Posts Tagged With: Journal

Too tired for the novel

and, or, its journal. Now wine tonight, not a drop, so I’ll sleep well I’m imagining and I’ll wake gorgeously early to type away on the Massamen novel. Will it be done by the 14th? Well… it has to be. I keep thinking “It has to be 200 pages, or 300, or something paramounting…” But I write what I write in that time, that’s when its due, and that’s it. So there will be a printed MS by 6/14. I have to teach myself better project management.
Back at the winery tomorrow and I’m looking to write at the Yulupa coffee spot after taking little Kerouac to school. Oh.. and I won’t give up short standalones, fictive and or non. The novel is my grand project, I think of it like these actors that work on sitcoms but work on a movie in whatever spare time they pin. In fact, a piece of flash, or rather micro fiction before bed, after this entry. Time now’s 10:02, and I can’t wait for bed as I’m sure I’ll early wake for some writing and some thinking, reading some of those Kerouac dreams– and print pages soon– and officially kill the other blog, the teaching blog, and then go further into wine’s story.

This thought of wine and how finally I have control over its story and thematic makeup, and how to place it in my story and it has nothing to do with the act of sipping, tasting or drinking, but just observation, how so many walk into the room with this blank canvas or palette, and with that I see and I hear and my senses are elevated as they are now– empowered isn’t the word, but more of a voluminous story compounded somewhat cubist-like.. not sure it rings any bells for any of the readers, but I’m getting somewhere I know with my story, with the shorts (my TV show, if you would), then the novel, my movie.. This can be done this will be done it is done.

3 days till 26.
I mean 36.


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Work Log, 5/24/15

Up with Jack but I’m going to wait a bit to step into my novel’s area and focus. Jackie woke quite early this A.M. and I needed coffee before even touching the keys. Time I saw before going upstairs (as he again wanted to sleep with mama) was, believed, 6:04. Now the coffee and another busy day I’m quite sure ahead of me, thoughts of the novel and Mr. Massamen’s story, me having to translate, having to figure something out for him, like Kerouac down in Sur, and me here in the Autumn Walk base. How I’d love to be home for the day and just work on and in the novel, its circuitry and all the dimensions I’m maybe not seeing. it’s obvious what he wants to do, get away from the adjunct world and into wine, but he doesn’t want to stop teaching, he doesn’t even necessarily want to leave the classroom, it’s the other matters he wants not a fraction of a part of. So there you go.. I have a novel, done in my head and I just need to write it or type it here in this new house in one sitting to several cups of this breakfast roast.

Jack, coughing, not in the mood for his waffles. And he’s such a great eater and acceptor of foods, as I disclosed to some of the neighbors the other day, two of the wives. They said I should be grateful or it’s great that he’s so agreeable when it comes to food. One of the two I can’t remember I’m still waking up and I feel pressured for some reason.. well, with all the papers I have to grade of course. I’ll make a gorgeous dent on Tuesday, then enjoy the rest of my day maybe go for a run or just write from somewhere– and that’s a lesson from this novel worklog, already: don’t work on the serious projects at home.. just freewriting or small projects or poems, or other entries. There needs to be isolation with the novels, especially the Massamen work. Finish it, finish it! I tell myself, over and over, and I want to conventionally submit it, and have it read and disseminated properly, have a Tobias Wolff-type career. Just write and live from it, not have to do what I don’t want.

Back to entry. 204 words of dialogue in novel to get me to new page, page 18. So I want to set one word onto page 21 by day’s close. I’m eating J’s waffles now, as he made it clear he was in no mood for what I heated for him. He makes me laugh, walking over here to the island and saying “Oh, Daddy, you work like that?” Not sure what he meant but I laugh, and I think of his character in the novel, Jim’s son, Mike’s best friend and essential brother. Then there’s Massamen’s sister, the winemaker.. should re-read what I’ve written so far, but the two grounding characters in his life have to be his best friend, his nephew, and his sis. And Lila, his friend from undergrad, I guess. But not too many– oh, and Michael, the PhD friend of his at the JC. But expand upon the idea and concept of Mike Massamen, I tell myself. Then wine. That’s where you want him, I tell myself, and that’s where he can build. He can’t build as an adjunct. The adjunct gig is just something on the side, he realizes, and his energies are meant to be missioned in wine and its world; there’s room for growth and expansion and play, fun, learning.. it’s wine! Certainly more fun that battling with an institution and its sweeping disregard for what he and other adjuncts do.

Looking at clock expecting to see a time after 7AM, I see 6:53. So very early for the writer but not Jack, he seems quite at peace with the hour and his cartoon and not having the breakfast I heated for him. And I’m still hungry. But I need more coffee, I see that as more necessary for the writer at the moment than actual sustenance. I know that’s unhealthy and I can see Mom reading this and thinking “You should eat breakfast!” And she’s right. She’s always right, I’ve found. And that’s candor from me, not sarcasm. She’s amazing, my mother, and she sees it fitting for me the form of shorter writings, fiction and other. And again, she’s right! But it’s an apexing aim to be a novelist. Yes, I’ll still write short fiction, but I want novels– I compare it to an actor who’s harnessed somehow to TV Shows, and just wants to do film, full movies, and stay, grow in that medium.

The Massamen novel starts with him noting the significance of a single morning, and he’s eating breakfast, ironically, a breakfast sandwich of sausage and egg if I remember right, and sees something– so then, like I tell my students to expand upon singular words and ideas/concepts, I think of ‘vision’, having a vision and seeing something out there for yourself, wanting to see yourself doing something, and if you don’t know precisely what then you’re at an advantage, propelled beneficially, you have something to find and hunt. That’s how I feel this morning, this first entry of the Massamen Work Log–

Another word for expansion, for the day’s 2000+ words: tell. Massamen telling his story and his dreams, his story, and that’s all the wine industry is, and that’s what he loves about it– you don’t see that in academia, no matter how noble they say it is and how honorable it is what they’re doing or how they see themselves.. where do you go? h thinks.. with wine, with having his own label maybe some day and writing about his journey and blogging it and somehow infusing it with his favorite Literary works. Have it all come together. A blend.. see? The wine solves everything. It’s world, not so much the “industry” moiety.

There. A thousand words in the work log. Now ready to work. The novel. Here I leap…..

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At the kitchen island

on one of the stools. Needed coffee. Went upstairs to check on Alice and found Jackie in our bed– Sleeping he looked so safe next to his mother, and comfortable– the scene served its own apothegm. Now I hear someone up there stirring, who probably Jack. That wine I opened last night, not with much voice, I have to say, in that the general composition and print of the wine on my senses was rushed, minimal. But I’m spoiled now, I understand, working at Arista.

How to approach the day differently than yester’… Took some notes, but… how….. I know! Try ardently and with angry intent to speak at little as possible. Write EVERYTHING down. And I mean everything. Be a true journalist– which reminds me I need to write Dav a letter, the first in months. Need to write more letters to several people: Amber in India.. Lila, Dav as I said, Mom, Steve Gutierrez (whom if you remember is my grad school fiction instructor, I mean PROFESSOR)– he’d be a lovely character to stay communicatively harnessed to.

Breaking up my thoughts with the wine still a bit tactile in my functionality. But the coffee mends.. hoping ot reach a thousand words before Kerouac and Ms. Alice wake, but who knows, this morning if I had to use it as a barometer for how the day’s to go is metaphysically endorsing, but that’s just hyperbole– I feel quite well, and motivated, how’s that? And I’ll keep writing till I leave the property. Wanted to run after work yesterday on Westside Rd but Mom’s warning shook me and made me realize it’d be foolish execution. And this morning, no, as well, more in the mood to log this mood and momentum and think of how I want to note the day’s minutes, even seconds in my little book, the little pages of the blue-covered notebook I bought at the store by the condo castle (which is now ready to list and sell, finally, my aunt the property agent proclaiming it “looks great,” Alice told me she expressed).

Decided I don’t want an office here in home. Too many distracts and too much activity. I’m a roaming notetaker like Kerouac, like Hem in the cafés. Writing at home– well I guess I will do it more when the blog and my novels are seen by a vast audience and I can benefit from such tangibility and visual, but for now it has to be offsite as much as I can. In fact I may stay on property for a bit to write, after shift. Maybe, depends on how much the sun is hitting that deck and how carnivorous the mosquitos are– was bit more than four times, with educating depth, teaching me how persistent those little bastards really are.

sample note for day/fiction: Couple from Iowa, on honeymoon, first time to winery; “This place is so pretty. How long have you been here?” “About a month and a half.” “No I meant the winery, how long has ‘Arista’ been in business?” I feel stupid. This has already happened a couple times. This exact conversational design.


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My mood, a mood, and

I think I’m of the character type that’s flawed. What if I go outside the expected with myIMG_6336 aims, actions. When I came home today, Jackie played with our new neighbors, this one little girl, 4, driving her mechanized Jeep or SUV around the street, talking to Jackie while she navigated her ship. So grown-up, he appeared, and when he and I played basketball prior to his interaction with her, I could see him growing, becoming his own character– Time with another victory over the sensitive me, writer, and what can I do but write about it.
This Meritage from K—- helps me reason this life sequence. Again with Kerouac’s Dreams, thinking of my own, and my life and sequence and passage of all things– the students past and present, and my son and next baby– what am I doing, how will I get us ahead with this writing. Normal fatherly worries, I’m sure, but even still I’m uneasy. It must be my mood, and the Meritage talking. But I’m safe in the Autumn Walk base, and with my thoughts. It’s been well over a week since I reached out to SCC and Mendo, and nothing, not a call not an email not an update. This again reiterates and is proverbially demonstrative of their solar disregard for us, adjuncts. And to be honest, who needs them– THEM. The ‘Them’, those pigs that allot our assignments and livelihood and sustenance like it’s some bloody lottery. I know I said I’d stop talking about this but it’s more than criminal, and the adjunct that just remain quiet and follow the fold and flock only stimulate the virulency of this academic ailment. And yes, ‘academic’, meaning the students, the ones we’re meant to service and actually educate are harmed, intensively. And of course these pigs’ll have some scripted counterargument, but we’re, or at least ‘I’ am not interested anymore. Not in debate not in negotiation– I’m choosing to be vocal, to be written and heard and known as a speaker, as one speaking against this, lambasting the reality of “higher education”, only lowering the morale and path itself for both educator and matriculant. And I can see it now: “He said earlier in the entry that he’s drinking wine…” Oh yes, as I need another job to support my family as anything full-time is about as feasible as Oz, and I need a couple classes, or three, 4, to calm over 9 years of subordinate uneasiness. But I was never and am NOT subordinate! These devils will hear my furious fang milling, finally.

Huh, the revered traversings I’ve spawned about the norther parcel of the state. California. Mine. My state. MINE. From Santa Cruz to here, on Autumn Walk– Avenues and El Camino, over tracks of all complexions and codes– me with the Composition Book, in new nodes. But I’m distracted in symmetrical scope, the vocational skirmish I never wanted but now somehow have– cultural betrayal and professional pitfall. And now I have children and a wife depending on me….. Dreary, yes, but I’m Montresor, not Fortunato.


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New Everything

Not five oclock but close enough.. 5:41, had a thought last night before falling asleep of beating Kerouac at his speed, writing a novel faster than he did. AND, with the end of this semester is the end of many of my self defeating way when it comes to writing. One of those being blogging, to an extent, that’s why the teaching blog has to die. I will submit only pages to students, not tell them to go to some post. And with this novel I complete in TEN days, today being day one and I’ll use the 17 I have for the Massamen novel, I’ll shop it, traditionally, sending it to, yes, agents and publishers. I don’t want to but I want to play THEIR game and destroy them at it.
Fridge stopped humming, and when I push these keys it echoes in a way, the act of pushing them, you didn’t hear in the condo– got confused by the syntax of that sentence for some reason. Anyway, I’m up writing, and I think today is going to be rather magnanimous, and yes mostly with the writing but as well with meditation, just sitting and thinking (what I’ll do when back from Petaluma Campus). So quiet, and close to these other houses, or maybe it merely appears that way with all these windows. No dreams to write of, last night or this morning. I just find myself in a certain meditation, now. And what better than the first session of this kind in this new Autumn Walk house. Cleaning up this bloody laptop, using the Comp Book for novel writing, and then typing, have to plug in the printer after the internet guy comes. Want these pages printed, and no obsession over editing. I don’t have time to edit so monstrously. They get the manuscript they get. And that’s that.
Not so much wanting coffee. And I just noticed I indented in this paragraph, and I haven’t been doing that from my disgusting blog habits. The only way for me to be happy with myself as a living American writer is to print, to have books on shelves at bookstores across the country; to submit and have they say or write back or even email me a ‘yes’. Another instructor at the JC with me, Craig, a full-timer is now retiring. He’s the one who gave me a second chance and brought me back to the JC in Fall ’12, when Jackie wasn’t even a year old. Should write him a letter from the P-Campus, just let him know he’s appreciated from my corner of teaching or pedagogical efforts, of from this writing disposition, whatever I do and whatever whoever I am.
5:54AM– And that’s another thing I’ve had trouble with, or troubled myself with any idea of a novel.. that I have to have these time stamps and informational anchors as to where I am time-wise. So I’ll only do so in these worklogs or journals, and maybe sometimes in shorter pieces, but NOT in the novel. The reader needs to work hard and estimate for themselves where I am. And it saddens me, my blog, that I posted those pieces yesterday, had been thinking about doing so for DAYS prior, and now it’s done, and it’d be bloody forgotten if I weren’t such a devoted writer, that I wasn’t proud of it as I am. Going to print it, I think, and sell it of course, filling in those income gaps I mentioned in the haircut sketch. So quiet in this new house and I again think of Newness and doing things differently with the end of this semester, the end of any compromising way or habit connected with the writing. And that’s today. And that’s the novel. The long piece of quasi-fictive flexing I’m about to put out into the world and not just on some blog of mine. And my character, him wanting wine and teaching and writing and just to be himself and manytimes by himself. When watching his nephew, Jack, all the parents on his buddy’s new block appeared, their children as well, all playing while the adults socialized and chatted and tried to chat with him, but it was too much; too much activity and too much speech and too much aggression with them being “neighborly”. “I’d seen you here before with Jack but didn’t know you were Jim’s friend and Jack’s uncle…we’ve been waiting for you to join us,” one of the wives, Amanda said. It’s just not what he wants. He loves his nephew but doing that whole thing, sitting in one of those chairs on the driveway eating chips and guacamole like Amanda and that other lady did, isn’t him. He needs quiet, he needs his mind completely tethered to what he’s doing and or what he’s trying to do: LECTURE. WINE. BE the adjunct he wants to be, not the one They’d have him be.

And speaking of Jackie, I hear him coughing upstairs.. should go check on him and stop being so selfish with this sitting and how much I’m seeing and reviving myself as I’m doing with this new novel idea.
After 6, 6:04… This is when the morning starts; Jackie wakes wanting to play then Alice gets in the shower I get my coffee or try and the stress cakes itself to my mentality like that mold from the condo, disgusting.. what if I didn’t stress at all, this morning? What if I just let the Story carry me, and not me it? Light found its way to this room much faster than it did in the condo, much more a writing space for me with the wood floors, and the new bar stool Alice and I assembled last night, and that kitchen island which I decidedly adore. This is a writer’s house I know, so I need to write with more organization, less clutter and clots, more curb-appeal if you would, to use one of my aunt’s real estate terms. I’ll make it quick with the 1B meeting, then fly to the library and work on the novel.. I’ll shoot for 3 FULL pages, and not stop, stay caffeinated, and not look back, not edit obsessively or excessively.. purity like the unfind and unfiltered wines of Arista. Be the best novelist I can and show Them they have to publish my work, there’s not choice in that matter. That I will be read.

7:05 and J’s watching a cartoon, I’ve all but completely cleaned the desktop of this device, finding old writings that I’ve somewhat forgotten about. See? that’s horrible. I’ll post all of them to the blog and print a couple, TODAY, atop my noveling obligation. The morning quick, and I too quite quick. One cup down, another cued, take J to school then go straight to PC. Then start with the last word that I wrote in the Massamen piece.. and go from there. And exercise in my appreciation of singularity, this novel is, and all will boil down to–or be LCD’d to–WINE. A love for it, and an exploration of it. Not just drinking it! No.. wine is about observation and Art and growth, thought and freethinking and freedom. Not so much wine itself but the idea of wine and the atmospheric perpetuation of what wine tells– now I know, some somms will say “what the hell” or “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Well I merely consider the origin of such a remark, from a sommelier, and I stop. I approach wine as my character does, as a professor of Composition, Literature, Wring, and TRUE ideas.

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New Cask

9:18 and at the Starbucks on the old block, Yulupa.. dealing again with a mood this morning but I refuse to let it wrap me any longer, and why should I? The collection, ‘interim stratum’ was published and now I just have to push and push and push it on readers and wouldbe readers. “Keep writing,” I tell myself. I don’t have to be stressed, I don’t have to be in a mood, and I don’t have to let anyone get to me. I thrive in transparency and affairs with wine and writing and literature and my own independent thinking, and with this coffee. There’s no judgement of me here, there’s no lack of faith, only support and jazzing vibes and the ZEN I need. After this I rush to Arista to be enveloped in more Zen and beauty and Literature. I will only grow in what I want and know I did my best and those strings Emerson spoke of, being true to myself and not letting any perception of me or what I’ve never done or what I do execute on page slither to my senses, ever! And I disregard that I pocket another number, an additional age, nine days. I don’t care and others shouldn’t either, ever, and not with this one especially, pushing into the technical “late thirties..” Goddamnit, why did I write that? I just acknowledged it.
I stretch and yawn and am bored with my words already, probably from re-reading the pieces in ‘interim stratum’.. oh well. Just heard someone here, a woman waiting for her coffee say “you attract what you want to attract”. Huh, I think, unexpected counsel in this corporate coffee brothel. I sip my coffee but it’s colding, or cooling, not interested in and or my present inferno. Want to write the dream I had last night, or sketch it, no more than 250 words, short like Kerouac’s sketches, and have it be more imagist than narrative, but how do I do that? I’m an imagist writer, and narrator, so I’m a mess, Mikey-a-Mess, again. Sipping this coffee more than slow now as I need to use the washroom, but I won’t give up or stop I need to accumulate in Zen and Self in this entry and shake this mood and forget about the negative claws that follow me. Transparency, my love with writing and words and Life, the characters around me and wine.. the making of it and the story in it, not quite or empirically the wine itself or the act of drinking or tasting it– not so. In fact that’s such a minor and trivial part or experience of the experience and story OF wine. If you must know, I’ve always held that the act of drinking wine completely if not overabundantly minimizes and degrade wine. Look at all the pictures you see on social media of people DRINKING [wine], and even tasting it to bring attention to themselves, have their persona elevated so that they’re look at as some brand or icon or authority, like the sommelier movement– that is NOT for an exploration or appreciation of wine as a artful and cognitive, LIVING, entity. Rather, it’s so the sommelier can be recognized as a sommelier, or “somm”. Watch that ratsbane documentary, and you’ll see that the “somm” is more interested in their image and appearance rather than the wine. There is no respect for the wine is haphazardly drinking it, or sipping it, or even blogging about it as so many of them do.
9:31, and I’m tired of this place. My mood returns and puts me in Montresor’s mind. I fear for my writing, my character, and the characters around me, what will happen to them in the next entry…..

Whomever embarks upon my insult, will enjoy the fruition of my revenge.


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1st dream sketch

An ax, then a tree, and me just standing there. I don’t know how to chop a tree. So I just stand there, and then fog, then ants, then a squirrel, my Uncle Stevie talking to me making his usual jokes and then it’s lunchtime and Auntie Linda calls in my sister and I. Then they’re gone, and I walk around, looking for the cats; Callie, Spunky, Winston. But I can’t find them. Then thunder’s story, coming to their property; clouds purple grey blue black– I look over, left, at the view of the Three Sisters. “Let’s come inside, guys!” Linda yells to Katie and I. My sister asks what’s happening. Stevie tells about the coming thunderstorm, two times but with different wordings in each speech. We don’t know what that is, I mean we do but we’ve never seen one, or a REAL one. We go inside, I read a book, Auntie Linda makes chocolate cookies–
I wake, missing that time. Now I’m old. And I can’t return to that, ever. I try to go back to sleep to taste a little more of that time and the rain and the cookies and hear more of Uncle Stevie’s delirious jokings. But it’s gone, evaporated like the puddles from the storm, the next day.


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IMG_6163Thinking of Wellness and the notion of practicing it from when I woke which wasn’t too long ago. Only act left to execute is dressing little Kerouac.. keep blogging, all day… Still not totally convinced the teaching blog needs to die.. actually, it’d add to my Newness in adjuncting, if anything.. thinking now that it should stay alive, and keep the posts short! Same with bottledaux.. post post post! All day. More is better, where some see as less being better with their models and modes, and that’s fine, but for me as a brand I want readers to see me as tireless and always writing, ALWAYS!
Will take a fifteen minute break today to post prose to bottledaux, the MOCK SOMM piece I wrote last night. And what else.. just everything and everyone is material.. writing the wine world and what’s in my head as a writer and teacher and how Wellness will be attained– should set up the coffee machine in this Autumn Walk fort.. will find it tomorrow when Alice and I look through and ATTACK the boxes in the garage.. no clutter synonymous with Wellness. Not letting anything or -one under my skin or into my head less they have a beneficial additive for the writing. Jackie needs me now, done with his waffles and we need to leave earlier as his school is all the way across town, now.

At the Starbucks on Yulupa after dropping off the little BEAT, and I listen to everyone around me, many going to work or watching after the kids or just out on a Friday, maybe the day off for them, wouldn’t know what that’s like but I’m doing just what I planned and IMG_6164listen to the salsa music falling on me from the ceiling circles, knowing I need travel for Wellness, and need Newness, never enough, for my Wellness. Didn’t run yesterday as I didn’t have the opening for, and didn’t work out with weights from same reality. I’ll wake early tomorrow morning before work and either run or lift.. so far, just a breakfast sandwich today.. and getting ready and stressing and venting to Ms. Alice as how I couldn’t find a single fucking piece of clothing, not attired peace: Wellness is 90, 95.. no 98% mental and cognitive, and I might even assert ‘spiritual’, and I never say things such. But I realize that my spirit and Wellness rely on Equilibrium of mind. Thoreau said “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” And this reminds me of Michael Browne and when he affirmatively uttered that “blind people can see and deaf people can hear…” There’s more than what greets our senses and when we realize and truly souse our Selves in this scope, more is visible, more is writable, and more is to be lived.. oh, this moment and its value, my Composition book open and me looking at all I’ve scribble over this semester and the one before. I’ll never leave the classroom, but I’ll be free, freer.
9:04, should leave soon to get that early lead in the day. Want to walk away from this café with three posts, so I should give Self till 9:30– writers and Time. We lose, eventually but we can make it difficult for the clock to stop us, or worry us, or have us stuffed in a worrybox–

IMG_6165MOCK SOMM piece posted, now I have to rush this entry.. will do third post from winery.. today I listen, and barely talk, write it all down.. no podcasting, no video.. just pictures and prose.. that’s it… looking for 300 words from winery, from the garden, find the Wellness and ZEN I need for this pageset.. 9:17, and I feel like I’ve already reached a thousand words.. have I? Speed writing and typing and living but all with peace and Wellness and Equilibrium about my lettered shout. Two younger men have their coffees, walk past me then stop to get cream and sugar– who are they, I wonder, and what are they doing today.. where do they work? What are their dreams? Do they alway want to “get fucked up” as one of them, the one with the red hat and holstered knife to his belt, just said they did last night. Now they talk about a friend who just got fired, “They took all his shit,” he said to this friend that still waits for his coffee. “Did he call his union rep?” the other said.
“No. It’s all fucked up.. his hand’s not even healed..”
I imagine the story and what they want to do and what happened to this friend of theirs. Reminds me that I need to be, MUST, be self-employed, by these writings and the scribbles and the lectures.. literature.. came across the Poe quote from ‘Red Death’, where he narrates “Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”… The workplace, the Man, the Devil, continues to show itself as death to me, never having our lives in consideration, or at least substantial consideration. “I feel bad for him, fuck…” the knife kid says before they both have their cups adjusted with the cream sugar and whatever else. Exeunt.
And me as well. Nearing departure time but I don’t want to rise from this chair and I think I deserve to be late a couple minutes as this morning and the move and little Kerouac even have all decided to challenge me. But I’m calmed in mind, quieted musically in my epicenter, no quakes, no tremors, no disruptions. And this be what the writer takes to his day.
Fulfilled.. oh this pouring of Time into my advantaged cup.. calculated, a bit yes, but mostly lovely chance. In no box, this writer, and the day’s lesson seems to be all with Wellness, and how I pocket it and write it and have it recorded into my foremost functionality.. Namaste.

Not bothered, by a
thing, no, I just stamp and stamp
and affirm no– each

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MOCK SOMM: whoso cellars, Sonoma Valley, New Dad Cuvée, 2012

IMG_6158I know it’s extremely biased and uncouth to review my own wine. And I’m a writer, not a winemaker, so now it’s all the more skewed and beleaguering… But I have made wine, with a professional winemaker, Blair Guthrie, and I revisited a bottle last night and tonight and am more than wooed by the effulgence of olfactory and palate and the spanning theatricality of the taste-rhythm arrangement; maple-ized raspberry and wild earth honed by jubilant tannins and amorous acidity.. good thing I had Blair there. But I have to be critical.. this bottle SHOULD have a bit more texture and slow-tempo’d seduction to its sensory. But I’m wishing. And this is, was, what, the third wine I’ve ever made? What does this pair with? I don’t know. I’m not a swag-bellied skainsmste sommelier. I’m a wine lover, and writer, in love with wine but I have to say I’m not in love with this one, at least not at this moment in my home, at day’s end. Maybe, perhaps, yes, a tryst of sorts.. a certain sip excursion, delicious distraction.. deviantly wined act personified. Fine. I’ll take it. And that’s where the charm and gems lie, in the casual passing and interaction of the blend we made. And… well, maybe that’s it: I’m tired. How much sleep have his wine “experts” had when they review or respond to their bottles assigned, in their 50 or 60-word “writings”? This ‘whoso’ proprietor, needs more practice, needs more immersion in wine and winemaking and wine-study–
So do I have to score my own wine? Can I be objective– oh stop it yes of course I can.. IIMG_6161 would have had it in oak longer, and longer with the oak chain, but I remember making it at the Kenwood winery and being forced to rack it at a certain time and bottle it at one punctuated.. not as I’d have like it– but it wasn’t my winery. The ‘NDC’ is about New DADS, needing an accessible red wine for occasions any. There’s no incongruence with palate or nose or finish or texture, I just feel there could be more.
whoso cellars is about nonconformity, yes, but as well innovation and invention and the LEAP of winemaking vision. So did I succeed? I.. well….. No. There needs to be more here; more vocal, more scene, more éclat in its character weaving. I don’t know, but I’m not pleased. And I don’t blame Blair, or the hosting winery, the resources, no one or anything, no element.. I’m here sipping and learning, and knowing I AM a winemaker, well as a penman.
So let’s say I’m not me, I’m not a writer/winemaking whatever of this bottle, that I never met Blair and I never made this.. so then what.. well I guess my estimation would be sewn in another stroll. But I’m biased, rationally curved and cognitively curtailed, so I just now sip, and now sense and see there are improvements to be made in this winemaker’s crafting. He’ll be better with years, a few more harvests.. there’s promise, A promise here. We’ll just have to see what he does next; what singular varietals and what blends.. and just WHAT. Not sure who this writer thinks he is making wine, but it’ll be interesting to see what he promises next, what else he decides to put in Bottle.. this expository Ox.



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Last morning, reg instruction.

 Wanted to start writing at 6AM or before but now the clock taunts 6:04 and I regret pulling into the drivethrough line, stuck behind that bitch in the Benz ordering however many drinks she did and sending many of them back. Okay, last time I do that. Greeted by another ghosttown parking lot this A.M., when I pulled in. Today, only rough draft session, then dismiss, so if I could wrap up in an hour or hour-fifteen, I could be back at Autumn Walk for a healthy dose of more writing, reading, maybe find some of my bloody books, hidden from and by the move.
Going to try running today, I’m devoted to just trying. My left knee hurts a bit but not with the fire it did a week or two ago, when at the gym and the IT [band] locked up on me, became insanely sensitive. I want to get into a shape now, right before 36, that will benefit the rest of my life. I want to run races.. yes, MARATHONS. It breaks my heart that I can’t even do the fucking half on the 17– can’t even write about it, ‘cause I know I’ll just become angry, sad, depressed– I don’t notice myself gaining any weight, but I do see myself getting careless with portions. Not out of control, but I notice it. I want to achieve the level of Wellness that I only read about and see in magazines in line at checkout, like my friend Phoebe writes.. I want to enjoy my body and health and be proud of it.. it starts today, actually it started with me seeing all those glorious blueberry muffins in the mailroom just now and passing, turning my head. I need to do the same with wine and artisanal beer. My consumption is not in any way out of control, in fact I’ve been drinking much less since the move started, but I do want 3 or 4 no wine days/nights rather than just one or two. I want to run today, I will– and just before turning left onto Bicentennial from Industrial I saw a woman running, turning left (for her) onto Industrial. I’m estimating this woman to be in, well.. near, her late 40s, early 50s. Somewhere there. And like Dad has always asserted in his Least Common Denominator statement: “If they can do it then I definitely can.” So, I’m running today. And no more than two coffees today, which I accomplished on Tuesday when I was horrendously tired.
My temperament is interesting this morning– I activate internet and without my direction it goes to music– don’t ask me how, why, what happened but there and here it is and I am with Hutcherson’s “Maiden Voyage”. So my mood, disposition, character: calm and ready to close semester, motivated by my chat with Mark yesterday morning, and the wines he tasted me and Kevin through, and then me coming home to open one of my New Dad Cuvée bottles. I will make wine this harvest, and drink even less than I ever have, people will say, and I can just now see it: “Wait.. you’re a winemaker and you almost never drink?” I love the befuddlement, I love the intrigue and the confusion and the story that  

 creates, the contradiction! It only ads to my “brand” if you will. All to my cynosure, guiding my writing this morning and where bottledaux is going and the death of the teaching blog, death of my faith in academia but not reading, not learning, and NOT THE STUDENTS! If anything, after this term, the classes, notably my 7AM 1A garrison of thinkers/writers/serious-students-for-the-most-part, I’m directed and coached and ready for the Literary World’s field, any game it wants to play, like with this music just finding me, me not having to go to some site…
Yesterday at work, researching offices, or “fun offices”, or “fun cool offices”, finding pictures, getting ideas for my eventual out-of-home base.. and I came across this one blogger who did it, has enough draw and push generated by her blog to do it, and a lot of it, I think or I deduce came from advertising. I’ll set up ads today, somehow, or have my cousin do it (Nick). The Themes: Wine, Writing, Wellness, Art, Life, Teaching, Self-Education, Diary, Mike Madigan.. bloggers, blogging.. all the usual tags, which I need to keep better track. Maybe I shouldn’t go back to ‘AW’, maybe I should stay on campus, stay in office, stay a bit on-edge.. go to the library even, have a second cup there.. Decided: I’m not going home, I’ll rush to the library, set up ads on blog, write more, even borrow a book (Umberto Eco’s “How to Write a Thesis”).. again, I’m not stopping with the teaching, I’m just killing the adjunct disease, making writing and Literature and teaching my own. I hope other adjuncted’s do the same, reinvent themselves rather than whining, and just voicing grievance after grievance, negative barb after after after… Who wants to read that? We’re all dismissed and sent away, and I, an adjunct, am on their side! But I endorse a pragmatic rebellion, getting CREATIVE, fighting back! Which is what I’m doing.
Turned Hutcherson channel’s volume.. and, I think about Time again, and wine, and the business, and the future, a second child, and everything, me a father, Jackie, Alice, Mom and Dad and what they’ve done for my family.. it’s pressure but more a monstrously beatific motivator. Again, that cynosure– branching from the talk with Mark yesterday morning then the tasting of those bottles–the Pinot then the Gerwurtz’, then that ’08 Cab–wine and its whirling theory and overarching dissertation that set a new story for the writer, a new Beat and Road and lecture set– so what do I do with this seismic impetus, this nearly Victorian punctuation of new values and sight, scope sensibility and bewitchedness? Ah the spell… that tie and ghostly amalgamation of wine and Literature that so far only I translate and put into new jazz phylum. And Hutcherson agrees, so does Rollins, Miles, Hancock.. that must mean its right that I write this postmodernly– oh Foucault! My Nature and Equilibrium certainly yesterday stamped. And again I see wine and more than wine more than just some oversimplified luxury item! Indeed it may be a luxury, luxurious, inviting the character to luxuriate in a new.. rollick of sorts.
6:35 and the adjunct is more than alive! So much more! This is the first start and step to this new Wellness set, I’m sure! But I need time to edit. I want this posted before class, and I want to be prepared for class in a way that I never have been, even though we’re onlyworkshoppingthismorning– Look at me, I’m a mess with this animus and lively written rumble– ha, I’d love to see the chair or dean or any of the whores of trustees stop me! It’s interesting, the other night I read an entry from over three years ago on bottledaux, to see what my mood was and where I was character-wise, and geographically, and I came to an entry from off the side of 128, near Lancaster (which I then called “AV Winery”), and I overheard some cyclists talking about wine and already needing some wine, having a demanding workout already before 9AM.. And that seems like only a few months ago. Jack, then, just over three months old. NOW, my little Artist is an energetic and persistent character already with an immovable curiosity and forming ideology; creative impulses, argumentation and observation and desire for Newness. And since then, I’ve battled a tyrannical Kenwood winery, taught several classes and have come to really know who I am as a writer–

6:42, I mean ‘3’, and a sax goes wild on this track, “Starting Over” by Hutcherson. Now a trumpet. All I do has to be jazz, jazzy, jazzed, I need be always jazzed, and show the readers that everything’s music to me, all this from the wine to the teaching and it can be unplanned, in fact that’s where the real ART and expression is.. where you settle on a voice, an identity, or at least know you need to keep the Road extending ever!
Over 1400 words, but can’t post, not yet.. have more to record but it hasn’t happened yet, want to take a couple notes in Composition Book, which is hard to find space in these days, so I can expand and build and wander from those jots.
6:47.. here I go, the semester about to close. No going home till after 1B. And keep my adjunct Life developing away from the adjunctness to my form of “part-time” professor which is entirely more than full-time, more than double what full-time brings as an idea and lifeforce or habit. Look at me go, reader…..

1A meeting done, and I’m in the conference room. Definitely need more coffee but there’s something I want to get done first and that’s a couple chores with the blog. […..] One of them just done. Guess I don’t need to worry about ads at the moment. Need to build traffic and advertise my brand, and my voice and Art and wine LIFE.. so done. I lock onto what Mark said yesterday and the other day about ‘purposefulness’. Need more coffee, this adjunct, and more ideas.. in the adjunct office not the library as I early saw for Self.. so done.. coffee in the library and research– or not! I should drive down to Petaluma and work there. Done. The adjunct in his own fire, lovely.. lovely! This last day of term, more revealing and awakening than the past 18 or 19 weeks, for most dimensionality–


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