Posts Tagged With: Music

I know I

should be working on the novel but the Story has thrown me a bit of a curveball, if you would– Nick sending me some information about a place where bloggers/writers may be compensated for content (what an idea!) and Jackie staying home with his writer-father to ensure he gets better and back to his ever-frenzied form. Going through these pictures of IMG_6238wine in glass and the vineyard, the tasting room and my notes even on wines I’ve tasted at the winery and elsewhere, I’m clear what my beat is, not just wine but ‘Wine Language”. And buy such I mean the communicative properties of wine, how it speaks and what its intent is, and what we say in response to wine, how it impacts and stamps our memory. Reading again Kerouac’s ‘Atop and Underwood’ piece “[One Sunday Afternoon in July]” I appreciate his sentiment “My eyes were glued on life./And they were full of tears.”, a reaction to a song, music, music associated with memory and Time and Life and our place in It. Kerouac remembered exactly where he was when he heard that song, the exact point in New York. Just as we remember the setting and Time and mood when we sipped a certain bottle, or walked a certain vineyard block. And that’s why I only stayed at that tasting room on the Healdsburg Square for a couple weeks– it wasn’t on a vineyard, they wanted me to recite from some hokey simplified and non-inventive scripts they wrote (at the fourth-grade level); no stimulation, no push, no curiosity to follow. I was dead there. That’s not wine. At the current estate with whom I’m working and writing about, there is only life, only the constant reiteration wine and the pours and the voice and Time and Literature to wine. It’s own story, and one I want to read. Kerouac later writes, toward the middle of the piece: “…I find myself the brethren of many other poets…what is my next move?” My next move, this writer, can only be with wine, this new winery (Arista, Westside Road in Healdsburg). And to what and to where, I don’t know, and I shouldn’t know, not now. The story will take and tell me, the wines and those Pinot Blocks in front of the tasting room will instruct me what to write while syncopatedly encouraging autonomy. Delicious duality in this wine, this wine scribblers life.

I push the ‘Underwood’ MS to the side, open some of JK’s poems, much of which I can’t understand but enjoy. And that’s more than lovely with me… So much to do today and I only want to write, escape into my wine fantasies, of when I have my own room and pouring out of state at some restaurant or hotel, explaining and showing my story and how the Literature and the Wine formed what they see, taste, hear– All five senses arrested, and that has to happen with what I produce.. so picture: The Cabernet chasm; dark, deep, opaque; you smell the chocolate darkness and espresso whirl and the subtext of charcoal and rich thick moist earth; you taste and feel a texture essentiality you never have, heavy and holistic, softly aggressive; and what you hear, your own thoughts and voice and the elatedness of learning a new character, a new reality; new Newness…


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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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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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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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Day 1 – In Wine

Putting out boxes. This is all a novel I tell myself. Group, 20+, later. Focus on the sale, I order of Self. Speak of wines as I always do, from the Literary angle and with recital tones, the stage posture– my Beat. Speaking of wines as characters and stories and songs. Need espresso, just one shot to have my motion fully molded and motioned; a consistency and constancy today that I’ve never had. This is ALL a novel, novels within novels for one grand novel opus brick of a manuscript, one so heavy I’ll have trouble carrying it to the publisher or store or to a reader’s hands, shaking and tired from pouring for people I’ve never met and will more than likely never meet eyes with again. I’m writing everything down. Everything. Ev. ‘ry. Thing. Write. Write it all. All this wine evidence and the people coming here from wherever and however. Today, this day, my company built in a day, a company started on this wine blog, this Literary attempt to deconstruct wine and assign it new surreality and textualized tonality and temperament. All the day’s notes: Lit & Wine. Focused in and on my work. Making wine a visual argument of sorts, of all sorts and my sorts are in this novel sorted.
13:37, no one. No one at the bar, no one to talk to. I’m bored but not angry as I was yesterday with the overwhelming Omaha Beach-like invasion of the bar, the lush rush as my co-workers call it. But now, I’m bored and annoyed, no wine coming from the bottles, no one sipping and saying the silly shit they say. I’m a novelist with no novel, no fucking pages precipitating. Edgy, irritated, trembling with anxiety.. where are my pages? Me, no, not even a taste, I’m waiting, waiting till there’s someone to taste with, someone to share a deconstruction with, to elucidate that character in the bottle and speak of how wine elevates the admirer’s soul, the sipper’s sense, sensibility, they become sensitive and susceptible to the poetic strokes of this Pinot– I’m not tempted to sip, not even by this ’99 Burgundy, old world, that Lalo brought in, not at all. Is my character changing, ‘cause I’m not sipping? I don’t know yet. But, quite sure it’s front fore.
Close to 5. And I want some wine. No one in room with me, no one, no sippers they all left. I’m not angered by my refrain, but strangely pre-occupied by the novel, this novel in a more worldly book, one that’s a universe to this meek moon. Thinking of a sip. Or three– But I move on and move my thinking to other others. Talking to Lalo today about business models of wineries and how business could be grown and aggrandized. I think about my label, my own wine place and identity bottled and writing about wine– the process, MY process and what I observe each vintage; how the bins look when they’re empty, then filled, then pressed out to barrel, shoveling the skins, or ‘must’. Scribbling notes about the wine I make, again not necessarily how I make it but what I’m thinking while I make my wine and what I see and hear, feel around me– the scene and tanks, barrels, even the yellow jackets. All of it. My wine world paginated with all its dimensionality and diversity; the auditory, tactile, visual, olfactory… What I envision and what I hope for with the product end. But there is no end for a writing winemaker like me, ever. And why would I want there to be?
Right now I write from John Ash not sipping a thing but this water with lemon and imagining myself here as a winemaker talking to other winemakers (they often hang out here with their favored beers or cocktails); I’d meet them here with premeditation, accumulate and scribble secretly more ideas, for the novel and what to do with what’s in ‘bbl’. I try to now listen in on conversations but I can’t pick out a one.. I focus on the feel and scene of what’s around me– wine country, the life, the barrels, the crush pad, the stage and stories. And the literature connected. This reminds me of that first chapter of Moveable Feast where Hem talks of the café with indignation and praise concurrent. I only laud what’s at all sides mine; my speech manipulated as I fear the bottom of page. I don’t want to hit any bottom, or see any flat, nothing plain, no plain’s flatness and crazying infinity. I want those higher atmosphere slices and sights. In wine– Dreams, aims, sights, views– share this with the students, be a student myself again. OF wine. What it is and what it embodies, what it does to the moment and gathering, the conversation and story, like last night at Jason’s watching the fight, me beginning with the single-vineyard project, sipping slow, then ending the eve with that odd red blend. IT was all around and about and acclimated to wine. Wine! And OF wine. Of Literature, the story, this novel; the theory of writing and writing about it, and if not wine then anything one’s in love with; the actual, and conceptual, the dreams and the dreaming.

Home, and I have a, or ‘the’, last glass of the McCrostie Pinot, here in the nook thinking about the novel and how my son already loves his books and fights with us before bed to stay up later to read his favored MSS. Good for him, I think. And good for the people coming into the tasting Room, finding new wine loves, new characters and stories, new interpretations of Pinot or Chardonnay, or Zin, and walking away with bottles, giving the glass’d contents a security in their respective domiciles. And that’s what wine is, in many perspectives and confessions, a place, or sense of.. new story, and this story, the novel, this new manuscript and day and stage of the writer’s life, with this new house and this new vintage and the poems in my prose. I find myself confused now, thinking about ME making wine and my sister and the character based on my sister– posted something earlier to the blog that I want to re-write and re-re-write and write again over till the original sketch is never again detected. OH the day, the new me and the new novel.. would love to have more wine but I need to keep writing, and thinking about how harvest is not just ‘around the corner’ but just down the block, it’s here and waiting to be recorded by a novelist, and the novelist has to make wine contemporaneously to understand his subject– I don’t have to go to fucking UC Davis, and conventional education with wine is not always, and manytimes never the answer. Look at my brother, KAZ. He taught himself how to make wine, he conducted his own research and had his own experiments, and here he is, respected and with his own projects and manuscripts and story, one that I will never be able to hold eminence over or even alongside.

9:45, and I’m beginning to tire. Wine done, but the wine fascinations won’t go away.. ha, funny how They used to tell me to sell a fucking fantasy but I see now that I can live it and sell it in my own way sincerely and now have to conveniently contort it, I can be honest and just talk about my bottles with heartfelt avidity. But I can tire from my ardor, and that’s what’s happening, but it won’t be like this for all days mine– soon I’ll have my office and a place where I can retire and retreat to to write my fiction, and pile more novels and maybe all won’t be bloody ‘best-sellers’ but I don’t care, no, I only want to live from the pages and I have to have those page circulated and baptized in wine, the fermented and the cared-for fruit that enables the story and the characters and bring the guests to the room, making it not empty and me energized and not disenchanted. And this I’m very much obstinately averring, as I have to– The wine depends on my staunchly trenchant penchant for the wild scribbles following a sip.
I wonder how many I know outside the wine and “academic” shiftings write as I do, how many are over a thousand words for the day, how many want a novel, how many have a subject or topic or loose aim, or the keys at their beck? Am I unctioning Self in what holy vacation begets? No! I’m just wondering, and I’m telling my Self not to be so hard on the writer– oh why have you not left the TR yet and why aren’t you on the Road yet and why why WHY? Don’t worry about it, I tell myself.. ‘Mañana, mañana.. tonight we don’t worry…..’

REWRITE OF EARLIER SKETCH: “Percentage Onlyness” — Krystal skipped about blocks with thinly rich alacrity and keenness. She found herself caught by her own preoccupation. What augmented tones and angularity would the vintage carve, she thought. The Chardonnay couldn’t be done the same, she thought, even if those marketing louts thought that it just had to be done, what did they know, working from their cubes and with their spreadsheets and highlighters and red pens? The shift, explosively summoned by the currency, the Now, the all and the call around her. She saw the flowering and could only wait and count and plan and not care what they would throw at her, like that question, “What did you do to the blend?”

The laptop attacks me and become accusing with what I type and how I am and how I want to type fast.. “You’re too sensitive,” I can just hear it saying. “Wow,” I rile, “how perceptive, you’re calling the writer ‘sensitive’, brilliant.. again, how perceptive!” Time for bed. I need to have an enriching sleep so I have no time for this nagging, this negativity from the laptop; bloody device, negative repeater.. I see strength in my repetition and my redundancy and my usage of singular words; their own worlds and expansion invites. To bed, and I’ll try to sleep but I know I’ll only think of the novel, the pages, the wine and what I noted at Ash, to my water. Tomorrow I’ll taste through everything, and note all the stories and voices. Just as I did with that ’12 Dry Creek Zin.

Watching footage on news of the Nepal quake.. I couldn’t cover that, journal it as a journalist and be objective.. how could anyone? Too much hovering over and in and firing at my layered reasoning. But the layers aren’t reasonable, not all of them. I’ll find reason, and be reasonable tomorrow. In wine, wines.


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Vintaged Mood Mud

Clocking in late, 9:51.. rough morning with little Kerouac and his unwillingness to go to school, get ready, just being defiant to I believe see how I’d react.. but I’m here now with my head in a million places with Ross’ funeral tomorrow, the move, packing, getting all the documents for the loan, me calling in classes today. Wouldn’t say there’s IMG_5348tremendous guilt, but a little, and a little, as they say, goes quite a long way. So I dive, headfirst, olympianly, into the coffee. Was going to write at SBUX but decided no, the people just annoy me, and then the library but then I saw myself only being frustrated while there– BUT WAIT!! There were some books I wanted to rent.. maybe.. no. I need to stay put, here on couch and type. Jazz to be activated in a minute, and in such artful spirit I also need to visit some wine spot today, for my ‘Mock Somm’ series.. listening now to KCSM jazz online, wouldn’t have anything else frankly– this tune, not sure name, doesn’t display on website, but it motivates me and understands my mood, with the blues suggestion and slow New Orleans-esque pacing. Lovely. Again, just what the writer needs in and on a rough morning like this. Papers from yesterday, right.. and I think about the adjunct life and world and role, and how it, IT itself, may drive me away, and if not away then toward another FT attempt in wine, that bridge to my own label and wine-oriented outfit. Wine, always sharing a story, something expressive; some voice, there’s no criticism like with that greasy pig full-timer that slighted my writing and teaching and me, and at Mendocino College no less– no, wine is that sensory embrace that reassures you, brings you to a certain Reflective Equilibrium, leave you pleasurably pensive; spellbinds, find, sings in its own individualized chimes. The adjunct world, and Education collectively, notably at the JC level, and Univ’, seems to contradict, convolute and corrupt all it professes to endorse and support.
Jazz, wine, more closely linked that the classroom, teaching and real writing, real expression. Wine encourages; wine IS jazz.. more than poetry but a colorful Humanness that I can’t stay away from, it’s own auditory opiate– I want everything from this day forward to be jazz, in my Life.. everything is jazz and poetry and wine. LIFE. No struggle and if there is there’s victory and sight in the struggle.. so I write like I’m making sense and not at the same time– jazz, as I said. MY morning suddenly begins an incandescent insinuation about everything around me, and what I’m about. So my story has a new chapter and song.
Driving Jack to meet his grandmother, Cathy, somewhere between here and Monterey. More than likely in the city. Should I take a detour, do something new, find some Newness, that Beat time that she wrote about.. write by the wharf? I’m thinking too much, and all the clutter around me doesn’t help, the move, crunching my consciousness like frail dirt clusters under a determined tractor tire. Keep moving, you’re on stage, wine wine wine– The thought and alchemy to the reality ahead of me, what I want.. Eddie’s story. I’m soon to be there, I know, on the Road writing and talking about writing and wine and California, not so much how to write but certain ideas I have for starting a project (where my adjunct years will serve me). Not that I don’t want to teach, I just don’t want to be in this context, but that too I’ve written already. I’m tired of the consistency and the perpetual presence of certain certainties and realities.. I want the Newness.. the randomness, the not-ever-expected. And quite and noise, just like the breaks of this current track..
Blogging, not exactly how I want to do it, but I have to now, and it’s instant, as Amber said.. what she does now in India, what she writes or blogs or sees I can only imaging, but that’s that Newness! Experienced by one of my students; she’s passed me, ardently, admirably. I want too to walk those streets and smell what she does there and talk to those characters, drink that beer she mentioned, and just write in some kind of NEW. When, though? I have to ask. Humans always want the stew of stimuli to stream, especially us, the real writers. Not the people that post to a blog everysooften and say in passing, to people at a party or meeting new people in a tasting room, “I’m a writer,” or “I write.” Really? I always want to say, “How much?” “Oh, every few days or so,” they’d say, and I’ve heard this reaction, I have! Not saying I’m a better writer or person, but much a more frequent and serious penner than this character. I’m losing you and myself, but that’s what jazz does sometimes. Where’s my word journal, the little Paris book that Mom got in my city, for me? Shit.. kitchen? Upstairs? This house is a mess, and I doubt anyone’s reading still, I’m exhausted by this prose as well, but it’s truth and my Now and the room I’m in, the mood that has me, or rather had me.
2:30 or 2:45, have to get Kerouac. Then driving south, to wherever.. lunch, what to have? More writing? Sure.. reading, have to dive into my five MSS I promised to read. And that’s another facet to teaching English at the JC, or at all: you can’t read! Papers, yes, but not the books you wish. Robbery, the “profession” pummels us into stoic simplicity, and I’m tired of it. That’s not jazz, not Art, not Lit. And not wine. Wine wouldn’t do that to me, and doesn’t. I know, my relationship with wine is lovehate, I agree, but it doesn’t abuse me like the adjunct world. Why would I keep going? What would I be if I taught HS English? Failed, in certain strain. So, no.. I know me, and I wouldn’t be happy, or alive even.

And a note: job titles; they’re ridiculous. Do centralizing, and not in a beneficial way. And the title THEY determine, they decide what you’re called. And yes my mood’s back.. I need to keep moving, go get some more coffee.. the mocha I bought this morning from that barista, or brewer, or whatever she’d be called is plebeian and limp. My job title: what do I want it to be? I mean I guess I need one, so what, WHAT, what is it? Writer. And if someone asked me a couple years or maybe months (me being optimistic) down the TimeRoad, what do you do? I’ll say, “Write.” “Write what?” “A blog.” “About what?” At this point I’m thinking, “What the fuck? Why all the questions? What are my answers going to do for you?” But, being the mature “professional”, I’d respond “Life.” I write about Life. Yes, the dominant topic is being an adjunct, and wine, and writing, being a dad, and running as well.. so, why couldn’t I say ‘life’? Over thinking, and I blame the jazz, the crazy baritone sax that competes with the frenzied drumming, and the string bass, not sure if it’s a cello or.. but I’m trying to keep up. And the morning’s back on my side, no more mood, no worry, I’m not letting any anchors into my sight or senses this morning. I have toughen, and I will, have with this entry, with these tracks. So… what wine place to visit? No sipping, just smelling, and okay maybe a couple spits, but that’s it.. then coffee after, more coffee for the writer, and no planning! That too adds to this writer’s stress. Just live and write and play like this sax. Song title doesn’t matter, just like a job title. It’s jazz, it’s music, ART, and I love what it does to me. To the kitchen for some coffee, then some thinking, just listen to the sequence, this playlist, and think. No writing. Not now. Just live, note in Comp Book if you need.

Just noticed there’s a lot of blame in my writing. I blame my moods…..


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3/30/15 journal

Had to break from novel writing.  Already on page two of day’s 3 pages, or 3+pages.. mood low from the matter with Uncle Ross, and I can’t shed it, nearly tearing while dropping off little Kerouac at school, thinking to myself ‘What if something happened to me and he was left alone, and Alice was left alone?’ But then I toughened, hardened, that will nowhere me get.. so I sit on the couch, timing myself 55 minutes to write–now 52–and on with my day.  If today’s slow, then I’ll write the rest of the day’s requirement behind the counter, or at one of those chairs on the porch, hoping the mosquitos don’t completely chow on my shell.

And the mood remains, the pessimism, the observation of Time and Life and how both can deliver merciless manuscripts to us all and just move on, move on like we don’t matter.  The coffee’s not helping with my state so jazz then, the play the music the notes.. the lovely lawlessness of it all.

Researching the adjunct matter more, I realize I don’t want to be swallowed by it, that.. THEM!  Life is far too brief for that.. and do I want that to be my battle?  I’d rather wage war on publishers through my blogs and self– SELF-printings, than wait for some bloody measure to pass or some law to be approved, or some sort of recognition that finally shows and understands that we deserve more money.  And benefits.. yeah, almost forgot about that part of the picket.  NO,  I want Art.. I want LIFE.. family.. WELLNESS, as my new writer friend Phoebe addresses in her work.  Still haven’t heard from her and I don’t blame, no, she’s on assignment, doing what I hope to be– or rather, where I want to be in my writing and blogging career.. I’m writing, I’m always writing, but I want to be away from the adjunct noose and the having to have a part-time wine position.  And I LOVE Arista, like I never have a winery, not even St. Francis.. but I don’t want to have to be there, don’t want the obligation and the chain and the schedule– demand, be THERE or else!  No, not for the writer.  This morning.. and mornings are a major consistency in the Massamen novel.. I’m understanding the value of a morning; how it starts, sets tone (cliché I know), initiates and establishes tempo, to use jazz terminology; play with pace and tonality, chord combinations and whatever else I think of in the moment.  The schedule isn’t for me.  And the Adjunct War evolves, into a total attack on that reality I could select but choose to dismiss.  The more I read about them, adjuncts, the more pathetic it all is; why put yourself in that position?  And if you do, why not make it work for you?  I’m turning my back, on everything of that folding and I make it MINE.  I’ll keep my teaching blog very much alive as that will be my classroom and how I “educate”– or better, exchange ideas on everything from notions of the Road, to Kerouac himself, to Theory, to punctuational conventions and how there’s more Art in the shunning of and– just wait, just wait.

And now the coffee works, and works well.  Now, a sax, doing what it wants over the drums and piano (“Theme for Maxine”, Woody Shaw).  This is me, this jazz and the mood it creates– I deny death anything, any presence close to me.  Re-reading my drunken prose which I partially hate and a bit adore as it was honest and more music than most of my paragraphs of late.  I just love this morning now, and no that doesn’t indicate any manic mentality, or maybe it does, but either way it’s truth, THE truth about today and me as a writer and the life around me.  And notice.. no adjunct nonsense, none of it– the Adjunct War: how I fight is to not fight (Kerouac embrace of passive resistance), and yes I will win, technically, I can only, right?

Balance my character and prose and the novel will just happen, the Massamen story about not just adjunct nonsense, more, more than the expected and what’s always being written by adjuncts.  And it’s not me trying to find myself– I already know who and WHAT I am, simple, a writer.  And the coffee’s speaking to me with a volume that it sometimes does when it’s angry with me, my mood, but it won, I’ve changed in my scope and attitude this morning– and there, like that, I have a memory of the last winery, there full-time, more than merely miserable, always being barked at for something.  But no more of that either!  In my Wellness, there will be NO authority over me, EVER!  The key to being Beat is that you dance to your own, establish your own tempo and are sovereign in all thinking and action; and Create from that flight, that aloftness you capture.  And just now, nearly 36, I capture it, I have it and am playing with it.  That’s how I want Jack to see me, my little boy, as a father free from Authority and any devil wanting me to be content with impoverishing wage.  These adjuncts do it to themselves, partially.  I mean, why stand for that?  Well then you could say, they don’t, they assemble, they become active.  Okay, I respond, and how’s that going?  Get creative, I argue!  Scribe your own set of convictions!

Still over 20 minutes for my SELF.  This morning meditation.  LIFE, I say, LIFE.. ignore Death.  Laugh at it.  It takes people from us, but not the impression they left; not the love and closeness we felt.  Death is only part of the rotation, something plain and obligatory and one-dimensional.  I feel sorry for Death, frankly.  It’ll certainly never win against Artists like me.  Huh, now I run out of anything– words thoughts meditation and sight.

More to do.


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Sq 4

Slammed, no care,
leave, draw, more
color, or others, or
once the wine finds
my aorta, then
my song will
be in a speaker, or
million, million-ing, vision and
image, a prism
from pittance


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Dodging Front

a shoe, stepping on concrete that

waits for rain, something someday, needed,

but then the clouds leave, find more attractive

flats, and the shoes are thankful but at a loss,

and so am I, what is this?


Categories: poems, songs | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

No Why Of

am i trying to be correct in my planning, my
maturity if i even believe in that
hard to say but i have to at a certain point, i know
not a high or low, just slow, immeasurable pull
no team or advisory, on own but cliff looking at tree, that
cyprus meant to garnish sea view,
overlooking my notes and what i recorded and wondering
if i did it right
but that depends on who you ask, and who would you ask
the supervisor? nothing super about him, he
doesn’t like me cuz i talk, cuz i question, and there it is in my
truth pot, the table not yet served, i sit to gather self and order more
coffee probably don’t need it but this isnt manic, i dont think, but im not a
doctor or even a professional, the professional they want me to be, im just
a word wrangler, and im inchief as they say, so official, im in office, and
bobbing head with what the xylophone does, following the snare, my snare
as i stare into the smoke over the small crowd in this free hut–
not sure if its simplicity or if i some urge to
complicate and overcomplicate, so maybe its not them, not
them at all, maybe im imagining them, the clock, the obligation and
the schedule, i have to be there, that’s mature, maturity, maybe
we’re all imaging that–
return to the burn, the purifying waves of flame that come from the midday
into the notebook intel spell, attempt, no contact from me after, just silent
i spoke too loud and here i am, whoops, without
but im better, so much better, i should thank them for the paper work, release, out,
of a certain cell, look at me, seriously look. at. me.
no suffer, suffrage and suffer age, put my temper in the fridge, or freezer, thaw it
and what do i get:
sense, a chorus, words ive never sung– bong blong ting ting–
new jazz in a new life in a new street and new calendar square, dirty hands
but that’s art, voice or something like that
new extremity, so now they
call me an extremist, rabblerousing roarer
but as my songs on plays i sway on something
sharper, and my You’s a renewed ME–
landscape to escape or just remain, im
too mobile and manic to anything mold,
im told, complexing
and complication, what now, what now!

Colors circling and I get tads in dizzy,
More vision, though, there’s more
Trust me.
But I don’t trust me so I’m a hyperhypocrite, listening to
two idiots in front of me in this
cafe talk about philosophy and amoebas and followings
and Asia, and standards– oh they know so much,
and I just stare at the shade, the tinted blends on the wall, smell
espresso or biscotti
or maybe that’s just the wind outside– oh so now they talk about Shake
speare. they know so much!
Please tell me I’m not one of them, I’m not of their hem!
Lean into my keys and feel please but I’m around two pseudos,
send me to Peru, or Pluto!
I thought I was manic, you should hear this guy!
I’m annoyed, about to feel my patience fry.
Concentrate on what I have to do, focus I
tell myself but I’m a bad coach and now the younger gives the
excuse that he has to get to a haircut, he doesn’t
want to listen to him anymore and neither do I and
now that the younger has left I don’t have to– praises!
To the moment and to the oddness, now come curious pauses..
Does this happen to you, when you have days off? Oh, but this
usually is a work day, but not anymore, not anymore,
more than anything I have songs to bring, new life and
new me and some trumpets and snare, event

just notes on sounds, the espresso machines, fruffmmm and
shaaaaaaaahg, repeated.
ugh, now more talkers, ladies at table two over
left and they talk about days off they need or one of them
does– oh no, she’s talking about an
employee, she’s management, enemy, turn
that espresso machine back on!
Bring that younger back in here!
She’s one of them! One of the
clock lovers, one of those bots that make
my case lowered, ‘I’ to ‘i’–
can I go? Sure I can, I have the day, no noose, bless
ing, no dis
guise, look at my eyes, both, you see a sky and a lake of intent, or at least I
a guy wipes the counter, a tall guy walks in (he works here), and I just write, and sing to
myself cuz I love my voice, I’m no different that this amoeba philosophy guy
i need some advise, and a teamish tone
let’s see what I can draw, but I’m gone
and the shop wants me to go to, go out there,
enjoy your day,
you’re free, swinging in and
out of any
sea, no edit or controls I start to shiver
but then I’m enclosed, in love, set, and I
know why


Categories: No Why Of, WHOSO MAGAZINE | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

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