifi connection with a desperately wine-tied scribe. Have to return my cubed zone by 1:34p. More than enough bracket to mold a mini-manuscript. Maybe.
Have always wanted to walk up those stairs, over there. Not an incredibly sizable space, above the “bean bar,” as I call it in the first Bottled Journal, but it has my attention, sight, for reasons I can’t interpret. Learned the painted around me, brushed by the famed barista. The one in front of me, on the above area’s exterior wall, puzzling my deconstructive peripheries. Can it be solved, understood? Maybe it doesn’t have to. Shouldn’t be. Some of the best wines I’ve ever sipped, I don’t really get. I don’t sip them and think, “Okay...Cabernet...spicy fruit, cherry, chocolate...done.” Art shouldn’t invite conceptual over-condensing. It should mute, perplex, subtly suggest.
Current song, telling me that Kelly’s the character that’ll take me across. These flies, distracting me. But, they can’t trump notions of Kelly, even if the entertainments are blink-length. Her creations, recent and ceaseless progress writes itself. But is there an ethical, or moral, impasse there? Not if I don’t see one. It’s impetus, the most vibrant “inspiration,” hate that word, that I’ve ever touched. Have to write her. If she found out, she’d support. She’s always telling me to ‘just see what happens’, all nudges parallel.
Mike sipped more. He was surprised how the elevated temperature maintained, with an open top. Open-top, like his barrels. What were they doing right now? He knew they were developing, growing, talking to each other, possibly, about what song they’ll collectively offer audiences. He thought of his current seat, there, at the café, this day’s Literary Lunch. It would change him. It was different that the other days. Maybe as he learned the barista’s name, or maybe the profile of the mocha. Or, ‘cause he heard from the winery, finally. All Mike could taste, fortune. Equilibrium. Peace. His wine, the calm Cabernet. How calm did he want it, though, he electrically realized. He wanted it courageous in the presence of critical palates. But not overt, obnoxious, overstated.
The chair, its rusticity, immovability, sent him back to Burgundy, his visit. Chardonnay tonight, he thought. Or, no wine. He needed a run, the pages did. Break from grapes. The mocha cooled, as did his inner-engine, gatling Literary barrel. Packing laptop, Comp book.
Time, melting like his patience. I mean, MY patience. Is this fiction, or non? What genre, class? Don’t need one, I remember. Trying to solve this painting, my scene, equation. But maybe I shouldn’t. Let is evolve, like the ’11 barreled. The samples from the other night, on palate. Still? Yes. Need to revisit, but when? Do they need a break from my overeagerness? Probably. Me, too.
Wednesday, 11/2/11
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