Over 3,000 words for the day, and I’m exhausted, but I still want to write. And my writer friends, can only wonder what they’d say. And my friends that teach like I do, all of them with FT jobs mind you, never having to worry about pouring for tourists, answering stupid questions about wine that they are convinced are so glowingly important– no sales goals, no threatening, no reprimanding, being treated like a wandering toddler with a gnat’s attention span– none of that. I sit here, an adjunct, in a shared office, in a noose of malignity. And I’m more or less prepared to meet with students, those that choose to show. And my notebook is…
Posts Tagged With: Wine Journal
Morning 3, sans mon petit Kerouac. Still feeling very much yesterday’s run. And today, more waiting… Not necessarily my life story, but certain a noticeable portion of it, thus far. More looking at vines today, watching them grow, get closer to their show.
7:48AM.. Laundry done, trash out, now the writer writes, listens to music, and relaxes. Coffee, keeping me as it always does. Short entry this morning. Why? Well after watching Alice print three pages of a homework assignment for her seminar, I’m taunted to print five pages, at least, of my poems.. for the first chap. Going into the TR today with no cares. It’s Thursday and I’ll just ride this day wave, this melody and scaling piano dazzle of thought. And my focus, wine.. again.. may bring a bottle into the lab, see what they have to note about its character.. think they’re bottling. Again. Sometimes that seems all they do. When I have my smaller label, there’ll be short runs, as we’ll never go over 5,000 css. And if I, or we, do.. I cap at 10k. Never a bottle more. But why would I even want to do that much? 10 THOUSAND cases? Stresses me just thinking about it– like publishing, Self-publishing I mean.. having to edit some brick of a MS. No, I keep them curt, consistent. Want them to be sketches of sketches.. sketch collections.. on the mountain today and I’ll have a chance, a couple opportunities I’m sure, to make a couple notes about the wines, the view, the drive up, getting out of that bloody room, away from that bar.. the air and feel and personality up there, more for writers.. anymore, the TR suffocates, and compels me to shut down, which I can’t afford at this stage. […] Surprised Self. Nearly done printing poem collection. DONE.. can’t believe it. Who will first buy? Only running 20 copies to start. Don’t want to find mySelf as I used to, with so many unsold copies I’m only punishing a closet shelf with unwanted weight.
10/28/13– Typing in the Safeway parking lot. My mood this morning, toxic.. everything from rhythm to sight, to tone. Not in the mood to do the same bloody thing I did yesterday, day before. Before. If I could just have the day to Self, to finish the bloody book, already. Or just write freely. I will, though. This Friday. If today were that day, I’d be on my way to Petaluma, by now, surely. Once there, I’d grade for about an hour. Then, to cafeteria to write in newJournal. Freely. To the second mocha of my day.
Wrote a healthy amount of verse, poem, yesterday while in tasting Room, visiting and revisiting wine to aid with knee pain. No plans for a run today, obviously, in that I pickup little Kerouac from Lisa’s. Do I want to run tomorrow? Possibly. Probably, actually. But not too much distance, as to care for these aching structural portions.
My mood, rising, watching these cars race by on Calistoga, towards 12, where they choose to turn
8:44am. How much longer can I write? I’ll give Self till 9:05. Precisely 20 minutes to finish, edit, post this prose. Or poetry. Whatever form it takes. Cold this morning. The reader, or “gauge,” reads 39’. May as well be 32, as I’m quite affected by the sterile sharp atmosphere. Reminds me of Sunriver, of course. And then my mood rattles again, in wondering how long it’ll be till I up there again write. Young family walks by, two children in roofed wagon, mama carrying littlest on person, in one of the strapped pouches. Can’t remember name for them.
Listening to beats that I used when having my Literary lunches, Napa. And my hands start to stiffen. Don’t I have the heat on? No. Fixing that. Maybe that’s why my temperament’s so coiled, boasting fang points.
So relaxed, here in car, with this 4shot energy boat, music, characters everywhere.
But I have somewhere to be.
That, precisely why I’m re
Still 39 degrees. Much more pleasant in the cabin of this new car, with heat’s help.
Passers, with visible mist
Me, hidden from.
At lunch, I need to get this grading done. Instead of 4 items, I will shoot for 8. Four must be 1A papers, just the other night submitted. Going to use a new 50pt rubric I found online. Would write my own, but my writing energy, as it pertains to my teachings, stands better spent in other areas– lectures, lessons, assignments.
And, “Take Five” by Dave Brubeck appears, audibly. And the writer’s mood, colorful. No longer hunched. Imagine my Self back in Paris. By mySelf, writing, walking, no wine.. just the cafés, cuisine, characters, conversation. Anymore, wine only harms the writer.. this writer at least. And I’m all the more settled in me not making a wine this year. I will return to it, yes. But I want the writing to carry me, first. Then, when means rotate upward, barrels get filled.
Today’s writing goal: 5 poems. Due: 5 o’clock, not a second later, says
Professor Madigan. (8:57am)
Posted 3pieces, Professor Madigan… 8:16pm, in kitchen’s nook. Going back through blog, its word doc, here on laptop, reconciling.. guess that’s what you’d call it. Caught Self OVERthinking, again. “Oh, did I post this one.. this one? THIS ONE?” Why concern Self like that, OVERconcern Self like that? It’s all book-able. No more of this 1-year-on-blog hogwash. Some pages I post, others I don’t. I’m a writer, not a blogger.
On new notes: didn’t have any advances at winery today pertaining to winemaking. So, I’m resigning to not making wine this vintage– NO! Not ‘resigning’.. assigning. What am I “assigning?” The Self, to only write, teach, read.. work with my students. After leaving Kerouac with Ms. Lisa tomorrow, I’ll head straight to Petaluma. A simulation for this coming Friday, where I plan to write for 5 straight hours, 10a-3p. Or possibly more. I’ll print my 41pg work as well. Bet on it– Actually, don’t. You might lose. Just know I’ll try, angrily.
Poetry tonight. Three verses, comprising 1 song. That’s it. Something to perform. Going to designate tonight’s piece my signature work.. or touring pages, if that makes sense. And maybe I’ll test them on the English 5 class, this Thursday at open mic. Or, “open mic with Mike,” as Jess said.
Tonight, I’ll grade 4 items. Didn’t hit the eight or whatever I wanted to at lunch. Instead, I went on a winery visit with a coworker. Deerfield, all their single varietals, a couple blends. Love how the tasting Room’s in the cave. Always thought that was an appealing facet to their experience. Was I a huge fan of their wines.. not really. But I enjoyed the unexpected dash to another tasting Room, being on the bar’s other side. Is there anything I can report from day, other than the slow start, and the uncomfortably easing rush at conclusion, the two annoying people from Reno I poured? Not that it was Saturday-busy, it was just quirky, discomforting. Rushed to gather little Kerouac, then back to condo castle. Now, I’m in professor mode.. more, more.
Hungry. Should probably open night’s wine, to pair with this Mexican casserole Alice made. Long day for us both. Want to get us into our own house, away from neighbors. Older the writer gets, I don’t enjoy nearness to other voices, movements. I prefer the isolated places.
10:14pm. I should be grading those papers.. but no surprise, I’m not. I’m enjoying my evening. Quiet. Writing. And running tomorrow? Not sure. Maybe, actually. Even if for only 30 minutes or so. Have to remind Self that not every run should be a record-breaker. The fact that I go out, interval on pavement, or trail, is victory to itself.
Poetry, to mySelf, here in the semi-solace. Maybe I shouldn’t run tomorrow.. but Thursday. Can I keep that promise to mySelf?
An event coming up, this Saturday, Halloween-related, concerning pumpkins. But how will I write with that level Frenzy? And why did I capitalize ‘frenzy’? Hemingway, I’m sure, wrote after his experiences.. whatever he remembered was worth writing. And with I, now. May leave the little pages at home– No. Take with, but use sparingly.
Again. I find mySelf living too safe, with little or no risks taken. That will be my first aim in this Newness ideology. Not sure what this is supposed to be.. a freewrite, a narrative, essay.. or just a page, from me. Frustrated in this sitting.. so I write through and past it. Tomorrow, dropping off little Kerouac with Lisa, coming home for quick shower, then to campus, grade– I know, “where’s the risk there?” Plainly, that I’ll be there too early, finish grading the 13 papers so fast, as I’ll be joyfully caffeinated, that I’ll have ‘too much writing time’. Too much, you say, or ask. Yes. That’s just what I’m going for. I’ll write in a new location, somewhere on campus, upper floor of library. That’s what Kelly would do, keep her creative mission simple. Capture all students, and each one differently.
Had one of my friend Sam’s homemade brews earlier this evening. Honestly, a bit herbal, or citric for me. I didn’t finish it all. About 60%. Couldn’t have another. And I don’t have any other beer in castle. That’s what brought me so fast to this Cab, the most expensive bottle the Estate has on its menu [$60].
Like I had the dentist appointment Tuesday, a friend from the old neighborhood, San Carlos, has a blood test tomorrow. She had to eat her dinner quick, finish before 7p. Now, she feels as though every savory item in her cupboards, fridge stares at her. Taunts her. Makes fun of her for what’s tomorrow scheduled. I find that interesting, that mind state. How frustrating that must be.. to be ravenous, not able to bite.
Another person from the Peninsula, going through something rough. What, I’m not sure, exactly, but I wish I had an idea. She knows she’ll get through it, but has trouble with how painful it is, she states in her journal. What is it? Is she writing about it? Should I ask her exactly what it is with which she now grapples, so I can write about it? Is that selfish? I think of Hemingway, or anyone who’s been to war, written about it, or not. What war does to the Human, especially a man. My war, not to be written here, on this log for others to see. I know what it is.
I know I’ll win.
Kelly, already through her skirmish of skirmishes. Maybe I could ask her, if I knew where she was, already. On her travels, what does she think as soon as the plane’s wheels touch new ground? Does she feel the Newness then, or when she disembarks?
The dialogue from the tasting Room, where one of my better stories is– My vantage point, unequalled.. writer, of my strength, observing everyone walking in, everything they say, how their eyes move, what they look like sipping a wine, first time.
8:40am. Never have timed Self, with the WPM measure. But writers don’t do that. That’s for clerical folk. The office jockeys. Not much time to write– Can’t wait to see if I get the Grenache or not. OR Sangio’. Which would prefer, between the two? GR, of course. Like Pinot, but not. Can’t forget lunch today. That’s part of what made yesterday so long, arduous, draining on the writer. Early to bed tonight.. harvesting Syrah tomorrow, in that cool Petaluma Gap climate. Oh, and I have to charge phones tonight.. don’t let the forgetful writer forget.
Going upstairs to print the 3rd page from Thursday, the narrative. And today, will try to write when I can. I’ll be cooking tonight, without help from a cookBOOK. May have some general direction, from some recipe. But minimal guidance overall. More caffeine for me, PLEASE. Only 1 cup so far, and it’s leaving system. OFf for mocha.. 4shots. Where’s my little notebook?
I’m a mess
7:57pm. Tomorrow, harvesting… Today, more than busy in TR. Frantic, rushed, impatient, eager, elevated. Now, home, quiet. Want to explore old entries, and old photos believe it or not. This JC student I work with, ‘D’, prides in his photography, having an online gallery, or portfolio. He took pictures of me during and after today’s Merlot punchdowns. Had me thinking, about photography’s role in my Writing Life.
Thought I lost my two cameras, as I couldn’t find them in the top-right drawer, desk. One of them, a cam Alice bought me for xmas ’09, was in that location.. the writer simply didn’t look hard enough. And the other, a piece Mom and Dad bought for me a couple birthdays ago, was in a cupboard down here, in the red end-table. Charging both tonight, well as the Flip video camera.
No word on the GR or SG, yet. And that’s fine.. so much on mind, with this week’s lectures, introducing the Poe Project. Also, I’ll begin final grade calculations, putting what I have so far onto a spreadsheet, xfer’d from gradebook [if you could call it so]. Need a beer, after such a wave of people barreling at the bar, all day. Did capture some useful dialogue for a vignette idea that was born the other day– all the random chatter, statements, questions, braggings I hear in that Room, from both sides of the bar. But the real beauty to the piece: the reader doesn’t know who’s talking, where it’s coming from, nor precise context. That has to be assigned by the reader. Earlier to bed tonight, so I have to get more pace from my Self, somehow. Yes, a beer.
Oh… Nearly forgot how much I adore craft beer. The pieces in my 1st chapbook, the 41pg-er, may change, or rotate, meaning I save some for a future release. But I haven’t decided. Should probably dive into some of these old pictures, starting with phone first, see what I find, see what material waits. Thought, while punching down Merlot, that I need to take more pictures, respond to them in writing. IF a still’s worth 1k, words.. then I could write a short story collection, easily, in a day. Or at least begin a compositional congregation’s blueprint.
Just plugged in phone, to laptop. Should really be spending more time in lectures Comp Book, and GRADING… But I’ll get to that tomorrow, or Monday, I promise. Also, set to do Lawndale tomorrow, if I can, if I have enough light, and get out early enough. But if tomorrow’s anything like this day, I’m doomed. No running. Not even when I get home. Should I join the gym? Whatever it takes to get a run.
These older pictures of Jack, then looking at some I took just two days ago.. starling– startling. One Alice snapped today, while we were walking outside, to the new car to retrieve his stroller, for their morning walk/jog, him holding my hand, with the most carefree, joyous grimace I’ve ever on him seen.. melting whatever strength I can boast. He rules me, this little character. Dominates my mind, sense, projections, plannings. He’s a cliff I’ll walk over repeatedly.
Cabernet now, the ’10 I opened a few nights ago. This bottle, more posture, charm, music to its moments. Back to the pictures. Such the journal. Need to take more, for sure. At least three, everyday. Three thousand word mark, that’s the diamond. So… One of barrels, one of the vineyards the other day (with fall patterns, character), another [1 of three] of fermenting Sangiovese in bin. Gorgeous color, love sight of floating skins. Like today, pushing them back into their parenting pool. What winemaking is to me. Now some more of the clusters, right after the fruit set. Then all these videos. I’ve documented, NARRATED, my whole life. That’s my genre.
Batteries, for cameras, charging. Time for night’s cap. Have to wake at 5:45am. Not sure where I’m going. Should look at directions again, what do you think?
Okay, know where I’m going. Pretty sure.
Hoping the Grenache finds its way to my hands, like today’s Merlot did, has a couple other past days. MY wine. Lovely idea. Now I do need another glass, get Self into character. That’s what Hemingway would do.. truth, truth…
Some say I should hold on my expressions, restrain. But, at this age, I only adore the cacoethes. It’s more than freeing.. it’s what I want to be. Unhinged, mySELF– someone of which my little boy can be proud. I call him ‘little Kerouac’. So I need act like THE Kerouac. Against order, expectation, what’s ‘to do’. Literarily, Poetically. Getting a little tired. Not getting to anything else tonight. This blog’s the only landing.
Night’s cap poured, little cleaning there was to be done, done. A picture of wine, being spun in glass.. dancing for its soon-sipper; rhythmic, syncopated somehow; painted in glass for view; when I like what cameras do, when they capture something, a motion I can write.
Wine, about so much
for we, the penners.
Sip, put self back in
Have to get coffee tomorrow morning, non-negotiable. Want to show up to cut clusters from vines, then snap stills needed. Dormancy, only a month away, maybe less with their present pace. So I need to capture everything I can. And everyone. For the fiction, my entries, stories. This is all story. All fiction. IF I want it to be.
Mike sat at the table, on the patio, by the water. Lunch. Only 26 minutes left. It took three minutes to run to 2nd floor– get sandwich from fridge, talk to coworker (Rafa), run back to 1st floor, out door, then the thirty yards (maybe more) to table, then he had to wipe it off a bit. He couldn’t believe that only took four minutes.
He didn’t eat right away. He just want to look out at vines, their October uniforms. Breathe. As a tourist.
He just sat.
Ten minutes left, not a bite. What happened? He looked out, counting the small gusts, till he was carried back to work, somehow motivated away from vacation.
Didn’t make it to ten poems. But I did manage to hang 3 onto this “blog.” All day today, while scurrying in that ResRoom, with no lunch, thought of being free. I’m not going to let this entry be like all the others, but I thought of freedom. Total freedom, not just Artistic, or financial. It would entail that, yes, but not solely be composed of such.
9:06pm. Should grade ten items tonight, but not in any mood. Won’t be running till after work, Sunday. And I begin that day incredibly early as I’ll be participating in a harvesting, Petaluma, quite early. Have to be there before 7am. It’ll be all Syrah, to my knowledge. Just finished last Cab glass. Tonight, that independence thought, still on skewer. And the only way I can do so.. with books. what’s taking me so long? I think how divided I let mySelf be, with projects. No matter. Soon fixed, I affirm with Ms. Plath next to me, smiling on her cover, being offered a rose, or flower of some type.
Jerry, my friend, vineyard manager on the estate, said he may have quite a bit of Sangiovese and Grenache left, for me to “play with,” as he said. Meaning… I’ll be making my own wine again. So excited.. wonder how this will take shape. Should I inoculate? What portions should I use for blending? Don’t get ahead of Self.. need to calm. Need a cocktail. One of the Little Sumpin’s I bought earlier. Love this love/hate street with wine, its industry, all the angles. But.. just for brainstorming’s sake.. Sangio’ and Grenache: Have GR in lead, only use SG for 5-10%. But if you only get SG, the so be. And if you get a bit of GR, then inject 5-whatever%. You have what you have, you know? This entire day, honestly, quite victorious.
Wrote quite a bit for Tuesday’s lectures– transition from modern to classic–back to classic–Lit in 1A; then a new approach to Plath in English 5. Should probably have them, the English 5 group, do even more Plath research, report on findings. And, their professor should post to teaching blog again for day.
This ‘1 year on blog’ rule. Should I defy it? Maybe the blog is just a stable, a temporary till, toll booth, tariff. Why can’t I use my own writing how I choose? Thinking of Hemingway, my talks on ‘Sun Rises’ last term. Need to write more like him: truthful. And the truth is.. I’m more and more annoyed by people as I age. I could never attend bar events as I used to, nor could I go to “parties” as I did when in college, or in San Ramon, or as when I lived in the Prospect Place apt. Only want to write. Wish I had a cabin in the bloody Yukon. Rent one. Use it for a week, then fly home to be with family for a couple months. Then revisit. Something like that. Can’t be away from Ms. Alice, or little Kerouac, for too long. They’re represent my inner catapult, my existential ‘ever’.
Appreciate the way Ms. Alice wants me to look over her writings, for her class, her students’ parents, just minutes ago saying, “…‘cause you’re the writer…” Appreciate the respect. Remarks like that, better than book sales. Especially from my wife. Should name a wine after her. And little Kerouac.
Looking through her, Ms. Plath’s, entries. So much gorgeously contorted vocal, each sentence. How did she do that? This one journal entry I’m reading, a question, posing both positive and negative charges. Proton, electron.. or whatever. She’s too divided to be simplified– oh! I should put that in Tuesday’s lecture!
Back from short break, 10:02pm. Little pages at right, for lecture notes. Well as night’s cap. Decaf at ready. Ms. Plath, left. Reading through more of her entries.. so much beautiful, horrible introspection. I want to be her in so many ways. Then in so many, no. May be up late tonight, writing. No way I’ll tomorrow wake at 5-something, as I did this morning. Such shame, laying there, realizing where I was, what I was doing– debating if I should write or not. What REAL writer does that? Need another sip of this ale. The thought upsets me. But if I didn’t have those early morning sessions infrequently, then they wouldn’t be sententious, memorable. So, as they don’t happen so often, quite the boon.
Ms. Plath, explaining troubles in writing so relatable– spelling, titling, structure. What would I be if I never found her. Well, I of course would have found her, being the Literary lad I am. But if I never curled into her compositions as I did… Who knows. I don’t want to know. I’d bring this book with me, on Road. Read as I sip some unexpected red. Scribble my reactions, like one of my students. I am a student, so I completely relate. Her smile, embodying the mask, concept therein/of. She teaches me to be more open with my entries, more explicit [much I hate the word], exposed [hate that one, too..].
Think it’s so hilarious how cookbooks have to say they’re ‘books’. Why? IS that not loudly obvious? Why can’t there be some innovative title? Obviously recipes hold between the manuscript’s covers.. why do you need to tell us this book about cooking is a cookBOOK? And what made me think of this? A cookBOOK staring down at me from the skinny, tall bookshelf at my 12, here in the kitchen’s nook. It also tells me I need to cook more. Funny, as tomorrow’s scheduled to be my return to this kitchen. What should I play? Meat? Chicken? Fish? Salmon? Ugh… Why is cooking so stressful to me? How is it so easy for Mom?
Because she’s your mom.
Nothing over 1k. So, to decaf. Poetry. More Plath. Do I have to watch the news?