Thursday, November 17, 2011

46: Diary Blend

10:38p, 11/15/2011, Tuesday.  In bed, finally.  Long day.  Tonight, not a drop.  Saving the rest of last night’s ’09 Carneros Pinot for tomorrow night.  A cap after my run.  Hoping I’ll hit 6.5 miles, but...  Kelly, busy with her Craft, now hard to get ahold of.  No more envy from me, only inspired by her expanding galaxy.  How do I do that?  Keep writing, I guess.  Budget for the business, only dented by this afternoon’s mocha.  Borrowed $40 for gas, used $60 to pay a bill.  Plan on paying back my company.  Taking this seriously, giving Self a lesson, lessonS actually, in entrepreneurism, Self-publishing, budgetary aerobics, among lists else.  Typing in the dark, TV providing sight through shifting transitional, situational, light.  Poetry, Spoken Word, on brain.  Finished a piece last night, then started another.  Next time I write, by type, in my hallowed coffee house at 1st & Main.
Every minute’s invaluable, potentially malleable.
The thought, deplorable, but not at all ignorable.
Like walking down quiet paths, as silent as
Basilica halls.  Distilled in my flaws.  Time, forever
still in its claws...
9:23p, 11/16/2011, Wednesday.  Didn’t have chance to write for log at the Roasting Co.  Only for the book.  Now, with some 2010 Sauv Blanc, Alexander Valley.  Just counted, 1425 words at that small marble table.  Love the coffee house.  Easily my most dependable offsite Literary Lab.  Many times, I forget I’m even at work, on a “lunch break.” Hate that term, for reasons into which I don’t even have to plunge, as I know far too many already relate.  Only pages away from finishing the first project.  Then, I have to send it to print, no matter how scattered it results.  In fact, the messier, the more Literary, Aesthetic.
The SB, not speaking to me as it has with past pours.  Finishing this glass, then taking the remaining Pinot from Tuesday night.  I don’t expect it to still have the same magnetism.  But, it’ll be interesting to see what the profile still pushes onto the palate.  Tiring from the run, only 3 miles, but still strenuous.  Now, just typing to type, as I usually do.  Consciousness quake.  Thinking about what I wrote today, on my “lunch break,” about nothing being wrong with a writer just writing, and what if I did so from here on.  Not sure if I want to go further in explaining, but that’s what’s in my head right now.  An analogy: a runner running just to run; not trying to beat any time, or go any impressive distance at any rate; just running.  In the forest, at the beach, in secluded streets.  For the joy of.  That’s why I write, going into future vintages.
Hate being too tired to write.  So, I’ll give in, this time.  Tomorrow’s Lit Lunch, images only, translations thereof.  No Pinot tonight, I decided.  Want a full night’s sleep.  Need one.  Kelly’s probably painting right now, and will be for a few hours.  Maybe till light.  And why not?  She’s sovereign, her own employer.  AUTONOMOUS.  Me, soon.

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