Posts Tagged With: Cabernet Sauvignon

Hope Jack sleeps thoroughly tonight. Going to have one more pour of the Res Cab, then spill the rest out. One guy today, asking me with this interrogative tone, “So why do some menus just say ‘Cabernet’ and the others, like yours, say ‘Cabernet Sauvignon’?” A legitimate question, yes, but his vocal color was quite off-putting, like I was an uneducated servant, just there to pour for him.

Should pour the Cab. Want to be upstairs, in bed, by 10:30, latest– maybe I should skip the wine. No, not when it’s this good… Oh dear sweet Craft that tastes amazing. The summer.. have to order my books. And I need to bring papers to grade tomorrow. No lunch with my new closest of cohorts, Dwight. I’ll be in my car, in the overflow lot, evaluating submissions, maybe a little writing. I’ll always be writing, so readers should just foreknow I’ll have ink into lines.

Not sure how I made through day. Had to have been the blending trial, all the thoughts surrounding novel, the one cave tour I did, that lunch with Dwight [where I didn’t have a beer, but rather a Coke to help keep me bright]… Not sure what to do now, but finish the glass I poured. The Cab, still holding its ground against oxygen invasion. Need to get into some of the Lancaster Cab & Cab blends I have upstairs. 10:08– Going to enjoy my night, stop writing. There’s always a time the writer can stop, should be understood why he stops, and the time for THIS writer’s now. MY Life, in a blend of dilemmas, where wine provokes.. it’s an interesting throw of goes, really. Part of me wants to laugh, the other to drink more.

So I swallow the Cab’s remainder, glass, like there’s an attached clock. EAP, chooses to watch, push my pen to Ligeia’s spot. -4/24/14

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1:37pm

Home from errand, syllabus work.  Bought parking permit for semester, went to storage unit as well, for XA’s pink slip.  So much clutter in those file boxes of mine.  Resolved not opening another file on this laptop, or outside [paper manila folder, or whatever’s similar], or buying another journal, Comp Book, or spiral notebook INDEFINITELY.  It’s time to consolidate at this point in my  life.  And I hate to say it like that, as it only underscores I’m older, getting older, aging.  Time, enjoy your victory, devil.

Beautiful outside.  Hoping to fit in a run, at some point.  Jack and Alice, in their respective nap modes upstairs.  And me, the writer, ever-obsessed, down here, typing my Life away to a stoic screen.  Going to start typing poems for the 3[+]4 Project, tonight.  Need something to sell, as money starts to tighten.  Would love a nap right now, myself..  Perhaps I should close my eyes for a bit.. see what shape the writer takes when he wakes.

 

10:16pm.  Feeling a mess, as a writer today.  Managed to finish both syllabi, yes, and fit in close to 5 miles running [or somewhere over four].  But I still feel off, like I’m cyclical, and have been for years.  Think the start of such thought was the storage unit visit.. seeing all those files, all those wasted, essentially writing efforts.  Nothing more new.  Going to build on old.  Have legal sheets at left, just in case I feel verse urge.  But I’ve posted two poems already.  Letting Self enjoy a freewrite.

Tomorrow, driving to Napa to get new car detailed.  Only bringing Comp Book with, the Black&White.  Need quite, in this uncomfortably stuffy downstairs.  News just claims temp of 95 for Antioch, tomorrow.  Wondering what’s set for our corner of wine’s world.  Speaking of.. sipping a ’10 Cab tonight.  About to pour night’s cap, thinking of what I’m writing for.  See this video’s still pic on laptop’s desktop.  So much material gathered, why am I not earning from it, in my office.. ON ROAD?

Too hard on Self, maybe.  Listening to this instrumental, just after pouring a laughably kind glass of 10CS, I think some verse is needed for night.  Just as Plath did with entries in ‘Johnny Panic’, I plan to blend all these moments together.  And I don’t care if they “make sense.” I’ll be able to say I did it.  I’m doing it.

Couple worlds I want to explore, just for my own curiosity’s self-mockery: Astronomy, Aviation, Sea Navigation.  ‘Specially the latter.  Recently, have become obsessed with boating, sailing from one point to next, logging it all, like a sea captain.  OR, fly all over the country, or world, like Dad, noting everything I see.  Seeing the same thing, day in-out.. not the most healthy or useful way to churn marketable material– forget it being “marketable” … MEANINGFUL material.

 

As air conditioner tries to calm me, in

my fiery spiral, I only rattle more–

practically tactical.

Want 2B radical.

Beat slowing.  4

measures per breath,

hope that’s enough, time

taunting. It doesn’t care, not tonight

anyway. Lectures, only days away, laugh at

my own notes, isn’t that what we do for preparedness?

(8/13/13)

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Street Strolling, ode-ing

IMG_1363Tonight, not much blogging.  All for book, or books.  Tired from day, and a bit from last night’s session.  My temperament, much more subtle, settled than last night.  Sipping water, sparkling, right now.  On night’s agenda: syllabi, studying [for classes and projects concerning Self.. wine, Lit theory, wine making, Art, French, French history], writing in books, from little note pages.  Putting together Frankenstein pages, chapters.  Then, I’m distracted.  Dinner thoughts.  What should I have?  Lasagna?  Should I go out?  No, I’ll save that for tomorrow night, my last alone.

Find Self overthinking.  AGAIN.  Just let night progress, keep goals simple.  So, 36 printed pages.  That will make a ms [manuscript].  Indiana Jones, Last Crusade, on again.  Won’t lie, I’m watching.  But not for that long.  Only letting Self work down here till 8pm.  Then, up2office.  In the mood for a Little Sumpin’.  I’ll sip slow, as I need something to sale.. profitable pages.  Autonomy, 2013’s only goal.

IMG_1360Paris…  Want to write on the Seine.  Record everyone passing.  Would love to have a picnic with my character, one of those benches.  Just bread, cheese, something red.  Something else to research tonight, if I remember: French wine regions, French Oak barrels.  Want this diary I’m keeping to be as findings-full as Jones, Sr.  Envy how all these characters don’t rely on tech as we do.  No cell phones, no ipads, nothing electronic, connected to physical.

7:18pm.  Winemaking, one of my study objectives tonight.  Thinking this year–this VINTAGE–I’ll do only 1 wine, but 1 barrel of it.  Have it be my last trial wine.. my trial masterpiece.

8:14pm.  Downstairs, still, as I just finished dinner.  Opened my only ’07 Cabernet, Alexander Valley.  My notes, in pocket.  Today, slow as it was, did provide quite a bit of thought.  Reminding me of the peace in wine’s industry.  I should never get upset, defensive.  That indicates weakness, exposure, vulnerability, INSECURITY on my behalf.  That’s inartistic.. TRUE Art de- and connotes strength, VIGOR.  Can’t and shouldn’t blame “the industry” for being what it is, what it can’t help but be.  Due upstairs now at 9pm.  Can’t wait to try this ’07.  Paris, this wine, only can be in fantasy.  Need to respond to past student, wanting me to read some of her Creative pieces.  Think it may be short pieces.  Going to write her really quick.  But it won’t be a letter.  Rather a note on by way of some stupid social medium.  Well, I could write it here, first, on this little monster [laptop].  I’ll do that, I’m thinking.  Letting the ’07 breath, wake.  What I need do with Self.  No innuendo, just candor here, towards Self, his works.

IMG_1365

8:29pm.  Headed upstairs.  With a Cab-crowded glass.  Going to just print.  Whatever I can find.  Need something to sell.  Going to have to edit, just facing unavoidable task.  Writers edit.  Their own work.  Self-published writers do, obviously.  What I want 2do.  Just rambling.  Getting bored with sitting.  So I off log.  Want to taste that ’07, but should I give it a little more time?  When did I open it?  Should have logged that.

Looking at a couple pictures from today, the last few shifts.  Winemaking, this vintage especially, on mind.  Want my wines to not only represent “terroir,” but also speak for me.  I want them to tell story, convey consciousness.  Wonder what I’m going to be thinking tasting my ’13 wine, for 1st time, when it’s finally in barrel.  Now, needing glass.

 

Telling stories to perspectives other.

Figuring it all, in times protracted.

Gifting characters renewed suitedness.

(1/6/13, Sunday)

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a writing wino’s time, slow

1/2/13.  With this solitude, I can write in morning.  Time 8:43a.  So not for long.  First work day of this new year, and I’m set to write, capture, record, film EVERYTHING.  Still have grading to do.  Pretty sure it’s due in 2 days.  If I DO have tomorrow off, I’ll wake early, just get it out of the way.  Need to get grading book from office depot, or hut, or max or whatever.

Old friend from college, in from out of town.  Can’t be out late tonight.  Have to  stand strict with Self as I was last night leaving early from Ed’s.

Out door.  Mocha, then winery.  4 shots, this A.M.  I blame his Syrah.  ’08, my favorite vintage for the chief Rhône…

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IMG_13079:13pm.  After a slow day, I’m done with dinner.  Sipping an ’09 AV Cab.  Still needs to breathe a bit.  I DO have tomorrow off.  Have to wake early, finish grading.  Then, WRITE.  4myLIFE.  Have to get these projects done, salable.  Looking at the stills I shot today, the notes I took.  Love the phrase “instead-of-dinner wine,” from the guy on my last mountain top tour.  Heater going, here in condo castle.  Surprisingly cold outside.  Tonight, all newJournal writing.  Told Self I’d post 5 times to blog tonight, but that’s ridiculously unwise.  First, if it were all written posts, not photog’, video.. it’d be wasting, Art I could have Self-published, sold.  And if visual, filmed, it’d just be repetitive, in my opinion.  It wouldn’t be WRITING.  Opinions, all I have anymore.  This wine, reminding me of work I have to do on my barrels.  MKCS, especially.  Katie and I are supposed to get together at some point this week to talk about our project.  Eager to hear what she thinks should be done, if anything.  My last tasting, thought it sat a bit light.  But, all more reason to soon revisit.

IMG_1312

Watching a movie, one I ordered.  Going a bit too long.  Kind of bored.  Would rather again watch one of my writing movies that I’ve seen dozens, if not over a hundred times.  Not much else to report.  Nothing at all, really.  Does this mean I actually get to break from writing, from being a writer?  Just enjoy my night, drink cinematic Alexander Valley 2009 Cabernet?  Maybe I can take a break from these pages, like Mom says.  Just for a night.  Need another sip.  Think the “movie” is nearly done.  At this point, it’s neither funny nor directed, even directionless.  I just don’t know what it’s doing.

IMG_1316Feeling bored, strangely.  How do I change the evening’s blandness, inject–no, inoculate randomness?  Have no idea.  I’ll go upstairs, get newJournal–  No.  Don’t think that’s the answer either.  Feel I’m trying to force something, some moving project, some piece that’ll send me, Author.  Nothing to say, I feel.  But with venturing Bordeaux to sip.  A jumping political patch of its own, honestly.  This wine has a position, a personality.  A philosophy.  It’s cognitive, conscious.  Creative.  More pictures tempting me.  Some taken last night.  A couple.  But even still…  They have me feeling Artistic.  Artsy, much I hate that word.  Want another sip.

Finally, one of my movies.  Now I do feel reactionary.  —  You know what, I’m stopping.  To do some actual WRITING.  Oh, and that happens on paper.

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Wine Retaliation, ’13

None here.  Only peace.  Wined love.  In wine’s world, attractive set stage.. set, stage.  Punching in, 11:22am.  Much earlier than I thought.  Alice & Jack, airborne.  The whole drive back, missing them.  And, thinking about writing, what I’m going to write, how I’d write it, what I’d want readers to walk away with.  Then I realized, I’m overthinking.  Poison, to us penners.  So, I’ll just type.  Have a list of goals for day, and I’ll do my best.  Typed day’s targets into phone, with last night’s writing movie still on mind.  May watch it again today.  Just realized, I’m writing in kitchen, during day, in complete silence.  With blueberry scone in oven, my 3-shot mocha not even touched.  Never with those realities, before.  One item on day’s chart: take inventory of wine.  I’ll be honest, I kind of lost track of what I have upstairs.  And down here.

Don’t think my morning manuscript mocha’s ever tasted this incredible.  Weather outside, perfect for a so-far perfect opening to this new year.  I heard someone say, “The way you begin the new year’s how the rest follows.” To state, bluntly, I think that thought stream’s garbage.  But, if it were true, with any value grains, I’m almost childishly anxious for scenes my way sailing.  Need some music.  This quiet’s disquieting my focus.

With music, I can only realize what I have before Self, as a writer.  A whole day.  Mine.  And again, more than I thought since I’m back home far ahead of where I estimated.  Part of me thought of tasting today, but I don’t think anywhere’s open.  And that’s fine.  I want to lock Self in studio, as I said in a video I shot earlier, crossing the Golden Gate.  Should go for a drive with newJournal, cameras, see what I produce.  That is, when certain targets have been hit.  Methodical, strategic, pragmatic, cunning..

IMG_1287Just put newJournal upstairs.  Wish I hadn’t.  Just had a rhyme, random lines fly by.  Have the little pages, right, on top of Plath’s book.  Just scribbled what I could remember.  Hate when I forget thoughts, especially poetry, song.  But, if I didn’t summon it, it mustn’t have been worth recollection.  Right?  Assurance.. please?  The smoldering scone, spiritual.  Not as buttery as I thought.  The olfactory offerings promise something richly buttered.  But no.  Consistent, rustic, humble.  Balanced.  Takes me back to Paris, where Alice & I would go each morning for our mochas, pastries [before we discovered a Starbucks down the street, right at third corner, I think].  But even when we found that SBUX legions had already invaded France, we preferred our morning sweets from the the lovely high octave French woman.. “Bonjour!!!” she’d always say.  And, “merci vous cous,” as we walked away, barely able to hold selves back from devouring our extraterrestrial gluttony grenade.

Think I want another.  And how is this mocha nearly evaporated?  Selfish writer!  Should I make some coffee, here in castle?  These Wine Bar Beats, their chilled persuasive flutters, making me sleepy.  Can’t take nap, have to stay in seat, as I urge the students.  Speaking of which, need to hop to grading, at some point.  Think they’re due 1/4/13.  Can’t overthink.  Let day progress as it, and you, unanimously wish.  (11:59am)

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12/30/12 — zone cross, painted

Watching The Thomas Crown Affair.  Seeing how people admire, gawk over, commit crimes over, Art.  Paintings priced in the hundreds of millions.  Artists CAN survive from their revolutions.  History’s proven that.  And which version?  The Pierce Brosnan edition.  Galleries.  With Artists’ lives, whole souls.  For me, no more wine this eve.  48 hours from this sitting, here on sofa’s left side, or wherever I’m sitting, I’ll be alone.  Simulating office.  Might be playing a video game, with new journal exposed, wide, inviting.  Today, and the four that preceded, took my integral.  I’m more than drained.  In 48, I’ll be sipping something lifted; something stratospheric.  Maybe that ’07 Cab I scored at the AV gala.  I don’t know.  But it has to be luminous.  The movie, about to end.  Galleries.  So indescribable 2me.  All in borders.  Thinking of that footage in Paris.  Should transfer some of that to blog, on my homed artistic retreat.  Such admiration, protection of these pieces, hanging from walls.  Want my books to be seen same.  Have to type in waved similarity.  Nearly wrote linearity.  Gobbled by fogged hobble, my fault.  All in2 vault.  Little Kerouac, asleep above my immobility.  Can only think in morning mocha masonry, manuscript’d.  May still be slightly grinning from the ’10 blend.  This movie also has me thinking of Art as it infuses aside winemaking.  MY wines, have to be expressive, purist, minimally manipulated.  Tentatively have dinner planned with winemaking sis, sometime this week.  Want to talk to her about oaking, yeast strains, topping, racking, blending trials, tasting, descriptor selection [as a winemaker would write them, not a writer/winemaker..].

News on in a little.  Me, falling into lethargic whisks.  Still have my grading to do.  Doing all in one day.. 1/1/13, or 1/2.  Already missing my students, especially one, the talented writer/rhetorician.  Her papers, pulled my back into passionate pedagogy.  Don’t have energy to get to my word target.  Maybe Mom’s right, I should take a little break from writing.  But who am I kidding, or even my beautiful sweet kind gentle mother, for that matter?  Writing’s not merely what I do, or “like” to do.  It’s WHO I AM.  Anyone who fully knows the writer knows that.  My wife, reading “Paris Wife” before I do, says she came upon a part where Hemingway goes to a coffee shop to dive in2 Craft, and she [Alice, my lovely wife] thought of me.  “That’s what Mikey does,” she said, adorably, in the kitchen as I poured the first ’10 push.  May get in a little café composition, tomorrow.  But we’ll see.  Two Pinots I want to taste while writing retreat, but I’m hooked by my Cabernet salvo.  Dilemmas of a studying winemaker– hate that word, “winemaker.” Sounds so titular.  I make wine, or am starting.  I have no ornamentally cyclical scope to hold “winemaker” title at some “powerhouse” coporate goblin winery.  I just want to make wine, traditionally, maybe sell a couple bottles.  [...]  And the sitting, set.  Can’t wait for sleep.  Wonder if she’d tell me to stay awake, or retire to write more tomorrow, early.  My blood test, for physical, in A.M.  Not in any way looking 4ward.  So, to bed.  Even tireless writer pirates need setting.  Bona … Dreaming of Art, mine, what it’ll soon, only in weeks be.

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barreled escarpments

12/25/12.  Ebb, under.  Probably from my son’s 1st xmas in end’s state.  Such a great day with the little Artist.  But I should know better, from my feud with Time, that it can’t 4ever span.  The Cab I last night sipped, spilt out.  Opened a bottle ‘nother.  Nice wines tonight, at Particular Palates’ house.  Left the charger cord there, so I can’t upload stills–  Ugh, look how I’m talking.. like some tech-dependent blogger.  So tonight, I’m just going to write.

Rain with impressive totals this eve.  Had valuable chat with winemaker sister, on everything from oak regiments to fermentation, sommelier credibility to AVA varietal expressiveness/integrity.  Haven’t taken my first sip, yet.  Want to compile anticipatory appreciativeness.  Not looking forward to work, tomorrow.  But I should be.  Need more writing material.  Need this book out.  Both of them, rather.  The poetry chap, then the writing collection.  I know, reader.. promises, promises.

Just had sip first.  Amazing.  Like a palate recharge, after the SB, Cab, and Pinot this evening.  Rain, in wait.  Me, with new journal at right, just remembering I have a couple pieces to log in standalone log.  Just had an idea for the book.  But I can’t it here divulge.  Love discovery.  That deserves another pour into core.  If I had ways mine, I’d be writing from a balcony, somewhere in New York.  Sipping only coffee, as I did this morning at Mom and Dad’s.  Excessively invigorated, writing.  And writing well, honestly, with fanged truth.. not caring if it’s “uncouth.” Tomorrow, probably no one visiting Room.  So what will a writer be doing?  ‘ll be interesting to learn, all I can here say.

Honestly, this Cabernet, one of my poisons.  Would love to sip this in some hotel Room, entering oddly spider-webbed words onto this journal’s newer channels.  What does this little leather pest want from me?  Why do I to it that way refer?

Feel like this blog is just as bad as that plastic box upstairs, in the closet, serving as tomb to all those old writings.  What my routine SHOULD be: write at night, print in morning.  How hard is that?  Do I have the energy for 500 more words?  If I did, which I certainly don’t [more like I don’t have the focus, after all this wine], I wouldn’t have time for new journal.. its new leathery aromatics.  Like its own varietal, this little usably interactive artpiece.

Glass empty.  Think I have room for 1 more.  And only one.  Want rain over those dormant vines, in morrow’s envelope.  Think the rest of this writer’s week’ll be like a tweaked quiche, if that makes sense…  It doesn’t.  Okay.  Didn’t think it would, to you.  But it does to me.  I know I have to be honest.. but to whom?  Who’s more important, with these pages?  Me or you, reader?

Assignment for 12/26: note all details, from what you see when pulling into lot, to what you smell setting up bar, to what’s said in meeting.  Put in next book, and sell.  This industry, “the industry” [my private jester], like Literary ATM.  Grateful, me…

2nd assignment: read at least 3 pages on break lunched, take notes in journal new– no, don’t bring it to work, this preciously packaged stack.. scribble in little sheets.  Wait, what am I reading, Plath or Paris Wife [gift from Particular Palates, today]?  Something to consider.  And I find Self, still writing.  Must be this nightcap I just elbowed into stemless glass.  What else can this 33-year old Joycean do?  Why am paradigmatically JJ?  Easy.. Irish, and hardly ever comprehendible.

Okay, giving Self to 10:30 [6 mins from now].  Why do I cut mySelf off?  I don’t know, for the exercise of it all.  Discipline attempts.  And just now, the writer sees what a FULL glass he poured4Self.  But the more exposure, the more charisma in its character.  I know some think the way I describe wines is quirky, too artsy maybe, but I just remembered one of my former coworkers at Lancaster said wording I used to deconstruct what’s poured from bottle was “an experience.” Even without her support, I’d still speak as I do.  But I appreciate her response, even if my reaction, appreciation of her support, is months far 2late.  Huh, just like a writer, with the tardiness.

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notes …

= More in new journal.  1 victory in day.

= reading assignments: Plath, Hoffer.

= Wine tonight, another Cab.  2007.  Alexander Valley, I think.

= 2013, about to land.  Thinking of how to budget this smaller project.  And yes, the 108-page book’s release is getting pushed back, as I hope to have a couple chapbooks subsidize it fullest fruition.

= Should be on road, writing in hotels, lobbies, looking out at some waves set to a glass of SB, or sparkling.

10:05pm.  Glass, single vineyard ’09 Cabernet.  One of my preferred’s.  Just started with Hoffer’s manuscript.  Love his rejection of blind acceptance, how he cites “widespread enthusiasm” as part of the problem.  xmas eve…  and I’m writing.  Little K’s asleep, and I find Self a little more affected by the vino that I projected.  Have to through it write.  Tell the truth.  Going to finish one standalone, in the new journal, by night’s end.  By the end of this month, meaning 7 days from this sitting, I’m looking to have 1 chapbook prepared for vend.  How else will I be There?

Thinking about the semester coming.  Not sure how excited I sit.  Yes, if I assume onus and own my moments at those helms, it will serve enjoyably.  Won’t it?  Or am I just wishing?  Need a sip.. one deep, angry, deliberate.

Nice oak assimilation.  The more air the wine sips, more I find Self delighting in my tilts.  Can’t stop looking at this new Plath book I bought today, Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams.  I will finish these books before January’s mid.  I’m hoping, honestly.  Hate making promises, as this writer has an impressive record of breaking them.  All my journals might just be a certain Literary parthenogenesis.  They don’t follow any process, I just jump.  So I break these “promises” as result of my drive, aims, fervor.  And, just being a journalist.  Or diarist.  I capture moments.  Sometimes they overlap.

This table, ruled by clutter, odd objects.  Need my own office.  One offsite.  Where I can’t hear TV, or anything/anyone else.  Love my home, but it becomes increasingly frenzied, as Kerouac ages, grows.  And this wine, while relaxing the diarist, also paints pictures for me, of this idealized office.  This solace, oasis, haven.  So, next semester.. thinking as few assignments as possible.  Too much a workload detracts from learning’s inherent and assumed joy.  Yes, I know there are word requirements, other boxes to be filled, or checked.  But I’m not concerned.  I want my students engaged, not fearful, or in perpetual dread.  Sorting out strategies in this new journal…

Getting a bit tired, but still a scribe sips.  Not much to report beyond that.  My academic writings, calling.  But they need caffeine, not vino.  Will tell you, the skimming I’ve done today, of Hoffer’s manuscript, has me evermore envisioning me on Stanford’s terrain, lecturing on theory, theology in Literature, dangers of tenacious leaders, and much else.  Just have to keep writing.  Stay in the chair.  Reading student responses to my prompt, the last night, of “What are you walking away with?”, has me realizing that as a professor, I can have seriously positive impact on someone’s life.  Humbled.  How did I not see this before, appreciate what it truly is?

Looking at this new journal, its enticing leather shell, has me thinking I should spend as little time with this device, or any [with respect to writing], as possible.  I mean, what if this blood thing just crashed, or died as my last phone did?  A New Year’s resolution, one serious, for sure.  Lamented.  Decreed.

12/24/12, Monday

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animated phases

Hate it when I can’t remember something I was literally just thinking about.  Let it go, Mike, just let it go…

Love discovering aspects I don’t understand in old entries.  Tells me I was writing in-moment.  Precisely what I hope I always do.

Love how these news anchors conveniently cite, quote, incorporate Literature [in this case, Charles Dickens] into their telling, or casts.  Makes me sick.  Talking on how he felt, Mr. Dickens, as if they know.  Again, making this author nauseous.  [12/21/12]

 

12/23/12.  Two days later, I’m ready, more than ever for this newer year.  Tonight, 2 more standalone’s for small release.  Also tonight, only to reward Self if I get each task satisfied: writing in new journal.  Find mySelf journal jumping, or project jumping, more than recent weeks.  As I have so much envisioned.  Flaw or enviable attribute?  Not sure yet.  May or may not let you know.

Tasted wine today, the MMFM Merlot.  Loved what I found, with coworker Len.  Syrupy palate with deeply melodic berry shoves.  Tonight’s wine, the Cab from night last.  Almost didn’t come to this keyboard, glad I did.  Ms. Plath, asking for letters, more poetry; not so much of this formalized vocality.  I agree.  Taking breath.. the poems, precipitating all day, just like that bullying rain.  Couldn’t believe that speed of the early morning descent.

Pictures shown to me from a coworker that recently went to Hawaii.. telling me to travel.  Also, a fellow writer-friend, rather successful, truly living from his pen, on a wine-wound expedition in Chile.  Was reading his blog earlier this evening, right when I got home.  Have to get to my office, then to road.  No more of this encapsulating normality, redundancy.  I’m an Artist.

It’s not4ME, the machine.

Took home a bottle of ’09 Cab, single vineyard, tonight.  Not opening it for a while, probably till my solo stay here in condo castle, starting 1-2-13.  Time, frightening me, I again realize writing that date.  2013.  Ten years ago, in January say, I was in San Ramon, working for the fool-born San Leandro insurance agent.  In that apartment on Crow Canyon, where I tasted that 2000 Blackstone Merlot that hooked me to wine, its story.  Focusing, or I should say REfocusing, on moment, all I can think about: WINE.  Making it.  See my tasting Room, guest sipping.. keeping everything entirely simple.  Today, thinking of ’13.  Might do just 1 wine, but 2-3 barrels of.  And yes, I’d somehow be bonded.  OR, at the least harness Self to another’s bond.  Don’t want to dwell on that part.  Not yet.  Last Racer, done.  Need another.  Want to write with pervasive liberty, tonight.  TRUE freewriting.

Looking through Plath’s entries, and then the syllabus from Stanford I printed the last night this semester [in that instructor’s lounge area], I need more ink, paper.  Why don’t I just dive into the new journal now?  Can’t.  Not part of the program.  Blog, project prevailing, then “new journal.” Has to be that way, if I’m to soon see road.

9:25pm.  Late dinner tonight.  All the reason I need for this Cabernet, a 24-hours-after-opening analysis.  Just decided, not typing anymore after this entry.  The new “standalone log” has a column for “project.” Tonight’s “project,” set to be this new journal [no quotes needed].  Poured the ’09 Cab from night previous.  Thinking of dreams, possibilities with the year’s new brew.  Sip 1, compromised by the brittled Alice just with me shared.  A bit too rich, but still tasty.  Afraid to leave this entry.  Why?  I’m over thinking, as frequent.

Looking over at Ms. Plath’s book, left, leaning against latest P&W [Poets & Writers] issue, in jack’s feeding chair.  He, upstairs, asleep soundly.  His first xmas, really only hours away.  Still set on buying him a couple presents more, tomorrow, when I get a couple gifts for others.  Looking at an entry from mikeslognoblog, from 2009, right around this time–  I cite that I finished a 1950-word short story.  Where did that piece, THOSE PAGES, go?  Hence the reason, AGAIN[!!!], for the standalone log, I need to keep better inventory of my work, release it more fluidly, immediately.

This wine, telling me to leave device, quickly.  Be completely organic with this Literary facedness.  Looking at the December 2010 entries, one citing a student that missed over 10 classes that semester, wondering why they didn’t pass.  Of course it was my fault, right?  Don’t think I’ll collide with much of that at Stanford, I hope.  Another piece, or “post,” with “Fruition” in its title.  Again, part of this standalone log’s intention.  Off to actually write.  Tomorrow, morning mocha, a little grading [and I do mean a LITTLE], then time with little Kerouac.  Already need a 2nd glass.  What grading does.  Even before it starts.  Self-composing,decomposing.. want rain again.  Needed for leathery log canvas.

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Short entry tonight.  Posted enough to blog, for day.  Couldn’t believe the rain.  Glad I caught some of it, filmed.  Pouring rest of last night’s wine, tonight.  In Room today, not much to report, from not seeing traffic legions.  Do have notes, still in back pocket, but I’m too lazy to reach for them.  Tonight, Italian, from local restaurant that I’ve frequented for more than a decade.  “A decade,” I just wrote.  Guess I’m that old.  AND, for tonight: have to start my Plath writings, on “Plath’s Positive.” Know I have something there, as so many see her as this sour varietal.

Still, now.  Little Kerouac concludes his nightcap, prepares for dreams.  Me, narrowing focuses to an actualized focus.  Just started the Plath/[academic] writings document.  Actually titled it latterly, “[academic] writings.” Taking my reading transientness to Stanford’s halls.  Can’t wait till I’m there, sharing findings, seeing what my students find.  Looking at her smile from cover.  Sight that this Earth doesn’t fully deserve.  Do I?  Don’t care.  And why should I?  She put herSelf right/write in front of me.

10:07pm.  Started with Chard, now to last night’s Red.  Much softer than 24 past.  Tempted to rant for 500+, but won’t.  Need to fill this new journal.  Type poetry to sell.  Had a dream last night, actually, about living as poet.. surviving–no, more than just that–from rhyme.  Leaving any, all clocks.  That’s what she would want.  That’s what she DID.  So after this, to just that.

Little Jack, fast into his sleep.  Keep stressing over if I forgot something to report from tasting Room.  But then, I remember: if it were worth report, it wouldn’t have slithered from my synapses.  Honesty, my remedy, my key, what I’m using.. that’s my formula.. I’m it revealing, FULLY.  TV’s on, but off.  Need this quiet.  My glass, impressive in its fullness.  With the TV FINALLY off, I’m off to page.  Populate the blankest of space.  Love that there’s not a single line.  Just void.  Like Kelly’s workspace.  This is me.  Filling.  Hoping I wake early as I this morning did, just start writing.  That’s what I need do.  EVERYday.  That’s how I know I’m a writer.

xmas tree to right, lit like defended skies.  Reminding me of 115, Bayview, where I use to reside.  I know, I shouldn’t give that address away, as others now there live.  But Dad built that house.  That’s where I grew up, where I was raised by incomparable parents.  And I’m being honest.  SO I’m forward 2nite, like the stance of this CF/ME/CS blend.  Loving this quiet.  Tempted to summon some episode of Ghost Adventurers, or whatever it’s called, but I want this–  Peace.  I’m even joyed, believe it or not, that no rain’s falling, making its ridiculous sound in that tin drain.

Finally, TOTAL quiet.

Almost at 500, how did that happen?  I’m the undisciplined writer, inputting more than he should.  But isn’t that a quality “good?” This quiet, my newest vintage LOVE.

Kelly …

note2Self: start on Letterz… [must ALL be handwritten..]

Still haven;t touched the journal, 10:43p.  Distracted by devilish social media “connects.” To canvas..

vinoLit

12/21/12

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