Posts Tagged With: Art

A Show

IMG_5638The walk to the gate in the morning and looking at the lower block, for bud break, and the wines–again the ’12, my focus of day– and the slowed traffic, the ride to the hill’s top, all of it had me thinking and more cemented in my wined position. The grapes to come, for me and my wine and the character it’ll assume– Again, like this morning with the ride home, me nearly running a red from all the possible theses in my head– I’m here in the nook pulled several ways, from the novel to this blog to contact assignments writing and blogging, to waiting for SSU which I know will take its sweet time, just like SRJC with a section Summer section. Dinner soon, and the rest of my Merlot. Thought about saving the rest for tomorrow night but I’d rather not– and being solicited for material by those in ‘the industry’, I’ll be mindful.. everyone wants a writer to write for them, something, and do some kind of trade, not money no not pay. “This’ll be great exposure for you…” Exposure won’t pay the Autumn Walk mortgage, and it certainly won’t–

Running through my words last night interrupted by some thought, can’t remember. The sky today, surely won’t catch me like yesterday’s did on that morning walk with Al & Janice. No wine tonight, run tomorrow morning. Frightened the left knee won’t be happy with me should I now go out. Will soon be into that 7daysaweek pattern, but I’m not worried, it won’t be like when I was at K—-, I’ll be more eased with this new estate and their embrace of the writer and who I am in wine’s vessel.
Hemingway wrote of the people of the Seine with such herald and regard, and he IMG_5613couldn’t stop with his enumeration/catalogue of their actions and the articles on the banks, and I have to do the same today– so I now here admit that I didn’t satisfy my assignment to Self yesterday with taking notes while behind the counter and I had every opportunity to do so at day’s beginning, with no visitors, only that oddly diligent wind, talking with my coworkers, and tasting that ’12 over and over. And I was right, it is certainly the more evolutionary of our wine, from its high-alt’ blocks and the severe soil above the fog, near the oceanic ambient temp, it said to me: “I’ll keep writing, just like you, I’m telling you to keep writing, but do so in short, smaller pieces, today’s mine, so what’s yours?” And I don’t believe to be paraphrasing, or re-gesting.. I believe this to be its thesis for me yesterday.. that sky, the high clouds and my angle through the Pinot leaves, then sipping that Pinot, then walking with Kevin out to the lawn to appreciate where we were, are, the valley and the property and the moment, its own standalone, its own declarative madness; the green and light but rich red of the Japanese Maples and all the varieties with which I’m not familiar– so much to learn about the property and wine still, still, and that’s what separates me from Them.. any industry bots, the character of the adjunct finding a laid oasis for him in the schedule he’s trying to change. Wish my students could see me now here on the floor typing with Jackie behind me watching his educational ‘Big Cat’ show, with all the lions and cheetahs, a couple leopards– Would love to do what these blokes do filming these animals, waking early to capture all they can.. the discipline, the routine, the godhonest work of it all– me now with wine.
Rain last night as I fell into my new dormancy, resting, and I thought of rain and the vineyard and the drought, and I shouldn’t then have been trying to sleep but to stay up and write, finish the bloody novel, or at least a standalone sketch– any advent of Newness, fruition.. and recite, this idea of recording the fiction to tape or at the least reading it at Redwood Café– but it’s too noisy and too many not listening which infuriates me, that was evident when I went there with the students earlier in term. So how about start a workshop/podcast/group/lecture sequence/…/… ‘slash’ everything. But all around short fiction, between 100 and 1500 words. Ideas ideas and I credit the wine and all the wine people around me and my sister the winemaker, and even the template wine bloggers and those ill-breeding lumpishly scuttish sommeliers.
IMG_5616“He’s funny,” Jackie says about one of the lion cubs, playing with its sibling, rolling in grass like nothing threatens. The sky now, a bit hazed but blue with insinuations of gray. Alice getting up, and Jackie asking me “Have you seen my little blankie?” I go on a hunt, my writing again interrupted but I don’t mind, and all my readers if any should know that this, parenting, and my son and Ms. Alice and family empirically come before anything, especially wine and its world, but the wine world shouldn’t mind by definition as so many speak from the perspective of family or being family-owned, or at least starting so before vending soul to some corporate jawset.
Today, focus on Zin, both Zins, open both (both 12’s), and WRITE in notebook, anything from ‘rich, slow-moving’.. worded and musical.. I don’t know… I have to taste later, and note note NOTE what’s poured and how its being syncs to all my scribble sensibility, if I have any at whatever point in the day. As you have read, the Room can be exhausting just as well as when it’s emboldening.
Coffee 2, and I’m thinking again about this new idea for a podcast, or broadcast, or whatever it’s to be called. When I started teaching back in ’06 I prided myself in my lectures about thinking ‘outside the box’. And now, I must perform what I promulgate.
Issue of P&W, left, coffee right, and quiet in the condo after Alice and Jackie leaving for the gym, Jackie to play with the other children there and on that slide, the “fun slide” he loves so much and always talks about. And I’m here, left to face the day and the sky, the wine, vines, and characters visiting.
Summer and Fall classes exasperating me, as there aren’t that many.. what if teaching was my only option, as is with many adjuncts? Don’t think like that, cuz it’s not. Just beat on in your Beat, writer, and let songs and airs varied infuse into the prose, the story.. and be outside the box always– I usually don’t write in affirmations like this, but this morning it calls. And I again am convinced of the morning’s importance, the first lines in a story…..

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Scarlet Sketch

  

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Seen Speech

vino
Lit

IMG_5609I remember my intentions with wine today– charging ‘good phone’, ready for notes on ’12 Mendo Ridge Pinot, and the vines.. where they are what they’re saying and how I’m to look at them. Last night’s Merlot opening suggested to me that wine today should just be written in dialogue form, no notes, no thick-witted daffy descriptors. No, today me as a novelist and short fiction writer introduces itSelf to wine, and offers to not so much speak for it but translate its visual nudges into line, lines.
My ’12 Merlot, especially the last glass, offered something to a lean of: “I want to be seen as a song, a set on stage, with this light assertiveness…” Last sip was a little over 10 hours ago, so I’m remembering what I can.

Little Kerouac next to me on couch now, ready for school, ready for his day, this FridayIMG_5040 (which isn’t a Friday to me as I’m with my promissory morrow– the frenzying Saturday behind the bar, where people nearly have their iphones stolen (only happened once, and by accident, but the lady’s reaction was pricless, next to that drunk group, she saying to the reacher “Um, excuse me yeah that’s mine, thanks…”). And I’ll note everything, everyone today, in the spoken, the characterized.. characters, characters, in bottle and out. And there’s me, the adjunct, the writer obvious and then not so, not sure which I prefer.

Older photos from the last winery, some inciting me, others keeping me thoughtful, wanting to write that novel, finish it– the Massamen project, where I, or he, will disclose everything, everything about the wine world that people thinking of entering it on an occupational front MUST know. That it’s NOT fantasy. It’s a job, like anything else. BUT, you can make it your own, which now at the elevated age of nearly 36, I have decoded, mapped and staged.

IMG_5607Back from Jackie’s little school cruise down the Yulupa blocks. There was too much in my head in the way of wine and writing and the students, the Massamen novel, the final weeks of the term.. on the drive home, couldn’t concentrate on a thing, solely from the ideas, certain perceptive entertainments accosting me. Nearly ran a red, but here I am with the remainder of cup 2, left. Will try to take a picture every hour today, to capture my day’s moments should I not be able to scribble something, those notes I jot quickly, now more so just singular words and concepts/points for expansion (again, as I tell my students, 1A & B).. and I realize no wine writer’s like me, certainly no ‘wine blogger’, no hyperbolic glossy disingenuous rat of a somm’, that I know. But why take it in that direction.. they do what they do and I with my words and chapters and scattered Beat projects.

That quiet in the condo, that I experience occasionally, kindly confronts me, pushes me into these wine thoughts, the vinoLit approach to everything I sip.. just have to remember today: ‘dialogue’.. speaking, the wine speaking and what the sippers say in their momentary reactiveness. Can’t remember if I have to be at the vineyard at 10 or 1030 on Fridays.. I was given the option, just now, so I elect 10, or as close as I can come to it.. still have to get ready.. clock pushing and pressuring me.. but I don’t cower, I answer with more wording, more wine fantasy, more personification of my Merlot, and how it recited for me, to my ‘palate’ and senses all.. not sipping tonight, leaving rest for morrow’s eve, see how it fends off invading oxygen.. the writer provoking its intrepidity.

order no need stare
at vines and what they write so
i copy scribble

(4/24/15)

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Massamen Novel excerpt II (once proofed)

I returned to lecture writing but in a different vein and with different speed. I just binged, on words, and no music to accompany. I needed to be focused this morning if I ever wanted to see the world and free myself from all the bullshit– just yesterday, seeing that aged and worn adjunct woman at the other campus, probably early fifties and teaching six classes. I could tell she was unhappy and disgruntled but too exhausted to express it and that’s what brings me here.. to this morning and my cognition now. I’m swinging from the pendulum and I refuse to fall. If I fall then They win. Then I wonder, what kind of novel would this make? How long would it take to finish? And would anyone care? Do I have to write mainstream? And that blog I want to continue, what can I do with that? Al questions from someone like me, nearing late 30s and wondering what, what next and what how and what what, what with everything.

Have to be at the winery in a little over two hours, so I don’t have all the time in the world to think or overthink this. And if this is an inclass essay as I have students do, what’s my argument? What’s the centrality to this character sitting on this couch and collecting himself in paragraph, a paragraph stream? That I’m done. Fed up with the bullshit. The scams. And that’s what the adjunct echo is, and for Them.. 75% of all teachers at the college– well, you know. But let them win, I now think. Focus on this writing, of the lectures and this novel, if that’s what you want to call it. So what’s the novel about? Not adjuncting, not teaching, and not writing, but wine, winemaking, a former teacher starting his life over in his early 40s to pursue winemaking and everything about it. Have his own label and sell and travel with his own bottles; small production, maybe 5k, and not a bloody bottle more. And the wine would convey his new freedom and views on life and just to have fun, not let in the negative, the stress. Wine is supposed to be freeing, is it not? Today at work, take notes, on everything, from where the pens and pencils and markers are by the register to how the bottles are arranged on the counter to how the clouds look above the small Pinot vineyard of 3 clones.

I’d start building today, the future I want and the days I want and the ‘career’ I need to have for sanity. I thought yesterday, after seeing that disheveled and aged adjunct woman, “How much longer can I do this?” And, quite bluntly, “Is this fun?” Everyone expects me to teach and to follow what I went to school for, but as my grandmother told me right before she died, “It’s YOUR life…you have YOUR choice.” And here I am, with Grandma’s idea in my lap. And I choose to re-build. To build the writing and lecturing life– I lecture on these novels and books and shorts and whatever other form’s in the day’s plan.. why not my own book? Why not my own novel? And about something fun. Wine. Wine is fun. And as Susie Selby says (a winemaking friend of my sister’s): “Wine is Life.” So here I go into a new story.. but where to start. How ‘bout with today, with the hours ahead of me behind the bar and with those bottles. Opened a Pinot last night and it had nothing like the bottled life I pour in the Room. I have to consider wine as it’s own entity, yes, a bit independent of the sipper just as Literature is apart from its Creator, and reader, but if I don’t find it pleasing or coherent, or convincing, then what? I’ll figure it out. My character will figure it out.

I’ll write the novel in a series of short but punctuating sketches. And I’ll have wine and wine in the glass be the commanding image. Not the people sipping. The reaction, not so much. Just the image of the wine in the glass before it’s sipped. Many times, I feel, it’s the sipper who detracts from the omnipotence of wine with their reaction. “But wine’s meant to be sipped,” you’ll say. Yeah, I know. But like with Art, you have expression on a wall, someone’s life and effort, and Time which we all know to pass us heartlessly and evaporate before it’s splashed. But then we simplify it by speaking, by becoming self-indulgent, wanting to be seen as wine experts, or “connoisseurs”, or “aficionados”. Why the fluffy tag? Again, I’m overthinking, so I move on, onto the coffee.. don’t want to rise from this couch as it’ll break the binge, but I have to, it’s part of the story and whatever the story commands I do.

Now sipping my coffee, typing madly. Taking the Kerouac thoughts and initiatives from my lectures and having it push me forward, away from the other winery, my old wine life and into this new one with promise and my own projects and this new story. And I don’t need a PhD for this. I don’t even need my Master’s for this. And the schooling and everything I’ve studied, apparently just a sticker on my CV– and that ‘CV’, what does that do for me? There is no Adjunct War, and there won’t be, ever, only fun, joy, and exploration, me seeing the world like one of my students now who studies and works in India, on Public Health projects and some community management in that regard, as well, I believe. Amber, if I haven’t told you her name before, which maybe I have but I’m in such a whirl now I can barely summon past tellings. She, now with her Newness, living MADLY.. I need to start a word list, concepts that dominate me and my projects, and I’ll be about the world soon like Amber with my thoughts, lectures maybe, on wine, on Literature, on Writing, on Writing Literature wrapped and rapt in Wine. Imagine the union of my past world and this new one, I think. I imagine now, me, like Amber, in streets thousands of measures from this couch, from Livermore, seeing lightening in the sky knowing the clouds are speaking directly to me, lecturing, pushing me to mold further in my new madness. Crazy in my Story’s continuation, craving all elements and characters and dishes; scents, colors, contrasts, crosswalks, all of it.

Not looking at the clock as I usually do ‘cause I’m too busy enjoying this morning, like that morning weeks ago with the breakfast sandwich, where I knew something was different but not what, poignantly. Now it’s been asserted: enough. Done. No more waiting. Just taking. Just traveling. Seeing the entire world and writing about the travels a this New Adjunct, one speaking about Literature in his own octave, no papers to grade, just the Road, autonomy, writing, noting, no order only beauty and that’s my new Life recipe. “Wellness”, as a new writer friend I met in the tasting Room explores, blogs about. Phoebe, her name, based in NYC, younger than me, and living, truly living, no papers to grade, no scheduled classes, no rummaging for sections having to call into the department office at some ridiculous time and when you do you’re told to call back in five minutes, “They’re still with someone, Mike…”, goddamnit! No, Phoebe lives, establishes her own Wellness and writes what she wishes, has her focus, that she chose, like Amber. And here I am, nearing 36, exhausted, venomous, embittered and pugilistic. But I snap out of it this morning with my own spell. Coffee nearly gone so I need more, I have to keep with this morning’s binge. What are the other adjuncts doing, but driving to three campuses, like the lady yesterday, telling me she lectures at DVC, CSUEB, and a class one day a week at USF– which sounds prestigious, or accomplished, and I guess it is, but THEY know that, They know we’d think that! All that driving.. I’ve done it before but no more. Wonder what that section at USF is. Humanities-something, but what. I bet USF called her with this tone over phone waves, like “She’ll be so honored to get this one class,” or “I’m giving you the opportunity of a lifetime… you should be thankful.” I know one of those thoughts trampled in the caller’s head. And I bet is was some PHD or dept moldbrain in between classes, in their cozy fucking office. But, ha, I’m hip to the scam, and I’m done. No more. I’m headed to Paris, to India, to Africa, Spain, Ireland, New York….. The Moon if I want! That’s how free I am now, now that I see everything, and that I’m not at the old winery.

I just looked at the clock and I’m running out of clock ticks and tocks but I keep with it anyway, knowing I want my character to make only three wine types: SB, Syrah, and Cab. That’s it. And she, or he, I’m thinking SHE, will have a production strategy delivering not only story but the winemaker’s relationship with the grapes that come in. I one time talked to my sister about winemaking and superstition, and she said it’s not that uncommon, and it’s not silly. The winemaker, like the writer, has to have their comfort zone, and not avoid it but embrace, as that’s where you Create the genius works. And don’t doubt yourself: “If you doubt yourself you’ll never make wine,” K said. I interpreted this in a number of facets, now most immediately with my morning, this new morning and this novel idea and lecturing on Literature around the globe, and maybe a bit about my approach to wine. Newness, the Madness that will forever benefit my career and Life, my character and who I want to be. My ‘Mike-mirepoix’.

So today, when I sip, write down everything that comes to sight, senses, and be MAD with my consideration. Not simplistic! Be animated! Write a lecture for each wine! Why not? This can only build my intrigue and Life and get me closer to that Wellness. If I would have or were to chase the PHD, I’d be lowered, sickened, and even more degraded and devalued than I already am as an adjunct. So no. No, I’m forwarded in a new song, and ‘reborn’ isn’t the term I should have fostered but more so ‘supplemented’, as if by a food or a nutrient.. WELLNESS, as Phoebe writes. And the day is off, this new Me, this new story, this novel of what I’m to build from this first day. Should I blog about it, do a ‘Day 1, Day 2, Day 3’ thing? I don’t know. It may keep me on track. But I hate blogs. Maybe that should change, too. Yes, it does, starting now this morning right here on the couch I’m so frenzied in my typing that I have no time for punctuation and I’m beginning to wonder if I even need that THIRD cup.

Imagine complete Wellness, I am, I am, and the travels, taking pictures. I’ll bring my camera to the winery today, take pictures, and hopefully the clouds will burn off and more light will be let, but maybe the shade and cover will help with the images I catch– tangent I know but that’s what I’m thinking about: a photojournal, a photoblog, something to pocket every bit of the moment I can, and why not with words and images? That’s what wineries do, or try to do. The pictures aren’t bad but the prose, or “copy”, is always abhorrent, vehemently vile in all scales and chords. That won’t be me with my work, with what takes me to the travels, and to those hotels, rooms from which I write and wonder and entertain what the Story holds for me next. And this will be not a job, but, simply, Life. My life. No more jobs. Nothing more that doesn’t entail full, unfettered passion. This, now, my new way, and my new degree. What I see this morning and what I learned about my SELF holds immeasurably more value that any PhD. I won’t be her, between three campuses. I won’t be him, the tasting room director, or manager, or whatever they called him at the last winery, in my late 60s, miserable, and always having to order people around while I sit in my office popping pain pills. No… I’m alive, I’m a story, writing a story, watching a story itself write. So…

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Gauche

The adjunct gets out of his car into the light drizzle, reaches into the car for bag, grab coffee, up stairs.  To shared office.  Now what.  Prep.  But he’s too tired.  He just wants to sip his coffee and read, or write, or just listen to something, Sonny Rollins or Miles.  It’s early, too early, but this is his time, the time before the class he selected– or the only one that was left for him.  No sight of full-timers.  No shock.  They wouldn’t do this to themselves but they would do it to adjuncts.. give them the shit, right?

Adjunct looks at the time, 6:22, he still has time, time he can make his but do what with it, so early.  “Get ready for class, come on, do it!” he fires at himself but no action, just sipping coffee.  And next semester, another class at this hour.  No shock.  That’s what was left.  He’s that buzzard that gets to the meal after lions and hyenas and wild dogs, leopards and what else have had their ravening with what be.  And what was he, the adjunct, and adjunct, part the 75% that were played with, shifted, looked at with certain lowered eyes.. noticed it every time he’d walk through the hallway or into the mail room where they were having a cute little gossip chats about someone or about some students or class– that’s what he never got, did they think themselves so aloft in stomps that they could talk about them, the students, like that?  Making fun of their writing, their troubles, something holding them back?

The adjunct packs, readies, sips the last.  Sore from yesterday’s gym visit, where he tried to expel angst, but now it’s all over him with the pain from weights, the running.

(4/21/15)

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I’ll be ready if

my knee starts to pain me at the gym.  Bringing swimming attire, which I haven’t used in whoknowshowlong.. more added to day’s list but I’m not writing it down, none of it(other than the items Alice instructed).. hoping to face my budget and money onhand head-on..  no spending foreshadowed today, so that will quite help the writer, bought coffee yesterday which I’ve already been into today but only one cup.. need two-to-three straight hours of writing, right here in the condo, on floor as I am.. Jackie finishes his waffles while I type, watches his Mickey Mouse cartoon, and I can’t wait to be on that treadmill, seven miles I’m hoping.  Really want to destroy that half-marathon in Santa Cruz.  Still regret downgrading from 26.2, but it’s for benefit, for sure at this point in my life and condition, Wellness..

7:49.. takeoff in 11 minutes.. wine for Mom and Dad also on list as I last night noted but I don’t see any tasting in my presence there, have to stay quick today, and wine only slows the writer.. was thinking of taking notes at Jackson’s on 4th and whatever after stopping by Schwab for house deposit.. maybe, just keep writing I tell myself–  Odd and frightening dreams last night; first, my email and other accounts social were infiltrated, sending attacking notes to everyone and everything connected to me; the next dream, I was driving with two other people (think one may have been my sister), and we witness a tremendous explosion.. “Is that a nuclear explosion?” one asked.  “I think it is,” the character I believe to be my sister said.  The connection’s obvious, I need minimize my usage of social media and tech and the internet.. just write as Kerouac did in Sur and when on the Road.. no laptops no cell phones not a device on my person holstered or handed.  That’s Peace, that’s Personhood (AH!  Return to this in 1B!!).  Now I see.  Not blinded anymore, not that I was, but I’m awake alive sightful.

(4/20/15)

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Record the For

I have every aim to transfer today’s winery and wine notes to this blog, but I’m again tired and just want to write freely.  Finally posted the Pinot promotion, and may have the first case sale, or some sale, yes to friends but I’ll take it.  I don’t want to get too wrapped up in social media and sales, I want to remain grounded in the Art of this wine life and the writing and the stories, and the wine I might make.  Again making wine.. makes me research the stories of these other label, in Dry Creek and RRV, Sonoma Valley and wherever.  I want to be a Story, be read and sipped and in people’s homes, part of their conversation.

Tomorrow, my day off.  First target: gym.  At least a 90 minute workout, running and swimming or running and basketball, haven’t decided– oh, and maybe some weights.  Keep writing, don’t get distracted, Mike… by these social media apps and programs and tricks.. just stay a writer.  And I will.

Today, both Pinots on our main tasting had my attention, especially with the Mendo Ridge project, now showing more coherence and poetic principal, more narrative qualities disclosing whatever it thinks it’s meant to do.  It’s color hasn’t morphed much but the the texture and sensory enigmas had more volume, for some reason.  And I love that I don’t know the ‘reason’.  It assures what I’ve always known true, wine having its own life and vision and cognition.  And that’s why I re-attach myself to these vinoLit principles, and why I do this, this wine run, and I’ve finally settled just days, weeks really, before moving into this new home.. before staring the Story of New Mike.

I stopped typing but I won’t again– burdened by emails and other messages.. this goddamn phone, taking me away from the writing and the notes, the thoughts from the day, why do I let it do that?  I won’t, and stop dwelling I tell myself, think like Jack Kerouac and his days at Sur, when he walked those paths and stared at the ocean from that one spot and wrote his poem.. just keep simple, all simple, and the stories will land.

In Sunriver, I just think, what I’d be doing right now, if I were there alone and just writing and sipping wine and– think I just answered my own question, not much of a question, just the anxiety felt by an adjunct of my age struggling to settle and find settlement, having a family to support and wanting to build, build his Life writing, a career if that’s what you want to call it.  But I don’t think of these pages that way, not like it’s something I punch in and out for, no that would kill the joy of it all, minimizing it to patter– so tomorrow, some tasting, somewhere, possibly up the street to get SB for Mom & Dad (Matanzas Creek).  I may taste a little, or even have a glass by the lavender, write in the comp book (no device– oh, which reminds me I have to xfer that short piece I wrote in class the other day, with the 1A-ers)…

Plans and plans and plans.  Hope I keep one of them.  I deserve that much I think.

(4/19/15)

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Mock Somm– New Wine Love/Promotion: Arista Winery, Russian River Valley, Pinot Noir, 2013

And we find a balanced, artful, poetically polite but potently IMG_5461persuasive Pinot. First impression, or ‘nose’, entails strawberry and maple-ized raspberry and a coy courting of chocolate. The sips’s summation reveals herbs and wild earthy electricity, and encompasses everything one loving Pinot from Russian River may seek. This is the idyllic etching of not only the varietal, the AVA, but the vintage… Arista brought to fruition what other producers only hope to with 2013 RRV wine, with this balanced bottle of musical and new-world oenological jazziness; a terrestrial palate hug; a Burgundian smooch.IMG_5463
IMG_5460I sip now, and find more notes and subtexts to the wine’s whirling, whether intended or unintended, I don’t care.. at this point, and this is not to discount the winemaker’s meditation, I find more taste tiers: caramel, rose pedal, cinnamon, and evasive cedar (but I’m on glass 2, in ever-truth..).
I guess the most charming element to me from this bottle is that initial palate contact that brings that wild, unfettered fruit; strawberry, cherry, raspberry, and maybe a little cranberry, maybe. This is the wine I brandish for occasion or just when I get home from work, when I don’t want to grade papers but just want to enjoy a glass and collect.

Small production, and I’m quite serious.. SMALL. Secure your bottles now, and be confronted pleasurably by this provocative interpretation of RRV Pinot!

Call Arista Winery at 707-473-0606 to secure your bottles! Again, inventory is low to begin with, only 250 cases total production on the ’13 Russian River Pinot, so move quickly!

AND… they ship cases for FREE!!!

Tell them the Bottled Ox sent you! Cheers!

Again, Arista Winery’s phone: 707-473-0606

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English 1A PROMPT:

Again, please read through page 210, and collect the instances of targeted humor about Seardis’ pages.  And for writing, tell some similar stories of your own, maybe like his essay “21 Down”…  Type it up, or them, and bring to class for some open mic!  Just thought it would be fun to try his style of writing using our own experiences.  On Tuesday, we’ll begin by sharing our writings and then thoughts concerning the reading.

So far this morning for me, a walk with Meliss’ & Jackie, and this mocha before going off to work.  Yes, again, work.  But that’s Life…  Just wanted to wish you all a wonderful Saturday and I’ll see you dark and early (which is only NOW becoming ‘bright and early’), Tuesday.

Cheers,

Mike

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The

He finished the glass and thought, thought about what he was supposed to think, of his first vintage, 2012, a Merlot, and what, what was he supposed to think.  He’d start his label, yes, but Merlot.. Merlot, so many hated Merlot and they didn’t even know why, why, who why what.  Merlot.  So he sipped and noticed an added vocal layer.  But maybe it was how much he’d sipped of his own, this bottle, the first, the first from his first vintage, and this was what he was to build, fight uphill, and more than a battle, a cabal to all.  But he was distracted by his thoughts and fascinations, dreams, and paintings internally–

Finished.  So another opened, so he could open possibility’s locket ere long.

(4/17/15)

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