Posts Tagged With: Music

So whole writing in my parents’ house,

late, 11:37 with nightcap, listening to Delilah by Hutcherson.  Relaxing, and something that Mom said to me tonight ripples in my character, about removing self, and if not removing completely then taking a break as I mentioned earlier, and what Dad said about not always answering to impulse, to monitor my reactive behavior, not always jump when you feel the urge.  After this entry I’m for the day done, going to relax, sip the remainder of this Racer and think about the day, me on the back bar with the couple I met at K—-, when he proposed to her on the mountain, and me holding the camera/phone IMG_7048like a fool, just observing.  But today we sipped a bit together, celebrating our reunion and talking again and remembering that time, on the mountain– and the others, the reactions to the Pinots, and the Zin, what they all said with me outside at that back bar, by the lawn, with the view of Mount St. Helena–  Relieved I decided to stay here at the Mountain Hawk base, just thinking about the wines and how people reacted to them, how they swirled it in their glasses and just watched the wine do its revolution, they look at each other, the day, the wine, that group of 4, their kids and the wind over those little infant scalps, them quixotic in and out of micro-naps.

Tired but I have to reach 500 words, make it to or near 3,000 words for day.  Tomorrow, wake early, don’t forget leftovers from Mom in fridge (which I’m sure I will.. watch.. I’ll wake tomorrow and speed out the door and to Starbucks so quickly that I’ll just forget, not cuz I want to, but because that’s me, the sped writer always with something, something in cue and something to do–)

I’ll set the alarm for 5:30, rise and then to the Road.  And tomorrow, meticulous with everything, like Dad, showing me much about how I provide quotes for mmc clients… sent another tonight, and I hope for the best but who knows I’m just trying to do something I never have and have it pay and learn something new about my presence as a writer and how I.. how I…..

I keep writing, and look at pictures from day.. not much new, only the Zin I tried here, with Mom and Dad, from Columbia Valley, 2012.  There just wasn’t much there, not much impression or impact; texture lacked as did the overall rhetoric of the wine–

But I don’t slow, I run the trails in Sunriver, then come back to write, talk to myself about writing aims and projects, open a bottle of some Cab from AV or Howell.. I enjoy the quiet, and the jazz, and the snow outside.  Have to fly back in a couple days, but in the time now between I’m entrenched to ebb about ten short stories, written over 24-36 hours or maybe less depending on how much coffee I collude–  A crepuscular code of sorts, seeing new days and new Beats and new jazz syncopations– reborn, you might say.


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track 3

So muh to do in just a needletip of time

and why cuz I have to

have to work and stay focused on the clock

pen moving back and forh

notes to self, see if I ever check them again

and again, but wait is it dinner time?

doesn’t matter cuz I can’t eat, this is a show,

a repeat, no treat, just a retreat

poems haunting me like some

random café song. joust with

my senses and inhibitions and life and res

ponsibilities — staves of a barrel on a seat, i

sit and drink the merlot but it

feels wrong, singing and calling from the

train and its tracks, remind.


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MOCK SOMM: Handley Cellars, Anderson Valley, Pinot Noir, 2012

IMG_6979Not at all coy with its confident composition– cherry and some plum-esque suggestion coupled with ripe earth and softly-sequenced black spice– but again I find a Pinot far beyond the simplification and convenience of descriptors or some obscure adjectives.  I’m with that Literary shape of Pinot that loves its dance and its beat and the valley it calls home, most notably shown in its finish– chocolate chant and cherubic chime.  Everyone knows I love Pinot and that I follow it and when I find one I love I become childlike.  And now I’m childlike, again, but more than I was with the last Pinot I tilted into my talking, whatever it was…  This glass’ song folds my introspective bend to something which screams for more connectedness to Pinot, but also warns me that most of them aren’t this coherent and convincing.  Cummings said that “Kisses are a better fate than wisdom.” This Pinot kisses over, over, over and places me in reflective maelstrom, spinning till I can only hope to land for another kiss.

Gentle put persistent texture and a terrific turbulence about the concluding curves to the wine’s IMG_6980measures.  And that has to be the winemaker’s love for 2012, and Pinot, and Anderson Valley, and all stories connected to narrative wines like this– I’m bedazzled by how the oxygen just pushes more from the glass, a step-by-step calculation of the wine itself, taking on cognitive actions and orations of its own– this is what makes it obvious, convex and complicated.

You might read this and think, “So Mike just writes about wine and drinks it and drinks more and that makes it easier to write.” At times, maybe, but not with this wine.  It’s codified and inviting; defensive and seductive; sealed lips, but still eager for kiss next.  I’m challenged by this evasive dark dancer, and I follow her.  Wherever.  A coherent contradiction.  And that’s why it lasts and echoes and has the tremolo’d traipse about my IMG_6981Now.  And my fate, better than any sagacity, or kiss– it’s this, this moment, the standalone second about how I scribble and sip, and sip…..  Tomorrow I’ll fall or roll or stumble from the sheets thinking about that color, the darker-than-I-estimated shade of Burgundian beatific syncopation.  I hear and taste the music again, carry it with me through the day, and I thank my favorite AV winery, and know I need to get back up there, someday, when I’m not writing.  All wine writers or critics should write about wines they love to this extremity.  “No you have to be objective,” says some wine mag galoot.  But I don’t care, proud and posted in my partiality.  Corking the bottle, sad as I sit, like that last kiss on a date, only to drive home remembering the meeting over, over…  So I write a letter as soon as I’m home, to Pinot, to Handley, to AV, to anyone who’s had a wine like this.  And hope I hear back.  And if I don’t… then… then……..

I sip, write, imagine the kiss.  Again, again…



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MOCK SOMM: Scherrer Winery, Sonoma County, Grenache, 2012

IMG_6783Some would throw at me, “How much liveliness can you expect from a Grenache?” I understand, am with your angst, I didn’t expect this much persuasive quality either.  In the introduction of palate, you’re greeted by rich, believable, animated fruit and coupled with a concise and softened spice, abiding the texture which I had to sip repeatedly to fully embrace and conceptualize.  One word for this bottle: dulcet.  Certainly a musical revolution and ambrosial arrangement that demands the fixation of senses all.  And with its phenolic entrenchment, it’ll go for years.  Who knows how many.  This writer won’t wait on his, as I was so smitten and stuck in its song, I’m coerced and intellectually reimbursed to again tilt glass–  poetry and speed and slow seduction, a delicious and pivotal dichotomy of rhythm and recital, talking to me and telling the free-spirited Beat in me to keep sipping and sit on the porch and watch life pass, don’t worry, Grenache is meant to be light, swaying and sent in song–  In its truth, it tells you to again sip, and notice how it evolves and changes its instrumentation of flavor bestowal– cherry now, and light reverberant strawberry.  And there, with sip three, or five, I have total enveloping symphony, a euphonious consonance of varying flavor and essence suggestion.

This is not merely a matter of being impressed by a wine or the varietal or the winemaker’s IMG_6784interpretation thereof; it’s what the wine said to me: “This is life, what you sip.  I…  Am. Life.”  And I don’t contest, at all.  And to the skeptics of Grenache, you need this bottle meet!  Be taught something.  Be humbled.  Be bewitched.  Learn something about your “palate” and how you see wine before you again say something about the light but loud Rhône.  Another step lift, and again, I’m taught.  Sip sip……..



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A Breath, Please

IMG_6851Early, rushing and moving as quick as this non-caffeinated vessel will let.  Drop Kerouac off at school, then to Starbucks to finally kill these mind-deadening articles…  Then hopefully I can run.  Meeting Alice here in home at One for lunch.. then after that to grading, to campus.. if I can finish these articles quick I can just launch from Yulupa & Bethards as I used to.  And I plan to head to Howarth, a run as I used to– this morning I’ve only been thinking about the blogging, and the writing I’m doing for these sites.. not sure it’s quite what I’m looking for or at all what I enjoy, and it’s not– why, the formatting, the rules, the handbook they emailed me on how to write the way they want us to write .. AND, the articles aren’t credited, my name will be nowhere around the article.  Just a contracted word generation.. Kerouac would have never done something like that.  Nor Ginsburg, Hem, Faulkner.. I’m Literary, and I’m tired of seeing myself tempted by wine and food and tourism edges and the way you have to write to be paid by one of the pubs.  Which isn’t much.

Writing a MOCK SOMM piece today.  And no more delay–  clock screams 7:43.. should get the little Beat out the door.

Need a day.


Just one to live and do nothing.

Not even write.

But I’m not sure I’ll let myself do that.

Maybe I should.

In the SBUX on Yulupa & Beth.  Had to go back to A-Walk as I forgot little Kerouac’s blankets and changes of clothes.  So I arrive here ready for work, ready to make the adjustments and edits to those numbskull articles I “wrote”.  Go into WordPress, can’t find two of the drafts, and one has already been edited.  The rhythm of ‘things’ and the general pattern of communication isn’t conducive to anything Literary.  This morning my old friend, who now lives in Colorado, sent me an article of a guy who’s on some mission to write 100 novels.  And the act itself is some grand project he’s undertaking and sharing with the world.  And I read that and feel ashamed with this kind of writing, or the kind for the sites, I mean.  I should aim higher, and not settle for this assignment or ones like it– shouldn’t say that, I didn’t, I thought it would be something it’s clearly not.

Emailed editor, or contact to see what the status is and what the hell’s happening.  Nothing back yet.  This is just what I don’t want nor need for the day.  Still nothing.. why do I let myself get into these stressful pickles?  You know what, to hell with her.  I’m writing for me.  I will not have my day or my blog or my efforts revolve around her or her pigeon-brained website.  How’s that.

Still nothing.  Going to stop checking, shortly.  Had the idea of– don’t want to jinx it.  I know what it is, I don’t need to record it here for fears of losing the vision or measure for myself–  Back to the 3pagesperday ideology.  I’ll start in a minute– now that’s real writing, true expression and the only bloody thing I should be doing.  Why waste writing for someone else?  Especially if my name will be NOWHERE around the piece that they butchered, and that evokes no thought or emotion or trouble or trial; not thought, no interpretation, no dialogue, no character development.. nothing!  Just that a tourist goes to a winery or hotel and spends money, contributes to the economy, or the owner’s pocketbook.. evil editors and their knives, their minds and mouths– draconian slurs…

Wine.. more and more on my thinking platter, how to work with it and that I don’t want to take the SOMM courses I looked into yesterday.  And why did I capitalize that?  They don’t deserve the emphasis.. and frankly, even the somms I do like or don’t mind being around have that beat to them, the one that wants to outshine and oneup everything everyone else does.  And I don’t want to be part of that.. I just want to write about it, about the wine and how its made and the winemakers and the spells in a bottle, like the Pinot I finished last night; thick but still gentle and convivial, open and caring; communicative and colorful.  Nothing esoteric or elitist with its riffs; just inviting and playful, fun and entertaining, frankly.

Heard back from editor, told me “the ball is moving on” and that she’s going to do the edits.  So no work for me on that plain.  Part of me’s frustrated, the other quite relieved– if you could see me now reader: me smiling, listening to my music, drinking my mocha, and I have over 2 hours to write, finish my three pages.. sell them.  And I will.  I will send them by email from my vinolit address and charge $2 for a three page read.  And the focus will be fiction.  Each piece its own standalone, its own piece, I will be in control and not have to be edited or checked or conforming to some fucking manual.. and MANUAL!  On HOW to write!  Who the f……. ever heard of such a bloody trudge?

My students would be proud of me, here, now vicious and animalistic, a page predator, devouring editors, and leaving their carcasses for other writers.. or we’d just toss them to the side and look for the next manuscript mutilator to tear, consume, dispose.  Nothing outside Literature and the narrative I’m intent on writing.. nothing.. not at this age, not with Jack and M2, my wife, my family– Mom making sure I get enough sleep even at 36, Dad with his never-depleted knowledge stream.. my sister the winemaking mentor for the writer/wanna-be oenologist–  Lectures.. tonight’s, written out and distributed to the students, telling them that it all must be embraced.. the net must be cast, take something that means something to you..

Have to use the restroom but I don’t want to lose my seat–

Started again chipping away at a short story I started yesterday in the adjunct cell… about two students, together romantically and working together on a Philosophy project, or presentation, and one of them, the narrator, wondering what happens after this, this being school, the project and the class.. the what the what the WHAT.

This café this morning, telling me to forget about that blog, and to make sure those vile bilebags pay IMG_6849me!  I will be invoicing them later, and I have more ideas on my approach to food & wine, and the wine blog and wine itself.. my wine thoughts.. so many ideas.. oh and now I’m hit with another idea for the short story.. how to market it and what the characters are meant to do.. the music tells me to keep writing and not end the sentence and to make a dent on the novel today if I find time, yes I will but after lunch with Alice, after I get the sandwiches from Oliver’s.. oh what a morning, I’m so relieved that cubicle whore editor took the pieces away from me.  But I will be paid.  Should have demanded the money upfront– next time.  Don’t punish yourself, Mikey, just write on and don’t stop.. writing the wine how it wants to be written, not how a publisher wants to.. Kerouac saw editing as lying.  So, hmm, that would make editors, this one and all like her, demons, the devil, evil and soul-stripping.

But I move on and rise above, fly past and grow onward in my story.  This current song has me relaxing, looking at the time on my laptop and it dialing ’10:07’ and I don’t worry or  stress or fret or become tight in my figure or flex, I just relax, see the hotels I will see and the writing I’ll do from the balcony, thinking about how joyous Jack’s expression will be when I return from my trip.  And there I go.. daydreaming…..  Time to leave this deluge of narration and thought, my moment, and get to work, on something I actually want to write, the short story about the two students and what’s for them just beyond their final project in the Philosophy class, and what’s for them later, later in life, when they ‘grow up’.  And then I wonder, what’s for me, what’s for me and can I ever grow up?  Why do I HAVE to be a writer?  Cuz it’s who I am, not just what I do or what to do– no fuck that, I don’t want to do it, I already do, several thousand words a week, sometimes a day.  Yes I treat it like a job as I want my children to see it as my job, “My daddy writes,” or “He’s a writer.” When asked what he does.  It’s that simple.  He writes.  And teaches.  A little.  But the roof comes from pages; novels and stories, the blog, notes… all of it.  Jackie already knows that the laptop is where Daddy works.. makes me grin….. 


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7.23 Miles Later

Finally had a run like I used to, waking before my alarming time of 4:30, launching at 4:45, and actuallyIMG_6824 hitting pavement at 4:47AM, my earliest run ever.  Actually made it to Mendocino Avenue, turning around just after turning left at Mendo & Steele.  My avg was 8:36, total time 1:02:09.  Still can’t believe I did it; thought about races to register for, but they’re pricey, need more money, and quick money, and that’s where the singular pieces will come into play.. the writing I’m doing for the online mags isn’t quick enough, not nearly enough.  I’ll vend these pages the same way bands and musicians and singers do their work. 

Jackie downstairs with me and Alice still upstairs, asleep, as she needs to be.  Want her rested and on this Father’s Day I understand clearly I couldn’t do any of this alone, none of it; not the run this morning and not the thousand words or 3 pages a day, not the blogging journalism, none of it without her.

Or without coffee.

Need coffee after those 7 miles and I need it fast, should have gone to Safeway yesterday, but I wanted to stay on the schedule, the schedule I designed and had to stick to for this morning.  And I do plan on hitting the cement again tomorrow, but only for 3 miles, and probably right from Jackie’s school, just 3, no more.  As I’m writing always and everyday so the same needeth be with my intervals.  And my relationship with wine, reviewing the bottles I meet and am pulled and pushed by with my poetic pulses– and teaching, teaching, this Summer class into which I’ll put everything I have and share every positive bend and stretch and lean, all of it; for them and their writings and reading and make sure they, too, run.  On page and with their ideas and what they want to try with the material.  I’m seeing now, at 36, what I really am and what I have to do and be.  A writer and blogger, and always moving.  Yes, I’m on the couch as I was in the condo and as little Kerouac enjoys his mornings– a plate of toys paired with a buffet of cartoonage– but this is after 7 miles, over 7 miles.  SEVEN!  When was the last time I ran that much?  Want to do the RAGNAR, run at odd hours, and far, and come home before anyone’s day or any kind of day has started.

I feel like a bull this morning.  A Kodiak, a crocodile, Gorilla, not fearing anything the story has for me or what my character might meet on his Road.  This energy and sight with this morning’s run, racking and siphoning such to my novel, and it’ll be done well before the semester’s closed.  And this is not a hope, this is a clear plan and all I have to do is follow-through, do so, write with my usual speed and one place.

No pain from jaunt to Mendo, not at all; knee left is composed, intact, and fluid; no tightness or that odd ache I experienced a month ago (more, maybe).  I’ll register for one race, at work, and finish the edits demanded for the articles (Napa Hotels, Sonoma Wineries..).  I had the idea yesterday to do similar blog posts for, and paid mind you, for running magazines and blogs, wine, Bay Area life (like SFGate or something similar); and magazines, blogs, on teaching.  Knowing what I’m about as a character, and as I ran back to this Autumn Walk fort, crossing Industrial to where Cleveland becomes Hopper (luckily with a green light, not having to fear the read and look around and some car nearly killing like that 8 mile run a year ago, when Alice was in Monterey..); it came to me, that question “What do you write about?” is actually quite fitting and motivating.  And what do I want to write about?  Parenting and fatherhood, running, health, Wellness, wine, writing.. all I can think of, what I think I’m about right now, here on the couch after 7 miles.  And how do I feel?  Tired, yes, a bit drained and fatigued but– oh, and FRENCH.  Français.  Ma nouvelle langue…..  I’m still writing, or my thoughts are, away and back toward me.  This is just a writer in the morning feeling metaphysically stratospheric.  Is it healthy, contributing to my Wellness and Personhood.. only has to.  And I don’t need coffee, reader.  Not now.  I might later, or I can assure you I will, but now I’m just with what I felt when I ran up San Miguel in the dark.

Just looked at the clock, on laptop, and only 6:35.  Wow, I think, thinking of all I could write today with this energy if I didn’t have to be in the tasting room.. but I want to be.. I want to combat house palate and look further into the wines and what they say and how they want me to write– then I think more about my blogging, and a business plan.. the areas or subjects I’ll attack and market to.  But running will most purposefully be a dominant consistency in my blogging practice..

Last night a no-wine night, may make tonight the same, if not for running early then writing early, and these early Sunday runs will definitely now be a ‘thing’ with me.  An “elite runner”, could I ever be one?  Well that means I’d definitely have to do a marathon or maybe even one of those crazy 50-mile runs.  Again I think of that guy that came into the tasting room at K—-, the guy who was if I remember right 54 and just did one of those crazy ultraruns.

I want to be that.

I want my son to have that as a father.

And my students to have that as their professor.  Or Instructor.  Teacher.  Whatever they want to call me this semester.


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Handed To

IMG_6721Set my alarm on phone and left phone in study area.. ran downstairs at 4:30 only to turn it off, but now my body’s aware of the Newness, my new dedication to running, or that the thoughts want the pavement earlier.  So tonight, another nowinenight and early rising for the running I have to do, that I HAVE to do.  7:25 and Jackie’s dressed and I’m eating his waffles.  Lawn watered and we are both launch-ready.  At the BV SBUX I’ll start and finish and post the MOCK SOMM piece on that last Pinot I had, at work, then hopefully put a thousand into novel, then write a little more in the work log for the novel– I won’t forget about my book, ever, and I need to keep my Wild Writing about Wine–

Interrupted by Jack demanding to sit at the kitchen counter with me, we then had to gearswitch and start our march toward the door– life too quick and too much for me sometimes, this, this writing life, and I think I still may be tired from yesterday’s charge at the articles.  Now I wait for feedback.  And the eventual check.  This has to start paying, my sentences and introspective observations which I hope serve either purpose or me selfishly.  So far, so many years later, I–  Man blows his nose here in the Yulupa Starbucks, and I get annoyed.  I may be too annoyed for my novel, now, may still need to write freely, just type and see and sip the coffee and listen to this horrible folk music in the store– earphones in, find me Hutcherson!

There, much better, I’ll be ready for the novel in a bit– now it’s 8:32, I’ll go to Massamen’s days promptly at 9.  The life, the living, the growing up that I’m trying so animalistically to do, taxing..  Look at bank account balance, and further frutstrate.  Need to be a roaming writing, a vending writer, selling everyfuckingthing.  The track I wrote yesterday, a poem, half in the adjunct cell in the last few minutes before class and the rest in class– fever, disease, one student urging, “Teach on, Mike..” Showing them I’m the realest of teachers, the one that actually knows, and does, and practices, no preaching, daily, my routine, my SElf and diligence make me different, the most ferocious writer on the planet, maybe.  And now I start to wake, the coffee, but no wine tonight, have to run in morrow’s cruelest of hours.  Saw two runners on the way here, running up Yulupa, about to turn left onto Hoen toward Summerfield.  My old route.  Do I miss it, a bit, I miss the regularity of my outings and the play with speed, my interval adjustments, and how.. distracted.. someone behind me.. I hate that.. maybe she’s bored.. maybe she’s lonely.. I hope she’s reading this, and she gets her iced coffee and leaves.  “Yeah,” I think to myself, “get the hell out of here!” Standing behind a writer like that.. god I fucking hate that!

A song by Dizzy, taking me back in time, so far I don’t know how to interpret it, way before me, and when my parents were young, or even before them.  Not sure.  But this morning is now being taken by the writer, and the rest of the day, with wine and what I can gather from the Pinots and the Zin, even the Chards, and how they’re changing.  Have to be at the novel soon, and good, good, I read this wine blogs and adjunct professor blogs and I’m starting to feel, well, quite bored with their rants.  And I know, someone out there probably feels the same about my work.  But I’m just doing light research.. like one post I read, recently (actually at the red light on Hoen & Yulupa, headed to this coffee spot), was about how local restaurants are expected to carry local wines.  A bit interesting, as I see the potential professional and/or neighborly quandary, but doesn’t the restaurant have their choice?  Are they not autonomous?  Do they work for the wineries in any way?  And, really, how much am I supposed to think about this?  Dwell on this lack of communication and sword-swinging impasse?

Starting to exhaust from writing, and I blame yesterday, and the articles.. so why should I touch the novel, now?  Maybe I won’t.  I know I have to, and I should, but another yell from me, inner, somewhere, says ‘move along!’ Focus on shorter pieces, the poems and entries and the short fiction café idea.. ideas, like drugs, that craving for Newness, the worst and best of addictions.

How about a plan, I hate plans as a writer but I feel I need one now: after entry: finish track 3 (poem), the a piece of short fiction for the whoso magazine and the short fiction café.. done.  Now I relax.  Oh if I could have the day off today, just not go to that ravishing estate and sit in a café and actually scribble, like a madman, like Kerouac.. so many pages scattered, but now I consolidate and sell them all.  Everything.  And the first piece for sale, or pieces, are the first 3 tracks I wrote, poems, each a standalone to its own.  Listening to that Kerouac recital last night with the students and talking to them about Poetry and actually enjoying teaching again, like I have rarely, lively and engaged with the students and so many of them commenting on my passion and my fire with the words and literature and Kerouac..

8  minutes till I have to shift to other project, whatever I decide.. the track, the poem, recital, sell it, talk it.. walk and fly and worry no–  My Beat starts to increase in speed and I feel everything is music.  Last night we wrote to a Bonobo beat, and everyone was quiet, scribbling, to their page and newly written Self sense.

And I can only, only, be only, only me with this sight and hope of somehow and day being that, that what I see.


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The library. Part of

IMG_6716-0me of course wanted to just fly there as soon as I touched down on campus, just before 4:30, but I needed the quiet of this adjunct hole.  Yes that’s ironic I guess in someway, me resisting the romantic temptation of the library, of course being surrounded by books and students and me feeling more like a scholar and student, but I needed the quiet, time with my words and inner reverberations.  Sipping my sparkling lime water, poison of choice of later in this Summer Term…  Still feel remarkable to write freely, having spent the entire day on those articles.  And the idea of starting a new blog.. no, I thought, “Work with what you have.” A new blog is nowhere to be found in my budget.  And I know right now I should be writing a MOCK SOMM piece.. maybe I will in a minute before preparing for class, but I just wanted to be free, liberated in the characters I punch to page.  And I have it, but I need music– still feel like I feel the caffeine from earlier, or is it the result of the shower, or this water, or just my muffling of the articles, the squelching of their stressing me, my vanquishing of them, and any other thought stressing the writer.  Music cued, and very much aligned with my mood; chilled, echoing, like I’m in some hotel lobby writing, sipping some wine or a glass of sparkling.. sparkling wine, I intend.  And I write on knowing I’m going to have another amazing class this evening. It can only be that way, and only for me, and my story, my Adjunct War– one covert and planned and inthemoment; my own beat and feeling in this shared office, but I share with no one else now; no other adjunct appears to be as desperate as I taking this 6PM 100 section.  But I have not a morsel or even grain of regret.  Not now or ever.  Going to blog the class, write what I’ll say IMG_6718beforehand, starting my types at 5, luminously, and with peculiar voracity.  Now I have to catch up with the words I would have type if I hadn’t checked my goddamn email, on that goddamn phone– so I write for this goddamn blog and I wonder what I would be writing if I were in a hotel right now, and where, let’s say Florida; have always wanted to go, stay in a hotel by the beach, on a relatively elevated floor, and just stare out at the ocean and note singular words and thoughts, sensations of the oceanic grip: soft, salt, heavy air, warmth, hug, breathe, sip, pages blown by this new atmosphere, left, I flip them back right.  I crawl to concentrate, mind going everywhere, but I need be linear in this sitting, and I walk away with what?:  Even more direness to my sittings.  And I’m thinking of wide dissemination, Self-publishing on a level that has never been seen or even thought of; my words, my inscrutable stationing in this moment, imagining what else there is, and how, and when.  The ‘when’ feels like the most essential and awaited portion of my equation, the one I’ve been trying to solve, well.. officially, since I graduated SSU in mid ’01.  Over 14 years ago, and I’m still with my protractor, numbers and measurements and trying over and over to make the solutions seamless.  No.  Not yet.

IMG_67174:49.. taking out the book, readying myself for lecture writing and some direction for tonight’s class.  “And that’s it!” I think to myself, “Direction!” Take the word apart, bit by bit and idea by idea, connected word by connected word.  What does direction do to a character…  Good question, what direction do I have and what is it, or lack of ‘it’, doing to me?  Perceptive stall, so I get nowhere with my thoughts and trying to solve.. was never good at Math, obviously, or even slightly fluent.  I actually have dreams, not so much nightmares.. just unpleasant and angst-angled dreams, of being in a math class, studying or not studying and having a test coming up, one that I didn’t take or maybe did and almost sure I bombed, and worried about my final grade in the class.  But I’m relaxed now.  And like that, like an unexpected storm, or earthquake–the big ONE, the one everyone’s been brought up fearing as a Californian–it hits, slams, pulls and shakes and pushes me to a new idea, but I can’t act too quick I don’t think: a stage play.  Short, maybe 10-15 pages.. but what would that do, I think.  I’m everywhere, this has to be caffeine.. but I finished that mocha well over 2 hours ago.  The water?  Something in the water.. ha ha…..  I don’t know, but I feel something now, just to write and with no constriction and just freely like the novel.  So then yeah… no stage play.  A novel, the Massamen novel, go back to it, tomorrow, after your run that you have planned for the mother-in-law hour (4:45AM or so).  If I run early, and quick, I may get back in time for 500 words, 300 at the very least.  Which I’d take, happily.  Little Kerouac this morning woke just after 6, giving the beat father very much a run as I was in quite the sleep from my late night of writing, prior.  And with still no coffee in the Autumn Walk base, it was challenging for me to keep with his rile, his speed and unpredictable attention and passion shifts.  I stood, however, for his challenge and raced nature.  And now I start to slow… if there was still a caffeine touch in my circulation, somewhere, I assure its departure, now.  May have enough time for a coffee run, across the street to that place.. what is it called, “My Friend Joe’s” or something odd..?  The adjunct always looking at the clock, Time his ever-foe but what can he do but own the moment– and in doing so I vote no, no against the caffeine craving and dependency.  I won’t let it slow me a second time today.


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Adjuncted Adaptively-esque

IMG_6683Writing freely.  No particular address from this mood and where this mood came from, who knows.. in old neighborhood Starbucks and thinking about everything from the condo we can’t be rid of soon enough, to the Adjunct War, to the wine world and how I’ll never be where I wish, financially, or even Creatively.. have to think, and I looked at a copy of the New York Times after ordering my cup and thought about the blogging for hire I’m doing, how utterly unriveting it is.  But it pays, so I should shut up, right?  Not in agreement ever with such disposition– this meditation here at this small deplorable table by the entrance/exit has to determine something, and what I don’t know– so many options and many detract and redact my identity; the writer and reader and lecturer, jazz lover, the one who only for Autonomy aims.. and this mood won’t IMG_6684let me, won’t undo its harness.. the barista asked me, “JC or winery today?” “Both,” I told him.  He laughed a little, shook his head, or started to but then caught himself, “Well.. good luck,” he finished.  I don’t know what the subtext or implication was, is, to his words but I didn’t like it and I don’t believe it to be targeted, really.  And is any of it untrue?  No.. I’m aiming to singularize everything, in wine and writing.. but how?  And travel, see the entire world, even the parts people and the government tell me not to, to avoid.. so I write on and hope for the best and know I have to keep writing.  This life, all its options and pitfalls potential– a young lady walks out with three kids.. I realize my life could be much more taxing and tough, so I should temper my temper and agitation, my pervading impatience, find my Road however I can, in this little crowded space, watching people leave into their lives and whatever they have to do for the day.

IMG_6685See another car pull up and I’m distracted by the two girls to my right, sitting in the tall chairs at the stretched counter, against the glass with a view of the courtyard, talking and annoying me, talking over Hutcherson’s tune, or Evans’, sorry.  My mood further swirls into some introverted postmodern shade, serrated and angular, jagged and opaque in narrative.  But don’t worry, reader, I’m just thinking, writing freely, and I deserve that once in a while, don’t I?  This is a 36 y/o (can’t bring myself to write it out.. mood…..) father and husband wanting to be seen and riled to function with a certain verity and brio.  So I write on, enjoying the freedom, and loving this life and the challenge it provides– and no I’m not depressed!  If I were I would have given up by now, or worse, but no I keep writing and shunning and dismissing all inhibitions of formality surrounding punctuation and professionalism and the syntactic strictures that act like bars and mar the Artist’s card, or cards he’s to play.. but I forward anyway, with only change in my pocket at the moment, used debit card for the mocha– cash anymore making the writer nervous.


And to expect what from this day?  Hopefully time to finish my articles, or at least the Tours one.. address the others tonight, stay up a bit late, then tomorrow murder the remaining two, submit, be rid of them.  And I better be paid promptly, or there will be an unraveling of the writer, for sure– I’ll turn into the agitated Martin Eden, a ruffled Hemingway.  I turn up the music in my ears to rid my Self of the teeny dialogue.. ugh, why did I put myself here?  Did another spot open?  Can’t stop typing now.  Like I wrote to this term’s matriculants, “Overthink is writing death.” So I just stop thinking and write and imagine me sipping wine in some hotel room, on my balcony, looking at the ocean or some lawn or pool area and typing, finishing my day’s entry or maybe the novel I’m writing while on the Road, from writing about a character who only wanted to see the Road– well now I’m here, so my gears go that way, to the attained, to what I see…  Oh I can’t wait.  I won’t wait, more like it if you must know.  I’m tired of waiting; for people to call me back, for an editor to approve an outline, for a paycheck, for.. anything.

You should see how focused I am at the moment, thinking only about this night’s class, my articles, the novel, and that’s about it.  What I want and how to get it, in these freely written writes, knowing my penning rights, all to me; my universe and innovative urges and translation of what I observe; the talkers right, the door ahead, the older lady who just say behind me, crumbling her little bag while removing the pastry, think a scone; my son just down the street at his school, tempted to go back, take him home so we can enjoy the day, a day off for us both, we deserve, protestedly!

And who knows, maybe it’ll happen soon, and fast, and I’ll be on the plane thinking, “Wasn’t I just in a IMG_6688Starbucks talking about this very moment?” Or probably, “What am I going to talk about?” (at the college I’m flying to).  Would love to write a lecture on the plane, look down at the clouds or if it’s a redeye then enjoy just the little thin beaming descent to my fold-out, me scribbling as quiet and lightly as I can so I don’t wake the person at my 12.  But I have to have the lecture done by the time I land in Massachusetts.  Harvard, expecting me, my paper on the translation of ‘On The Road’, arguing that all is addiction in passion, and if the Road is Life then Life is the greatest and most dangerous of all addictions…  Soon, soon!  My 14-page paper, much more charing and enlivening than these dimwit “articles” (I don’t even know if you could call them so) I’ve been commissioned to post on some blog– so no, they’re not articles, certainly not like there’re articles in the NYT!  It’s a blog!  For tourists or new-be-ers to wine’s wheel.  Ugh, disgusting..

So I should close, 9:39, having to leave for RRV in the soonest of soons, and I have to edit– a large man whom I see here regularly walks out in an exhausted wobble, me chagrined at all the hours ahead of me, I’ll be that tired at day’s end, or not, who knows– but the day and its music keeps me hitting the highhat, playing in scales and yaying rather than the usual Nietzschean naying.  The sky, clear but not, only clouds that want one last say in what’s seen, the visual to take with you for the remain hours, oh thanks, I think–  Man opens door, looks in, decides no.  So what did he see, what did he think?  Is the Time getting to him, not enough to stand in line and wait for the fix?  I understand…  But then he comes back, rushes to the order station.  Gets what he wants.  “Good for him,” I say.


Categories: Morning -- 6/17/15 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

MOCK SOMM: Archival Wines, Napa Valley, Juliana Vineyard, Petite Sirah, 2013

With much PS interpretation you should expect darkness and a preponderance of texture and that’s about it– typically not a lot of complexity, and better left a blending appendage.  But with this bottle you find enigma and spells; the dark fruit and the texture, color most assuredly, but then you’re greeted by this subtext of earth and herbaceous reverb which I’m told, by winemaker Blair Guthrie, is the concomitant of picking earlier than 90% of California Petite Sirahs.  But for the consumer this wine does have its magnitude and severity in strength.  You’ll benefit from letting the wine collect itself a IMG_6609bit, for about two hours to let all those unrivaled flavor arrangements and dimensional shifts in this Napa PS catalyze and come to life, ready itself for showing.  And at the end of the wait, you have composure and accuracy with what the wine intends you to experience and know–  And as you MAY know, or you should, I look for wines that teach me something new either about the chief varietal in bottle or where the fruit’s from.  This victors on both accounts.  And I’ve never had these wines before, this.. my first impression, and that to me translates as Literature, the story and narrative, and a simple but puncturing reward for me as the sipper, reader…  Dickinson said, “That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.” Not to say I won’t buy more bottles from Archival, more of this capsuled vampiric whirl, but there will never be a first time, again; me sipping this ’13 not knowing what I’ll encounter and trusting I’ll quite enjoy it only to find the impression it left with me as the sipper, reader, was resounding.  Depth from intro to summation of sip– diverse and direct, a flavorful harness to senses and imagination, taunting you to entertain: “What do I pair with this?” To which I respond, “Whatever you want.” Or, “Why do you have to ‘pair’ it with anything?” Why not just enjoy the novel in the bottle?

And on a bit of a side-note, you can tell these wines were made with intimacy and honesty and a proper monitoring and collaborative curve with the fruit once it arrived at the crush pad.. meant to capture a moment, be singular and never-mimicked… and one way to discern and deduct such, the color– I mentioned its ‘vampiric’ placement and presence and that’s energetically visible in the glass; and the flavors are of the elevated ardor you can only calculate are tempestuously woven into the narrative and apexing aim of the wine.  The effort and acuteness, shown.  Immediate…  And like a Dickinson poem, much is said in a small space, just a meek sip, even one of those miser-ing one-ounce tasting room “pours”.  And how can it not be, this Napa Valley Petite with its persuasive coherence and feel and its volume and content…  Such loud and dramatic edges; romantic and rhythmic, wonderfully illustrative and musical, truthful…..  That’s success, with the winemaking exertion; that’s a story, a narrative, something I or anyone would, should, sip.  Mr. Guthrie will tell you, “My wines…you can’t ever reproduce them, I would never want to because they are my expression of that growing season and that moment in history.  An Archive, if you will…”


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