For Mike, this would be work day six, sequenced. He didn’t have to be at the event until a couple stokes before four. But still. All he could do was watch the clock’s taunts. He had a fair amount of the book together, but he needed something for his current sitting, before getting ready for tonight’s event. Then he started thinking how he could make tonight an assignment. He heard it was to be New Orleans themed, with engaging colors, illustrations, what have. He put one of his camera’s chargers into the outlet. His little video camera into the moody laptop monster. Didn’t want to make it too much of a “blogging” mission, though. He wanted writing material.
He would focus on the characters. All of them. The executives, to the pourers; to wine club members, drunker the better, for the page. He wanted them all belligerent. Event staff, the band if there were to be one on stage this year. The characters were what his writing was missing, he realized. One character from the haircut hut, from where he only ticks ago returned: a young woman, two little kids; couldn’t have seemed happier; kids were of more energy, curiosity, devilry than Mike could ever hope to handle, but mom couldn’t get enough of her hilarious hellions. He wasn’t sure what to do with this pocketed role, ‘roles’ if you count the two kits, but he was back in a lucrative Literary habit.
11:45a. Mike thought of the Sauvignon Blanc he poured for Self last night. 2010, Napa Valley fruit. Reminded him of her, for some reason. Crisp, tropical, vibrant, paradingly mysterious. But then he stopped in his wine association, appreciation, looking at the time numbers again. He hated the rushed actuality of his moment. Wasn’t Literary, nor wine. Oeno, no. At 32, Mike knew he needed more ease. All when the book was finished, he told himself. With the window to his right open, morning servings of sound, scent, streaming, he leaned back into posture more peaceful, purposeful.
Wine, today. And I’m not blogging this event. Writing it. True journalism. Or fiction. Whatever I want to do. Not on anyone’s clock. Not tonight, “industry”! But, I think of how much I write about the wine surfaces most immediate to me. Want to be away. Far. Back in Paris. Want to explore Italy. Spain and Portugal, like my sister. Think I need to act more erratically with these entries, the Literary practices. What could possible happen, hurt me? I’m 32. Yes, with an invincibility complex. Maybe that’s what’ll get me on the shelf. Think about how many winemakers make almost moronic-level wagers with their careers, and they become a cult bottle line, tasting Room, hunted winemaker. That’s what this new transformation, “NewMike,” the final transcendence in the transfixing of my wine lined entries laments. Same is true of many artists, no? Musicians (Pac, Hendrix, The Doors, even the overplayed and overrated Beattles), painters (Picasso, Van Gogh, Dali), writers (way too many to catalogue). “Regardless of intent, vision description, he would remold, leap, no longer creep discrete. He’d be loud, force feed his pages. Ideas such goaded him, further, to a furthered futherment.” Good lines for the book, those in quotes. Transferring ...
The first bold act for me, true absence of censorship, Self-fettering. Something I’ve been meaning to convey in entries recent: Napa’s beginning to anger me, with its self-indulgent hyperbole when talking about wine, food, their belittling of Sonoma County fruit, wineries, oeno-wizards. Much of that side of the mountain, as much as I’ve lately been saying I love it so, on the blog and what be, has been making me realize why so many industry troops over here adhere to their degradative estimation of what’s over there. I’m not saying, “I hate Napa, that’s the dark side,” like many in SoCo state. I’m merely saying that my appreciation for Napa’s wine presence steadily corrodes, erodes.
The mocha, definitely helping this morning. How is it already 12:22p? Before too many more minutes buzz by, I’m going to have to start getting ready for the event. Get into character, the one they require me assume. And I’m getting too old for that, frankly. I strive for true scribe sovereignty. Don’t want to any more be told when to be somewhere, when I can have lunch, how long I can be gone, how to dress, how to talk, what scripts to follow. I’m done. When this book is out, I’m out. Me, what this “industry” probably doesn’t want to see. Trusting Self, though. Not caring.
Mike counted the money in his wallet. $10. That also needed revamping, the revenue ado. He started thinking, how much would he charge for the book? How many copies would he run the first round? Had to be Self-published, he also mandated in this anything-but-routine Self conference, chapter, this morning, now afternoon. Mike thought of himself as thematically correlated with the small producers of wine. The ones who’ve been offered a buyout, but held to vision. He saw himself as without time, not enough to wait for an agent’s approval, a publisher’s permission to distribute his writing. They couldn’t market him like he could anyway.
Wine and food. Topic in Mike’s scopes. Would his tasting Room have a food element, if, when, he opened one? It would have to, right? That’s what would provide the best material. The best fiction, so he could keep the books coming, support his brand, his label. Him. He WAS the label. Sovereign, paginated, never evaporated. Mike liked that idea, opening a tasting Room, a wine-food jaunt if the guest requested. Just so he could have something to write about. Always. If he wanted. That was Aesthetic autonomy.
Everything would be about writing. For the page, for the work. His work. Everything had page value, he thought. The mouse laptop’s mouse, the cell phone and his over-dependence on it, the empty mocha cup, grande, by the printer with only a couple sheets in the pipe. Already time to get ready. The night’s event awaited a renewed writer. But he didn’t have a mini-notepad. Put these $10 to usage instant, he thought. All fluidly tying, blending, for the page, today. His. Sipping the last drops of mocha, mostly the acidic syrup that irritated, he rose, headed for shower. Suddenly reverting to the Sauv Blanc, Napa, her ...
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