Saturday, April 16, 2011

Early Thousand, Mocha’d

Finally, Mike could have a few to Self.  To add to the book.  He needed more pages, if he was going to have a rough rough rough rough draft by May 29, birthday 32nd.  He needed to put this date in the work calendar.  He couldn’t believe that this Saturday was his.  His schedule.  His words, pages.  His.
4/16/11, Saturday.  What a concept, my Saturday is an actual Saturday. Been writing here and there, pen2paper, especially at the Napa Roasting on my lunch breaks.  Speaking of caffeine...
There, mocha on right, just like old times.  This new wine gig, instructing on multitudinous tiers of discovery, elemental alignment, entanglement.  Wine is much more vast a plain than I estimated prior.  Where I’m from, the Literary lair, I’m joyfully incarcerated in such more tangibly, irrevocably than one not moving a pen, or brush.
This morning’s aim, 1000 words.  All being thrown to the blog.  There is a wine tasting on the books today for Alice and I, at an old favorite.  I mentioned it, she became enthralled at prospect, so it was settled.  Not sure I know about this character that wears my ring.  On her approach to wine, that is.  What she thinks of it, how she views the bottle full, empty.  How it looks to her on a shelf.  I’m aware of her fondness to Chardonnay, certain Sauv Blancs, on elite colonies of reds, sparkling.  The bottles I have here, surrounding the little laptop monster, remind me that I need to find out what others feel about the sophisticated mass in the labeled caisson.  You have the sommeliers thinking they know everything there is to understand and appreciate about wine, food; then, industry people, which can be either humble or peremptory; then, most importantly, the consumer, whom “the industry” should always be all about.
Wondering if this sitting has desideratum, or more of a lawless prance.  To be honest, I’m just relieved, mended, to situate in this chair.  Me, the mocha, the morning manuscript, all again blended.  No!  There is an ambition in this Room, 1k by 11:30a, 1hr 16min from this very tick-tock.  Where is my camera?  Oh, in the work bag.  Should bring that with me to the winery.  What I was writing in the log the other day--again, pen to paper: that I should hunt for bargain French, Spanish, Portuguese wines.  Don’t want 2B obnoxiously clingy to domestics, even if I them view as immovable from position dominate.
Dream house delusions: wine bar, underground; music, low lighting, espresso machine, coffee; wooden furniture, table, chairs; two sofas, fireplace; PERVADING COMFORT, for me, family.  How long will it take me to acquire this true castle?  How will I it possess?  Can’t preoccupy Self with such, not now.  I’ll just enjoy such visions while driving to Napa, early AM.
The other morning, tide of commute, I was reciting poetry for, in discrete measurement, near three minutes.  I keep saying this, but I need to return to spoken word.  Write at least a couplet everyday.  If any spot suggests such, it’s the Napa Roasting Company.  So Human, gritty, stacked with savory stimuli.  It has all the bricks I need for compositional structuring, restructuring, from surroundings, wall color, adornment.  And characters, most imperatively.  But, with poetry, a shop like the Roasting Co permits and encourages poetry’s anarchistic arrangement.  Could just be regaling mySelf with this paragraph, maybe this entire session, but it feels delectable.
10:30a.  An hour left, till deadline.  Listening to a movie, behind me, one I’ve seen, heard during session, thousands, if not innumerable swarms, of times.  There, movie off.  WineLounge/WineWriting/Writing beats, on.  Loud, but not stratospherically.  That’d annoy, disrupt.
Finally, drenched in rime.  Intrenched in mine; philosophies
predicated on obtuse oddities;
Manuscript, molded by Grenache; I spill sentences, on then
off; recitalist like Mike, mourned when lost.  1 hour appearance,
high cost.  I’m sloshed.  But, another glass, please.  Don’t ask me
if I’m okay.  No way.  In battle, low lay.  Undisciplined, I go stray.
Shots erratic, I’m bad at mathematics; this sonnet, the best thing
that happened to the atlas.     
Unstable surface, climb to trees, quick.  I shine when sea sick.
Invincible; I make my decimals edible.  Syllabic experiment; the
lab is inherent, then.  Looking unruly writers and critics to execute
after a split of Zin.  Pick one, sit and grin.  Candle lit, you run.
Paris, Portugal and Rome.  Never thwarted from the throne.
Afford a pool of cones, endless ice cream.  I send these eyes, mean.
Street delete.  You’re obsolete, like a slab of cracked concrete.  Wine rime
in mine, so inclined...  
Still haven’t gone to the store to get a little notepad.  Why do I procrastinate so horribly?  Listening to poets recite, now.  Need wordplay.  And I know for a fact that winemakers fool with their percentages when blending, pushing till perfection palates.  250 words to go.  And I know, I shouldn’t invest in that number, word count function here on the monster.
Need to move the fingers faster.  Forgot about an errand I have to run.  Up to Geyserville, to drop off some WineLounge beats for my successor.  Will miss that tasting Room.  Love the wines, paintings, roominess.  Enigmatic, in a solitary diamond of a wine town.  Maybe I should bring the camera with, snap a still of that street.  Stale sentences, new paragraph...
Mike didn’t return to the session.  He went for his drive, thought about the fantasies that wine could vinify, bring to fruition.  He somehow felt that his tendencies in the worlds Literary and Wine could soon somehow skirmish.  But how, he thought.  Wine, its “industry” occasionally demanded script subscription.  Censorship.  If that were to ever be enforced upon, demanded of, him, he would enlist with Lit.  The pages, always supplying salvos in instance of dispute.  But, he hoped not for this.  He enjoyed the current harmony, the current current.
He saw a couple drops hit his windshield.  The vineyards on either side of 101’s stretch, their tenacious budding, encouraged the clouds, Mike’s camera.  But he couldn’t pull over.  Not now.  He had an appointment.  A meeting with a winemaker.  “How much free creativity is this one gonna try and get out of me?” Mike thought.  Perfect dozen, needle drops.  No wipers.  He’d let the air tend.  “None,” he resolved.  And why should he?  Would this grape stomper make him a few complementary cases?  No.  So, to free, always no, Mike internally paginated.


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