Sunday, November 6, 2011

Morning Thousand, unfiltered

One hour for one thousand words, this morning.  Just like my Lit Lunches.  Have to learn to edit less, keep my writing unfiltered, capturing the rushed moment.  At Starbucks, saw a left laptop by someone who went to either get a napkin, order something, or use the restroom.  I never leave this little monster, ever.  Even for a second.  A flaw, but also indicative of how much I depend on this temple housing my thoughts.  9a, exactly, now.  So, a little over an hour.
Thinking of short stories yesterday, so I rush-wrote one, about a home winemaker who just came to the end of his six month bottle aging.  His first vintage.  His first wine.  He sits at this table in his kitchen, one around which guests would stand, talk, enjoy their cocktails.  He stares at it, wanting to finally taste his wine, a Zinfandel from an obscure Dry Creek vineyard, but is too afraid.  Finally, he does.  Surprised by what he encounters.  He doesn’t know whether to love what dances on his particular palate, or be disgusted that this isn’t at all what he aim for, hoped.  Pleasantly surprised, or disappointed?  OR, both?
What lit the wick to this piece was what my sister told me a short while ago, about not having your heart set on any one particular result set.  “Just make the wine,” she said.  Taking my first sip of the mocha...  Holiday colored, decorated cups, just noticed that.  Approaching mid-November, already.  Trying not to edit as I go along, but the red underlines drive me mad.  This blog, or log, whatever...lognoblog, is going to be put to rest at year’s end, for the sake of abook.  LEft that typo alone.  Want to follow through with this blog being the barrel, the idea of, and the book serving as its bottle.  Going to keep this book isolated, for now, like my wine yesterday, and maybe blend in some outside entries at a later time, when I can afford to publish a 300+ page work.  Wish I could now, but can’t come close to even running ten copies.  Well, that might be the limit to my financial reach.
Pouring at Kazzy’s tasting Room in a matter of just under two hours.  Had the strangest dream last night, that I was at NewWineGig, and drank 75% of a Sauvignon Blanc bottle before 9am.  I woke, find the retained images disturbing, but intriguing, Creatively valuable.  I also remembered having a small fridge under my desk, into which  it I stuffed, before anyone learned of my early shift gulps.
Feeling much more relaxed in his types, at his house, safe Haven.  Mike looked at his screen’s upper-right time display.  Only 9:13a.  Time, favoring him, for once, as opposed to the Lit Lunches that taunted him with each retreating tick, tock.  Kelly was out of town, at some art show in Washington, near Walla Walla.  He looked at one of her drawings she left with him, of a grape cluster on a countertop of a tasting Room.  She drew this, in his house, one night a few weeks ago, just after she left the restaurant to survive on art, her glasses.  Mike had a feeling about today, what it’d bring.  He gathered some old writings that he Self-published earlier in the year, about twenty copies total.  He’d sell them, ALL, today, in the tasting Room.  Somehow.
He needed to finish the new issue of his LEtterz, as he titled them.  Wine-themed writings of all profiles.  That would send him over the line, he thought, hoped.  Sipping his mocha again, he looked down at this journal, what he’d written.  Could this morning’s session be its own piece, somehow?  Sure, he thought.  Why not?  And not post it to his juvenile blog.  He’d submit it.  And Self-publish it.  He had to.  Winemakers didn’t make wine to be sipped online, through a URL.  Their bottles were tangible, held undeniable gravity.  More ties between lines, the wine, than he’d ever seen before.  Kelly said something to this effect while still at the restaurant, at the beginning of the year, he remembered.  Like, ‘Write something people can touch, that wine and writing are the same thing, that’s what I’m gonna do’.  Something like that.
9:21a.  How have written this much already?  Should I take a break?  No.  Want to enjoy this.  Think this may be the most pleasurable, rewarding, stentorian session of recent years.  Love how I don’t have to go back to work at 10a.  I could keep writing, if I wanted.  Or not.  Empowered.  AUTONOMOUS.
Rain, gone, sadly.  But the mist from the ground, from the collective roof of the carports, like waking ghosts before scavenge.  Reminded me of mornings in Paris, the morning walk down Montparnasse to get my mocha.  Everything around my pen semiotically instructs me to fly back.  “Your books are there!” they say.  What do I do, though?  What can I do?  Right now, between pen strokes, looking at tourist sites for the Romantic city, other parts of France.  Burgundy, Bordeaux, Cannes.  Used one of the pictures as my desktop image, but it’s off, disproportionate.  Going to pick another...  Oh, much better.  Sexy sunset, looking out at mountains licked by what remains of Mediterranean sun.  Have to get a ticket.  But not before I sell all these copies today, and the next issue which I have to edit, but only planning on doing so minimally.  Trusting Self, impulses Creative, Literary. 
Almost to 1000.  Delayed slightly from my photo philandering.
Mike sipped again, thought of rain, its forecasted return today.  What if there was no traffic, no one coming through the doors to hand him $4 for those 8 pages of his journalistic, scribed sangre?  He couldn’t worry.  It’d be something to write about.  Everything, and EVERYONE, was.  “IS,” he said.  9:37a, 982 words.  Why did he check it so frequently, that count?  It was disrupting, he knew.  But he wanted the updates.  He was used to them, probably because of work, which he didn’t call NewWineGig as it wasn’t so new, anymore.  He didn’t want to think of where he was to be in 24 hours, at THAT desk.  He looked at the picture on his desktop.  Where he’d be, shortly, sipping a chilled white Bordeaux, at some café on the pier.  He could write to that, he was sure.  
Cold, up here in the office.  Love it, the seasonal change.  Sad, though, somewhat to me, to see the bare vines, falling victim to their own dormancy.  At least I know the fruit’s being cared for, meticulously.  Seeing my one barrel, yesterday, resting, snuggling its contents, my sister’s and my debut vintage... Tells me there’s more, for me, my wine, pages.  -9:43a

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