Tuesday, August 16, 2011

clocking in ...

sipNscribble initiates.  This morning, the same fog from from last week.  Thick, following, rich, encouraging.  So, 2nite I write.  Sipping what remains of last night’s Cab.  Actually, haven’t taken my first.  Now, glass angled ... More ghostly, lingering than last night.  Thank you, Napa.  Looking over the day’s cube notes.  Don’t have many pages with which to play, so I’m forced into pragmatism placement.  Tonight, truly a relaxed freewrite.  NewWineGig, teaching more when I thought its lectures had halted.  Would never be the somewhat-learned writer of wine sitting in this Madigan chair if not for that office in Napa’s downtown.  Raising glass...
I look right, at the generous glass of ’07 Cabernet Sauvignon, realize no instrumental in pairing.  Flaw in scene.  Augmenting, now.  Thievery Corporation slithers into the speakers, spilling into Literary surroundings.  Pleasantly potent gravity, much like this ’07 Napa Cab.  Have to again salute my oeno-ally Rony for the generous bottled courtesy.
Every time I play this Pandora station, I can’t help but think of Kelly, me, in a booth at my Wine Lounge.  How do I write such into an indulging igloo?  These tempo’d arrangements, helpful for page, especially with wine.  Just found an old entry where I reflected upon an open mic I did at a spot near SSU.  Miss days on campus.  There, and in the classRooms at CSUH.  Or Cal State East Bay, now tallied by system, population.  My diploma touts “Hayward.” Preferred.
Landed in Napa today without briefcase.  Felt lovely in lightness, free.  I was armed, mind you, reader.  Notepad in back pocket.  More cube notes than I expected to shovel.  Would rather be recording pen2paper right now, with these beats, this wine.  Speaking of writing, wine, I need to cruise through the France footage.  When can I find time to do that?  “Kiss me and you will see how important I am,” Plath said.  What I would have written, for her.  Kelly, still ambulating about my imagination, fantasy like restlessly persistent mists, following all my plans.  Her lips, stuck to my lenses, shell surface.  Trapped, in a café by the Tower, with her.  But it’s fantastically false, or unrealistically real.  She, my character, yawns before espresso sip.  I wake up, furious with science.  And my alarm clock.  -8/16/2011, Tuesday 

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