Woke up to alarm, 6:05am. Remember telling my Self to rise from the sheets, fight horizontal’s pull. I even remember thinking of how I’d shape my characters in the early writing, how the coffee would taste. But, I fell back. Now, 8:27am, coffee racking itSelf from the filter to pot below. Then, into the writer’s cup. Rain, not as heavy as the climate-foreseeing clowns suggested. All, now, quiet. My day off, I do plan on buying that Syrah, or A Syrah, during my errand sprint today. The stash upstairs, still untouched. Then pens I bought the other day, from The Dollar Store, wonderful purchase. But is that technically “overhead?” Still trying to figure…
A Creative Think Tank. That’s what my office will be. Was reading a recent issue of Wine Spectator yesterday, featuring an article on John Lasseter’s winery, Lasseter Family Vineyards. He was of course asked about Pixar, his career as an Artist and animator. He said something to effect of ‘I don’t do a lot of management duties, I’m focused solely on the creative’. I’m misquoting, I’m sure, but it was something of that flavor. Still in my head, his sentiments. He, although technology-centered, is a true Artist; An Artist Extremist. That’s my goal, what I see for Self. 8+ hours a day, creating. Was also thinking about what I’d need in my oeno-honed writing lab yesterday, driving home in the easy rain. Coffee machine, definitely. Espresso maker, like what they have in the beak Room at Lancaster [can’t even tell you how incredibly clutch that unknowingly altruistic appliance has been for me]. A TV, certainly, for movie screenings, ideas, character analysis, foundation consideration. Among some other imperatives. Don’t want my office to be quite as crowded as Mr. Lasseter’s, but I do want it loaded for a Writer’s workday.
Haven’t poured the coffee cup, yet. That’ll easily eat 30 seconds. To a full minute, if I add the mocha mix. Need the caffeine, though. Still groggy from my battle with my own goal, and the clock, 2 hrs and 37 mins ago [math correct?]. Today, after this sitting, all poetry, verse. More songs needed. Not for blog. FOR ME. Hear little Jack upstairs recite a few chords of his own as I think my day’s main aim. And, need to go through the little notepad. I did write a bit in the cave, but not too much as I’m rather occupied between tours, which I like. It’s interesting, enriching to see everyone’s reaction to wine, so I like my area completely prepared before anyone lands.
3-4 minutes after checking on Mr. Jack, making my Self bullying cup of coffee, with an avalanche of mocha mix, I sit back down. No need to buy any more Comp Books until this one’s full. Want to start a journal, entirely personal, confidential. Then, reshape those personal entries for purposes of fiction. So much I could write about the places I’ve worked over my years. And I still think of all the self-employed muttonheads for which I’ve slaved, still wondering how are they were ever apt enough to own and operate their own business? How can they achieve Autonomy yet I have so much trouble? Is it because my mind’s too scattered, expansive in its Creative urges? Need to find the solvent quick, before some crazed nature engulfs me. The Insurance racist, the wine shop twit, the wacko wedding planner, the self-indulgent buffoon owning his own DTC Wine firm and Wine Bar [who just had the DTC’s 20th anniversary, putting me in deeper consternation] those 2 bitter self-loathing advertising goons from Marin… HOW? I have to ask. And I want you to know, I fault them for nothing. I’m in awe of them. Total veneration, really. That even with what stupidity engulfs them, their universal lack of being in anyway socially or Humanly apt, they’ve managed to put together a business, one doing well, for parts most. So, I reason, if I can’t accomplish Autonomy in the next few months, at my age, with my strength set, there’s more than just handicap about me, one with which I should stand fiercely and exceedingly concerned.
10am. Cup2, feel anew. Jack today gets his shots, just 2 days before his 2-month mark. Where did that time go? The other day, while on a tour with two young parents, from I believe San Diego, a man mentioned the time a parent sees when they realize they can’t hold their children as they used to. Made me sad, instantly. But then I felt excited, revitalized from seconds-long somberness when I realized that’s when times begin where we can go for walks, play catch, go out to lunch, have our own adventures, just as Dad and I did. It can only get better, I’m convinced. Right now, little Kerouac naps, after feed. Wonder what observations he now finds most gripping. And I’m convinced, he catalogues everything around him. Evaluating, analyzing. Astute little figure, “Little London,” I the other day called him.
Almost at 1000 words. How did that happen? Easy. This wolverine caffeine. Can start one of today’s verses with that rhyme. So, Syrah… What do I do with you? And my wine, still in barrel… What can I do, but wait. Frustrating. A note from yesterday, in the little pages: “Learning 2B more patient as writer. Flexible”. Which is true, especially since Little London’s arrival. My pen strokes, quicker, with more concentration, I believe. Much like the ’08 vintage–condensed, intense. Just thoughts of that connection, something new with my writing 2do. Won’t hex it with mention. Rather, will write. Will infuse it into 2morrow’s roadside writing in AV, which has become quite the custom with my Saturdays, Sundays. That buzzard, or turkey vulture, whatever it was, last Saturday morning, still in sight. Most would say it’s emblematic with nuances menacing, foreboding, threatening. I see more hope, promise, strength. I have to, at my age, if I want any Autonomy [like the aforementioned dunces] as an Artist.