Posts Tagged With: Music

6:23am and in

a fanged mood already.  You know why, you know and you know me and you know it would fracture my mood, either slightly or significantly, that review.  Mendo.  I’ll specify, why not, what do I have to lose at this point.  Downstairs in dark, mouth dry from the Zin last night and ales that encircled.  A problem with my writing that can’t be overlooked, lashings from a full-timer, a teacher, how much a writer be he I wonder.  If any point to be remembered or relished in this transaction it’s this: the writing has to happen NOW.  No more of this delay and play with certain methods and recipes or tricks– it has to be this.  And, as my wife said quite starkly last night after Mom and Dad left, “so who cares?” She’s right.  I’m not teaching there next semester or ever a-bloody-gain and it’s Mendocino…  Mendocino College.  In Ukiah.  Ukiah.  Where’s that?  I’m a writer, my own Beat has been carved at this old age 35 and I’m not budging or compromising.  My teaching’s fine, okay, but my writing cited?  I can only laugh, in the dark here with this Sahara tongue.  Water, that Perrier that Alice bought, wonderful– I’m sharpened and I have to be and with thicker skin like Kerouac with people reviewing his words his books and sharings.  I guess why I’m bothered is ‘cause I’m tired at this age; tired of being reviewed and approved and applying and the back-and-forth and the commuting and the trying.  “So stop it, stop it all,” a voice says, probably one of my characters from the novel, either Glenn or Dav, or Crystal the winemaker.  And like my sister once told me, “if you second-guess yourself you’ll never make wine.” Or never write which is what I was drawn, my character, Mike Madigan, to do.  Would I want to be him, I ask myself, the full-timer that gave the review, be a full-time English teacher at a removed and obscure college that’s known for…?  No.  Now, if this review came from SSU, or SRJC, or even Napa when I taught there, I’d have reason to be even more hungover than I am, but this is silly–  I would deplore that role and reality, a teacher there.  “That’s where I teach,” I can’t hear myself say.  “I write, I self-published a novel and am selling it.. I wrote it how I write not how I think it’d sell, or it should be written.” There I am, me… And then further into this dream I add, “And I lead a fiction seminar at Stanford.” Ha ha, I reel to myself.  I know what I want and this, that school, isn’t part of it.  So he can sip his self-indulgent defamation and entitled mumbles up there in the mountains, on that campus that barely outsizes this condo complex.

Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t.  Yesterday, more than crazy at winery.  More of that crazy you’d expect from a rainy day where the only alternative’s to taste inside.  Wrote down one line, from a guest, not sure where he was from and I overheard him say this to Gary who was pouring right next to me at day’s end, for a little over and hour and a half: “Old vine Zins always taste too incense-y to me.” Funny thing, I somewhat agree with him and understand his idea, so what did I write it down?  I’ve never heard it put that way with those words before– well that and I didn’t write anything the whole shift into my little pages so I thought I should scribble something.  I poured my people the ’11 Cab and turned around, brandished the little pages and used the back bar for support.

Wonder what Mr. Dav is doing.  Still haven’t sent him that letter.  I’ll print it tomorrow at Mendo and send it from SRJC’s base.  Keep typing, I tell myself down here, keep typing.  6:45, and I hear Jackie upstairs, coughing a little and saying something to Alice who’s probably only wanting to sleep, poor thing.  Going up to rescue her and him and further distract myself this morning.  That review of my teaching or writing, now far past my care, gone into some sewer of dismissed ideas where it certainly belongs.  And when we meeting, this reviewer and I, I’ll be silent, no comments, I won’t waste my words or respiration or time.  I’ll just nod and tune out and leave.  And, frankly, I have to get to SRJC so he only has so much time anyway.  As much as I permit and budget.

Jack and I now, on the couch, Alice sleeping upstairs.  I’ll make sure she rests till 8.  She told me that he was kicking and nudging her all night, my poor wife.  I’m sipping the only k-cup I had left.  Well, I have those decaf doses but those are worthless at this hour, or any hour other than those close to bed.  This coffee bouncing in my rhythms, just what I needed.

I just looked at the evaluation again and it’s just plainly droll, dull, and just what I wanted now that I see my students highly approve of my performance, in fact he himself even noted that my student evals are “exceptional”, and that most obviously means more to a writer like me than what some full-timer documents from having to.  My students’ approval has value.  His thoughts are just part of a machine, a track, an intoxicant that he’ll probably read to himself and show off to the other FT-er hogs.  “Look what I did…” Pig.

Miss the rain.  Want it to come back and I want my little boy’s cold or sniffle set or whatever afflicts him to just bloody fly away.  Now he plays on the ground with a small colony of coins he took from me; everything, pennies nickels dimes even quarters.  He won’t give them back, “My money!” he reminds me.  This is what matters, him, my little Artists, and my students; that they’re pleased with my lessons and the ideas that I offer.

I need more coffee and more time to write, prep for tomorrow.  I know how tomorrow will be approached, just how, Mendo will be conducted slightly differently, meaning I will have my students there enjoy their session with even thicker pleasure entanglements both in idea and expression and the reading– and with Hemingway on the platter now.. we have only the fruitful ahead of us.  I’ll wake tomorrow morning, I’m hoping, when my mother-in-law does, before 5.  I’ve always admired that about her.  I’ll try to run tonight, just five miles, which means NO tasting today.  Nothing.  I’ll let the guests tell me how it tastes and what characters and notes they encounter in the wine.

Jackie continues to throw two footballs at me, one small, which he calls the baby, and the other which is ‘dada’.  He laughs and stresses about nothing, bothered by nothing, just enjoys his morning around me while I type and record whatever I can to make myself feel like a writer.  When Alice wakes I’ll go get us coffees and then come back to shower.  I’m realizing that the music in my life is everywhere and that’s where the truth and gems are.  Not in the routine and the documented and the official.

IDEA: write a short piece, three pages, and distribute to SRJC colleagues.. no selling, just promo, sharing, for Art’s love, Life– and I know what to do, what to write, about what.. that eval from that gudgeon full-timer only convinced me that I’m a writer, one who will by the pen his way, and won’t be in the adjunct role or anything stricture-bound or pinned by any document.  I’m on and in my own Beat.  No more being beaten.

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excerpt from this morning’s sitting…

I speak, no more shriek

need more coffee, quick, my consciousness over tipped,

and I slipped on the what should be

proper, or responsible, mature–

that’s all myth, says this coffee

jazzy smoke and bass from corner have me continued in my straying

this feels amazing– okay that’s it, no more coffee for me

wait till I finally grow up


tricycle wheels over carpet, no sound, then

some fool on a harley quakes past

to show what he has, how musical, how nice, how needed

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1/9/14:  Second Chardonnay glass.  1,000 words this morning reached, in Annadel.  Just sent letter to writing ally.  And now, I can relax.  Well, not really.  Have to edit the last few entries for this blog.  And later, more poetry.  Loving Mr. Kerouac’s writing, in the book I yesterday bought.

But tonight, right now, I’m finished for day.  I want to be lazy, normal.  I’m never lazy.  How often am I “normal”?  Don’t even want to think about it.  Want to note, pen-to-paper, read through this Kerouac collection–  OH!  Still have the poem I wrote in pocket.  Tasted through both my wines again today.  Efrain, the cellar master, suggested I bottle the blend this Saturday, leave the Merlot till later in year, closer to harvest.  But I can’t believe.. I’ll be bottling the NDC in two days, maybe.  MY first bottled wine.  Maybe I shouldn’t dismiss wine so quickly, just stick to my only interest in its world: making the wine.

Also tasting some ’12 Cabs in the lab, then two bbls of ’13 Cab.  Then, shortly after, tasted the two wines E’s making.. a 100% Alicante, then a Zin on mostly new American Oak.  Aromatically, it presented a little reduction (the Zin), but palate-wise, was probably the nicest Zin I’ve tasted.. maybe ever.  And it’s still so young.  Not giving up on winemaking.  It’s too interesting to me, as a writer.. all the components connecting.

Think I may be ready for bed.  Oh please, Craft, let me wake incredibly early tomorrow, to get some work done, finish my letters for this new semester.  10:16PM.. the day’s over.  I’ll re-fixate in the earliest.  I’ll repeat it to Self as I fall asleep.  That’ll have to wake me, right?

know it’s time

to stop when I






architectural zest, in internal

afforded, but I have

to rent my soul

and the market sours

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Transferred the 2k words to book, 41-page project.  And it’s done.  Time, 8:41am, and I’m nearing 1,000 words.  Could be the coffee, could the morning.. could be me.  Not sure I’m concerned with cause at this point.  Started a 500-word paper on Naturalism, its significant to students, readers, on teaching blog.  Feel that it may be part of what gets me to Stanford.  I think.  Could be wrong, but what’s wrong with trying, blended with hoping?


Season earlies, not hurting,

but teaching, showing, new green stretches,

glazed, almost closed,

stay on patio, enjoy moment before

numbers heighten–

all touched, as if it were sent from

Yukon, Arctic, somewhere in

Siberia.  Thank you, perfect

beginning. now if I could

just stay here, freeze frozen

frame, for me, to keep, what they could

criticize then.. nothing.  their lips would

be iced still, shut.

Sounds, natural or man, with whisked white




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All poetry, no prose.. I chose notably, so closed.

Unload, they froze.

Time running out, but how?  Only a second ago, I left

impressions aglow.  Thorough like Thoreau;

Arrow, bow.  Precisely skate over Arctic ice– isolated,

part with price.. critics feared like rabid bat bites–

however not me; react immediately, clocks cracked–

how these devils are, but I top that..

attitude & demeanor, the bad news infused to deed’s

beaker.. me, measured untethered.  Arguments

implied with convenient skies.. my writing shape, quite

cubist.. only way to be truest, but they’re still clueless.

Depart from heart, emotion.. more than impart commotion–

experimental potion, all pages, syllabic hit– mad as

Lazarus.  Tracked, but I’m packed, ready to leave, need

times-three reprieve– was burned in internal journal hurdles.


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Reach to another space–
But I’m afraid of erase.
If I fail, I’ll press delete,
Restart, so no obsolete,
I promise,
To self,
What else is dealt?

Solidly, promises and wishes,
Fall to three.
Pleasing pleases,
Fortune spun for sick seasons–

Decided to stand still, admire perfect walls..
Intimidated by stares of beloved dolls.
Plates broken in floors, slamming invisible
Doors. Ignore the call for to any chores.


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journal, 7/17/13

Tonight, one for documentation.  A walk in Annadel with Dad, what the writer needed.  The whole time, listening to his stories, thoughts on matters, perspectives from his Human Experience.  He told me a story about a writer, for some paper that went with out devices for 20-something days.  Just what I need to do.  Honestly, reader, I’ve had it.  Completely.  Want to enjoy moments, and move pens only when I want to– what I discovered writing at the CIA yesterday.

Tonight, sipping Rosé.  Locked Self in castle.  Have a lot about which2THINK.  Too much to catalogue, and I wouldn’t here on blog.  Just know I’m thinking, about and within matters of tremendous gravity.  Another night where I outrun the wine’s effect.  Downstairs, steak and veggies in oven.  Bought from Oliver’s, so don’t think I started cooking yet.  But I will.  Someday.  I hope.

Logged out of ALL “social” [should really be called “judgmental”] media accounts.  And pretty soon, only pen, paper.  IF I do 3 pages for book, it’ll be in the overcrowded Comp Book.  I just think of Picasso, what he did.  Utterly independent of devices, electronics, certainly the devilish internet.  No one could spy on him– he moved brushes, colors, across material’d flat.  That’s Artistry.  Technology compromises Art.. it hinders IT, detracts from IT.

Now, my mood becomes rattlesnake’d.  Judgement, disruptors.. I’m just going to do what I want.  “It’s your Life, you have your choice,” Grandma ordered.  I didn’t write ‘said’ as I’m convinced she wasn’t just saying something, reciting lines, speaking.  She was giving me a direct order.  And I’m following it.  WIthout question.

Have to work tomorrow, but I’m not paying that too much mind.  And why should I?  2nite’s about Art, this moment, in this office.  Took too many pictures with this devil phone, now it doesn’t function as it should.  I swear, revolution’s near…

That forest today.. so perfectly purist.  For both prose AND poetry.  I AM going to sit at one of those trail benches, just write.  The laptop’s stalling again.  This devil laptop.. asking for divorce–  NO!  Ordering.  Need another glass of wine.  And I need to clean up all these items I removed from desk, put to floor.  How does that make sense?  Yes, need another Rosé pouring, some dinner.  Next semester, on mind.  How to convey my favorites: Plath, Poe.. show them more as Optimists, yeasayers.  Not the dark, tormented haunting scribes everyone labels, often dismisses.

9:47pm.  Couple minutes past, poured Self the most obnoxious glass of the Rosé.. and the dinner, amazing.  Have to say I agreed with everything from texture to marinade to intended profile.  And I’m not full/feeling sick, which is nice– no, not ‘nice’.. incredible.  Dad, telling me about that writer, quitting tech, “cold turkey,” as Dad put it, has me thinking.  About more than just my interactions with tech.  9:57pm…  Think the turkey’s cold.. starting now.  Why does Time have to be so vicious?  Maybe it’s my approach.  Maybe I should be more relaxed, not trying always to hit some words counted.

Well.. the writer’s over 500 for this sitting, so I’m off to Comp.  This Rosé.. indebted to my brother, Blair.  Nice balance of thinned Zin/Syrah notes.

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8:10pm.  Exhausting day.  No three pages tonight.  Meditating on this blog.  Unfortunate for you perhaps, reader.  Writing begins tomorrow.  Morning, after dropping off Alice & Jack.  going to miss them, yes.  But there’s work to do.  Should be back in chair, at latest, 7:30am.  I’ll have my 4shots while carving the 3PAGES for day.  Have a big group tomorrow, for VIP tasting in cave.  Not exactly thrilled, but I know I’ll gain something from it.

Topped my Merlot today, with more Merlot from Tank 50.  Tasted nice, even better than it did a couple weeks past.  Writing in dark, like I have a problem…

9:46pm.  Not in mood to write.  So why am I writing, or typing, then?  Should go sit on couch, watch some polluted MTV reality show, let my Life fly away.  But have Comp Book on person, like I’m armed in zones perilous.  tomorrow morning’s session, beyond epic.  3PAGES, blog posts, spoken word.  All.  Complete Literary madness.  The quiet, the coffee, the resulting Compositions.  Not thinking about the huge group I have tomorrow.  Not anymore.  Not taking it seriously.  And why should I?

Trip to Napa, Tuesday.. not planning it.  Going to stop wherever I stop.  That’s it.  Want randomness, not the planned blandness.  And dinner tomorrow night, hoping to make quick.  Not rushed, exactly.  Just to-the-point.  Giving my life a review, like a 90-day or yearly review for employees.  Certain things need reshaping, I’m defining.


7/14/13.  Back from dropping off Alice & Jack at airporter.  7:32am.  Two minutes late to typing, only ‘cause this devil laptop was giving more grief, atop every other annoyance it’s happy to provide.  This house, disturbingly silent.  Watching one of my writing movies, to ease me into day.  Eating blueberry scone, with 3shot mocha.  Not a 4, as I already had a cup this morning before we left.

Dinner with a friend tonight.  Needing to make it quick.  Want to be seated upstairs, in office by 9:30pm at the LATEST.  And yes, ‘downstairs’.  Haven’t set up desk yet, and I don’t need any more morning anxiety, this morning.  This trip Jack & Alice are taking, without me with them to protect, plus the group I’m hosting today [for some reason.. not sure why I’m taking it at all seriously.. in fact, I’m not, nevermind..], already making heart jump over invisible barbed poles.

Not as hungry as I thought I was.  May not finish scone.  Oh well.  Not like I need it.  Alice taking later bus, disabling run possibility this morning.  Which is heavenly, by me.  Wasn’t in much mood, really.  Need to make list, for this time to Self–realistic targets to hit.  Lots of printing, definitely– BOOK1 [the 59-page project].  Need to sip this mocha faster, feeling tired.  What wine am I opening tonight?  That Pinot by the door?  The Cab Franc Katie gave me?  Don’t know.  Was going to bring a bottle to dinner, but I think I’ll just get a glass.  One beer before, one wine with steak which I’ll more than likely order.

7:41a.  This quiet, so strange.  Miss little Kerouac, his wonderings around the house.  Thinking of my review, yesterday.  Everything went wonderfully, as I have an unusually supportive TR director/”manager.” But I’m caused to give Self my OWN review.  What do I[!!!] want next?  Which direction should I[!!!] choose?  Not what someone has ‘lined up’ for me.  Grandma said, “It’s your life, you have your choice.” So what do I want?  I already know.  I’ve known.  Huh, you know, reader.. so why even address it.  Just letting you know what my brain’s painting in this early solitary hour.

Want to be upstairs by 8am.  Need to prep desk for tonight’s work.  Not sure I’m going Napa on Tuesday– or wait, yes I should.  I’ll bring paper for writing, for the day’s 3PAGES.  I’ll carve them in Napa.  Maybe at the Roasting Company, like old times.  In the box’s territory.  So what if they see me?  What would one of them do?


There, then.  It’s a possibility.

7:49am.  Why does that time look so odd?  Maybe just another odd component of an immensely odd morning.  And no, I won’t write at the Roasting Company.  I’ve done that before.  I need Newness.  Maybe at the Rutherford Grill.  Outside, at one of the small tables, like Hemingway– by Self, glass, maybe small bit, engaged in my work, recording characters, those around, just for sakes of so doing.

Already past 500 words.. forgive me for reporting, but I can’t believe this speed, considering how ‘off’ I feel.  The mocha, singing louder.  Thinking of giving Self a promotion, following review– maybe I should give Self a formal writeup, in this ‘review’.  Point out strengths, weaknesses, take all the trite evaluative steps They do.  Just MUCH better written.  When do I do that?  Maybe tonight, just as this writing retreat starts.  Putting it on list.. just did.  List in Comp Book, opposite side of 3rd from last page.

7:57am.  Unplugging laptop, moving upstairs.  Haven’t finished scone.  Why am I not with usual pastry itch?  Because this morning’s curvingly unusual.  Unusual equals beauty.  Sipping faster, propelling momentum like rogue asteroid towards space’s edge.  8am, going upstairs…

8:04am.  In shower by 8:20a.  Writing movie still on.  Want to hit 1,000 words by shower’s time.  But I shouldn’t obsess over the count, even though that’s part of my voice, I feel.  If I write from Rutherford, who knows what’ll happen.  You know what, consider it planned…  On list.  Item 3.  Much calmer than I was earlier this A.M.  Felt a little anxious yesterday, too, at start of my only mountain tour.  But it away went with the couple chilled water sips that shot into the writer’s inner streets.

Wine, thinking.. what do I open tonight with writing session?  Don’t want to sip too much, though.  Lately, wine, and my preferred artisanal beers, have been slowing me when writing, not allowing mind and vision to fly in beneficial randomness and spontaneity, as it once did.  Need to buy more sparkling waters.

8:11am.  Breaking from buttons.  Need a little still time.. I’ll note in Comp Book if anything of note catches.  Should switch modes, to one ready to “work.” That’ll be in my Self-review– hate that bloody word, ‘review’.  Evaluation, then.. SELF-EVALUATION.  One note.. stop doubting Self.  Just jump.  Start living like more of an Artists, relying less on these vile devices.  Ink, paper, that’s all I need.. that’s what I need to really accept, understand.  As Artist, AND Human.

8:53am.  In departure’s form.  Tempted to get another mocha.. should I?  Or at least a latte, one of those cinnamon ones from VJB.  that’d be newness.  Settled, then.  Thankfully charging phone before I leave.  Don’t know why I’m happy about that, having to do only with device need.  Already taking some items off desk.  Reading this release from 2010, the vinoLitLetterz Issue, the only.. think I might rewrite, blend into 59-page project, probably pushing it over 60.  Oh well.

8:56am.  Should leave soon, as I don’t know what the coffee line’s like at VJB.  Haven’t tasted their wines in I think, maybe, 2 years[?].  They were good, from what I remember.  But I’m in a coffee mood, mode.  tonight, printing, while sipping red, slow.


music, every cut into soil

leaves dwindling by deadlines, ignored

repeated measure, untethered weather

write another letter

microphone off

speak louder, like trees obstruct

speak over cliff

speak to IT


8:59am.  1,000 words, before “work.” Guess I’m happy.  Would be smiling more if I didn’t have to leave, if I could just stay here ALL morning, day, night.  And just write.  This’ll be in my review, I Self threaten.  Okay, leaving.  Not letting this group today too far into my head.  The latte’ll make sure of that, building instant, well-defended, wall.

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storage full

Taking Jack to Mom & Dad’s in a few.  Need more video content, more documenting, I’m thinking following the documentary I watched yesterday.  Not relying on phone, or any ‘app’, as I learned last week with Sam’s and my broadcast.  Veraison, already taking place, I’m hearing.  Have to get camera ready.  Should probably drop a couple of the photos I shot with phone, for winery.  Don’t need them, that’s certain.  And they don’t enhance my content.

My cousin Nick, just opened up some media/pr/ad firm office in SoCal.  Not sure if it’s his business of someone else’s, but I love the look, layout.  See mySelf closer to MY office.  What else…  Alice just opened door to leave, cold.  Little sprinkles.  Miss the rain.  Would love some on retreat, but forecast promises warmer numbers.

Only a matter of time before Jack bores with his books, calls me over.  Will write later, after run.  And after 3PAGES.  Not sure I’ll post to maddenedread tonight.  Maybe some notes, lecture points I’d hit about Plath– or that I WILL hit, in Fall.  Doesn’t have to be prose.  Think I need another hit of coffee.  Where’s the case to this camera?  -8:24am

8:55pm.  Not getting to 3PAGES today.  Too tired from day, run I just did.  4 miles in just over 31 minutes.  Wanted to stuff the 4 within 30, but started to slow, at end.  Retreat in just under 3 days.  And I’m ready to finally complete the ms that’ll send me, quickly, to road, my office.  Met a couple teachers in tasting Room today.  Had one read the second entry for teaching blog, written last night, while she finished her tasting.  Positive response, citing poignancy and brevity both as boons.  Won’t have time to post again tonight, but tomorrow, possibly morning, certainly.

Sipping some sparkling berry water, just before getting into a little of the SB I was gifted today.  Didn’t film anything today, as I chose to have lunch with co-workers [H & J].  Glad I did.  Needed the break.  Slight breeze, gentle and musical, as we sat there, chatting under the caring umbrella.

Jumping to spoken word in a minute.. the comfort of the Comp Book.  Want more poetry in my Creative Life.  Keep saying that, but always divert to this prose.  Love my entries, but poetry’s who I TRULY am.  So why am I not doing more of IT?

Challenge to Self:  Six spoken word pieces in the next 48 hours.. beginning now.  Or, when I finish this entry.  Have only made 1 plan with a friend during retreat’s reign, Sunday night.  But that will be the ONLY 1.  On Tuesday, Wednesday [my days off].. only Writing.  And PRINTING.  Have to get this 59-page work done.  Meaning Printed, Released, Sold.

Hate this laptop.  Still.  9% battery left.  Now 8%.  This is why all writings should be done on paper.  Only use this thing when I have to.  Another goal for retreat:  Get all writing off this devilish button bomb.


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No chemical blended pull, dry flight to
The high right– tie tight my thoughts to clouds
Loud. In a deaded know-how.. Research Tao, Dao– my biased sight is
Plighted.. Why talk when I can write it?
My verses, poetry, part of no industry..
Self-induct me.. Velocity, adjusted terminally–

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