Sunday, May 16, 2010

Unfolding, Self-Molding

Sunday 5/16/10. Forgot it was passport weekend today. Took a couple notes, but nothing of note. Sipping some sparkling, from last night. Glad I’m home early. Only two weeks more to the term. Glad it’s over. Want it to be immediately discharged. Education, humorous, sick. A career in such, never. Even if there were, I wouldn’t want.
Want to one day return to screenwriting, wine-themed. Drama at a winery, but the film’s genre would technically be comedy. So much that transpires in the Room is comedic, most of it, in fact. But I’d rather scribe in prose, be free.
Now, I find it troublesome to record anything on this page. Had so many ideas today while pouring, but could not log them in the little log. Ideas, gone. And now, I’m blank. Need to sip more, dissolve the reticence.

8:47p. Hate not being able to prance on page. Feel failed, frail. Watching a show on TV, and it emanates the simple. This program alone shoves me into a slew of sips. Who concocted this bastardization of creativity? Still have some of that Zin I opened last night. Dumping the sparkling. Thought again today, in the Room, about opening a wine shop, and a wine publication, “vinoLit.” First issue, six pages. That’s all I can afford to release. vinoLit for ever!

9:11p. Don’t want to write. Is that bad? Does that make me less of a writer? Feeling recalcitrant, adder-esque. How do I channel this, filter? To page, confine all to this blank space before the author. Sparkling still to the right. Up at 5:30a come morrow. Glad that’ll be a matter extinct come the semester’s demise.

Going to be honest, this entry is like a bad tasting flight. Each pour, each sentence, worse that what came before. If I were a reader, a visitor, I’d want my time, money, back. What am I doing in this sitting, accomplishing? Need Kelly. She’d pull me from this syllabic sludge. Her words, more rich than mine, more direction and complexity, flavor. How do I even deserve her, to have her existence in my thoughts? Right now, she’s probably drawing, or journaling, or enjoying a glass of wine, the peace of her domicile. I fear she would resent my depiction of her Now, her efforts. As I sip this sparkling, she draws, tosses something meaningful at the canvas. She pulls the thin charcoal-shaded clip from her hair. It falls, slides across the blades of her back.
Kelly throws water towards her gentle lips, cheeks. Wiping the beads from her eyes, she imagines love, its reality and feel. I can see her, the next morning, getting a coffee, regular, no sweetening or de-charging of cream. She meets Erlycia in the bookstore across town, the one with the most ideal vista of the waves.
“When did you finish the paper? Did you like the video of the lecture?” Erlycia asks.
“Last night, and no. That lecture did nothing for me. At all,” Kelly says, sipping her coffee. She looks at the shapes in the ocean, thinks about how they would appears on the white, if translated by her.

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