Tuesday, November 29, 2011


34:  Vineyards, Mist, Blended Books
Six miles.  First run in too long.  Tonight, no wine.  Frankly, quite bluntly, I need something to happen with the writing, somehow.  Playing with ideas, which is fun.  Self-publishing, on solid hold, indefinitely.  Started typing a short story tonight, after a revisit to Mr. Wolff’s work.  Love the control he demonstrates over his works‘ thematic directions, characters, actions, symbols.  Perfectly balanced, carved dialogue.  Going to jump upstairs in a minute to get Our Story Begins, the collection Mom bought me a short while past.
Have Wolff’s pages to my right.  He sits, right arm resting on crossed leg, left shin, left hand cupping right forearm.  He looks relieved, probably from several reads of his collected works.  But this is the wine industry, and this is a wine blog.  I must discuss wine, none of this Literary, freethinking balderdash.  So, wine...  I’m not drinking any.  And don’t plan on removing a cork for a while.  A beer sounds incredible.  But, too late.  Maybe tomorrow night, after a light workout.  Been enjoying beer much more lately, have to say.  But, my wine, mine and Katie’s, swimming around thoughts‘ reef, quite abundantly, recently.  Wonder how ML’s forwarding.  Can I wait for a revisit?  Don’t think I have a choice.  Katie said she might bring some samples by Mom and Dad’s, soon.  Excited to revisit our premier project.  Thinking vineyard blends, of Cabernet, may be my coining winemaker approach, for me.  So, instead of varietal percentages on the bottle, you’d see vineyard or AVA numbers on my labels.  Ideas crackling...   
After this entry, back into my short story, but not for too long.  More drained with each key push.  Lots of fog this morning, talking to me as it used to.  Offering Literary consultation.  My prose, spoken word need stand thick, puzzling on page for readers.  It told me to follow the short story curiosity.  Return to short story, Literary, Theory studies, while studying winemaking.  That blend will make all easier, I felt it suggest.  Let’s see if it waits my commute, come morrow.  Now, sipping cold water, in a short, stout red cup.  Bed.

11/28/2011, Monday
Decided to go with an IPA for the night.  Racer 5, to cap me right.  Great session at the café today.  In this latter hour set, I’m thinking of the budget, my budget.  Relieved of Self-publishing stashes, but more pressured to make submissions precipitate fruition.  Mr. Wolff’s pieces have me more stubborn than ever, in my aims.  An odd statement?  Not at all.  His pages motivate my pen like my sister’s bottles push me to be a winemaker.  The word count, always nagging me.  Shouldn’t let it.  Focus on the project, this morning’s fog instructed.
The vineyards, on my drive this morning, falling into their sleep.  What their fruit delivers, just fantasies of 2011’s vantage, torpedos my visions.  For both writing and winemaking.  But, I have to say, we writers--well, this writer anyway--need be as focused as the winemaker.  Staying in my journals for a while, until I can decide upon one book.  Thought the same at my desk today.  And honestly, that’s all I could think about.  Writing.  My wine, how its growing, preparing itself for palate contact.  My tasks, today, at that desk, were just funny after a while.  Next harvest, vintage, planning something monumental for whoso cellars.  And for the writing.  A perfect marriage, blend.
No one distracting me, but me, now.  My home office, need be more like an operating Room.  Nothing to do, but operate.  No temptation, distraction.  Just cutting, mending manuscript.  In bed tonight, spoken word.  Blending couplets, quatrains.  The mochas, now, my only overhead.  Have coins gathered below my right elbow, on the keyboard pullout, atop my calendar.  One of these mochas’ll shock me to composition of the prize-winning prose, whatever than means, brings.  Wrote this in Comp Book, but I again think of all the clownish morons I’ve worked for in the past, baboons owning their own outfits, Autonomously.  Self-employed, in their passions, laughable as they stray.  If they can stand such, so can I, the writer, right?  I turn from the calm Cabernet, to the committed, carnivorous Cab, caught forever in my compositions, paragraphs, rhymes, lines.  Sip, sip ... 
11/29/2011, Tuesday

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