Friday, August 5, 2011

Forcefully Bottled Scribbles, 2011 [unfined]

Tonight, I’m militant about passing my thousand.  Consolidation of creative efforts, cathartic, stabilizing.  Driving home, I thought again of wine’s scene, role, production in my life.  Writing about goes in swings, curves, avalanches.  What it wants to display, share.  Not up to me.  Then, I think of my Literary/academic resolution.  Difficult to balance such fervid affectivities.  Or is it?  Tonight, picking up my reading project, Capote’s ‘Voices, Rooms’.  What am I looking for in his manuscript?  Nothing really.  Just want to envelope this Self I was assigned a more Literary and perspicacious pattern.  Feels incredible to be in the chair now, after not having typed a single line for this log yesterday.  
9:08p.  Eight minutes into a tardy net.  Not sure what direction this session of sip-shoved scribbles urges.  Rewinding to the Howell Mountains from NWG, today tasted.  In my glass, for these sentences, a Sonoma County blend of Cab, Syrah.  2008.  Uncorked night before last.  
Just clawing line to line.  Hate this page, this sitting.  Shouldn’t say such.  A winemaker, wouldn’t voice such sour dialogue.  Would they, makers of this sip’s subject?  Actually, I know they do, from time to time.  Especially during harvest, when the frustration’s as fluid as the trucks delivering fruit to the production facility.
Resolved something tonight, actually today at work: tomorrow’s lunch break, entirely for page.  Bringing the laptop, for benefits of manuscript.  I will produce a marketable manuscript tomorrow afternoon.  At the Roasting Company.  For lunch?  Coffee.  Fuel.  Remember a writer one time told me, by way of email, that “anyone can write those thousand words, finish a project, even a tortured soul.” Winter, 2009.  I was in Sunriver, Oregon, with family.  After her, the author’s, electrical letter, I wrote.  About everything around me.  The mounds of snow.  The random flaked descents from branches, as if the trees didn’t like the collected frozen legions on their branches, as if they too wanted to be inside, with me, writing, by fire. 
Now, pairing this Bordeaux-Rhône union with Wine Lounge arrangements.  Current track, putting me into a perceptual vacation.  I’m not here, I’m there.  In Paris.  On that hight floor of Le Meridien, looking down at a dark Montparnasse.  That would do something.  This desk, the comfortability, familiarity, coats me in unfamiliar discomfort.  That’s why I need to bring this little monster of a laptop with me to 1st and Main’s frequented café.  Nothing like Paris, but it’s better than this desk.  Love the domicile, but I know what’s here.  I know what sense are antagonized, and how.  Off-site writing, my predicament’s panacea.
My class at Stanford.  So many visions of this.  Everything to how many pages my syllabus provides to how my picture appears on the website, to which texts I select for a Theory class, or novels and anthologies I actualize for my fiction, and nonfiction, section.  Sections.  Time, 9:33p.  These key punches, practice for 2morrow’s coffee house composition cram.  I hope to trap at least five characters.  Last time there, I recorded eight, I think.  My lucky number.  Funny, as I’m discerning eight notes in this Cab/Syrah knot; blackberry, leather, damp forest floor, black pepper, black licorice, unexpected kiss/tryst, flavored phantasm, delicious dystopia.  Accurate descriptors?  I don’t know.  Not concerned with wine, really.  I’m just sipping it, sprinting to three zeros ...    
Still a ways.  Kelly.  Hearing her voice.  Her smile, nearness, my needed sensory confinement.  She doesn’t know.  Maybe she doesn’t need to.  Her velocity, a sippable topic, theme.  Frustrated, though, me.  Need to know where this is going.  “So where is this going?” I’d ask my magnetically palatable rune.
“What do you mean?  Where is what going?” she’d say, smiling, assured of her control of an overly-assured author.
“This.  This page.  What is all this supposed to mean, between you and I?” I’d respond, setting my glass back on the desk, hoping she’d understand my inquiry carried gravity.
“Too many questions, and too much worry.  Have another sip.  What is that?” she’d recite.  She knows me better than I Self.  I wish she did.  Haven’t proceeded with her pages adequately.  My fault.  My procrastination.
Back to my 1000 word advance.  Is it at all crucial I touch 3 zeros this evening?  Is it some vapid vortex into which I’ve forced my tangibility?  Feeling sorry for readers, reading a writer’s self-absorption.  But I’m not impressively fixated on my day.  I am with these songs, this Cab/Syrah.  With her.  From BOOK1 to now, she disquiets, pervades, pleasurably pesters.  All her harmonies, timeless.  Delicious.  Transcendent.
Topic next.  Not much time left.  Not sure what I can do at this late hour.  Twelve hours from now, almost two hours into my shift.  A day of Napa awaits, for Saturday.  Visiting two wineries.  For me, my writing.  No charity publishing, free print.  Those days, recently purged.  Another descriptor for this blend: me.  Yet, one additional: mine.  All melodically interwoven, this night’s progression.  Lines, the page they assemble, the sips.  Her, of course.  Where is she?  How can I write about my character with such drought in adroitness?
Claimed militancy at liftoff.  Now, I’m my thoughts tempted to retreat.  Am I a general, or a self-indulgent cult-like commander?  Hoping for anything but the latter.  Don’t answer me, reader.  Thinking I should spend more time exploring the proximal zones rather than drowning in Parisian longings.  My Paris reveries, always cued.
As my glass‘ purple sea flees, I think of barrels.  Harvest.  The production facility’s crew, the belts, tanks.  That’s what this writer in “the industry” needs.  I need to be around wine, all its components.  Always.  How could a Marine Biologist assume such without descending into oceanic arrangement?  Something amiss, in my equation.  Those close know what I target with such address.
Less than 40 words to go.  In close, sip.  Then scribble reflective drizzle, selective fiddle.  Ugh, now I have to edit.  Or not.  Some of the best wines I’ve had were unfiltered, allowing terroir to truly talk.  Maybe so could with this reactive forward flow.  Sip, sip ... -10:12p   

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