Posts Tagged With: Wine Journal

Opened a Merlot



from a potential client, mmc.  And honestly, mmc has been all that’s dominated my cognition and persuasive inner-imagery today and this evening, even what at dinner with Alice at Roberto’s, where the service was oddly slow.  This Merlot, much better than the one I produced in ’12…  I can tell there’s more new French on it, this one as well a ’12, but made by a professional wine-wielder.  This translation having more of that “gothic” grittiness I like in a Bordeaux, and the prose I write should reflect that in that I just want to finish my novel here tonight and not go in tomorrow but just stay home, dive headfirst into the coffee and that cinnamon latte blend and end the noel where it is, in one day, so I can grow mmc.

I need to relax with my visions, my mmc dreams and those of the novel finally finishing.. oh, and making wine this vintage, as I boasted in earlier entires, do I want to do it?  Uh– I don’t think I can, with all I have going on, in, on–  Want more of this Merlot and I will, it’s 4th of July weekend, the time when Americans claim to revel in being a free nation when really they succinctly set themselves to sip wildly, get drunk, and say ‘fuck the rest of the world, this is how you should be doing it!’ Really.. okay.  I never get political on this blog, but I had to follow with that framing of my thinking.  Someone asked me today, “So what are you doing for your 4th?”

“Uh,” I started, “staying home and writing, and opening a nice bottle of wine.” But then I remembered I’m spending my 4th with Mom and Dad, so I added and amended–  “Well, with my parents, I’ll be opening nice wine and having a home-cooked dinner with family, nothing crazy,” I told Kaz, also a prospective mmc client.  I see my office, and me in there planning everything on a board, one animated and enjoyable and engaging for me.. my business and livelihood, what I thought about today while going to Alice to hear M2’s heartbeat…  The consolidation, continuing with confident continuity…..


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MOCK SOMM: Handley Cellars, Anderson Valley, Chardonnay, 2012

IMG_7008And the Handley Chardonnay, more than just a stream of me being proven wrong about the grape, the varietal, that problematic genre in oenology– no, this has its own -scape, and diction, and curvature with its apple-ized code and symmetry from scent to acidity to tactile ebb to its overriding message.  And I get the sense it wants me to survey its entity and scene, how it intends on greeting all my senses and receptors– the bottle, and this last glass, knows I’m writing about it– it uses me as a translator and courier of its thesis, and it says, like Amy Tan, “It’s a luxury being a writer, because all you ever think about is life.” And this bottle and its producer and the Anderson Valley AVA bring life with it to everything it contacts.  I’m smitten, enamored, befuddled, and seized by its synecdoche of notes and plays on my perception.  Yes, it’s Chardonnay, but so many, especially sommeliers, talk about “varietal integrity”.  Well here it is.  What more could a wine chaser demand?  Seriously, this writer wants to know. This is more than Handley at their best, this is the AV producer being what I would note equitable, candid, conversational– speaking through the Chardonnay varietal and showing what it wants us to know about its feel and voice, and tone, octave, beaming character oscillation.

I’m now more open to Chardonnays as you may know but this one teaches me even more than I ever expected to learn about the Burgundian loop-grape.  This is more than just “stylistic”.  It’s honest.  Declarative.  Instructional and comedic in how it appears to mock other Chardonnay attempts and projects.  “This is Chardonnay, real Chardonnay,” I say to myself, here at the kitchen counter, staring at an empty glass.  And I’m not “scoring” it as I don’t have to.  This is just a note denoting and connoting that I respect this wine and the producer and how it makes me envision the Road and what I’ll write about so many tomorrows from now.  Fantasized glass apparition presence–


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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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Pommard Perambulation

IMG_0990The walk told me everything, and the vineyard told me more. That block by the entrance. Accumulating clusters and characters and the air with its brushy and coy song whispered through the canes, leaves as they fiddle with and taunt light. And I just watch, just like the visitors, tourists from Southern California to South Wales. Everywhere, just to look. The pace, unaffected by time its reminding me that I have to be at work soon. Not concerned, only connected to the green echoed visuality and the raw earthly dark tint of the cordonsIMG_0996 and soil and that sound again, the littlest thin muffle of atmospheric dialogue, it moving the leaves again, toward me and back and I just watch. Take a meek colony of still shots then throw the device back in the carrier and repeat watch, walk, hear and heal in the scene; what the world visits for. Vines, growth, the story and the past to their present and when IMG_0994they sip and look out from the tasting room there’s the realization; that connection, and I’ve always been taken by that. I walk further toward the gate and see a leaf, discolored which I’m sure says something, an ailment maybe or virus, I don’t know. I just stare, look and wonder at the colors, and am I supposed to like this scene or feel some empathy or compassion for the leave, or guilt that I’m photographing it with my phone like so many who see accidents or tragedies or some misfortune and internally are pushed to film it with a phone? Am I that? Am I doing that to this poor leaf, this poor cane, the vineyard? Am I THAT tourist? I put my phone away and walk more, to the gate but stop only feet before and go right, then down another row. Taking a closer look at the clusters I meditate on what glass they’ll be in, where, celebrating what. That tie with the people and the tables and glasses, someone’s house, someone’s occasion, someone’s something… someone’s family. IMG_0992 That’s the significance, not the photo, not me, not some magazine that throws scores at the bottle, utterly negating all the effort and time and sunlight and gusts that passed through the vineyards’ expressions and dimensions. Significance and the story of this 2 acre block involves the people coming to harvest these forming wee bunches, in the earliest of A.M.’s, leaving their families at home to arrive just before the sun makes even a slight statement, then they’re trucked off to be crushed, produced and shaped for sipping, leaving behind desolate vines, new end and start. And people will migrate to see that as well. They don’t care what the vines look like or where they are in their “season”, they just want to see, and keep seeing.
IMG_0989Then I open the gate, walk back to the tasting room. At least four looks over my left shoulder, see how the wind pushes those canes and the leaves, and that one leaf, the discolored, moving as it wants and me just staring. I go back. One more shot. And another. Now I guess I’ll work.


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From Remain


My brother Kevin, inspecting the Pinot block…..

IMG_690710:04,  Mom and Dad left, and me here with the Pinot, the one a “friend” at work aside for me set.  Listening to classic rock tracks from dinner.  Dishwasher in full focal, and me here with this keyboard, indeed influenced, and more than likely not running in morrow.  And why should I when my wife was enough celestial to get my some coffee for rightafterwake.  MY wife, building her teaching career, and not settling, only advancing, having her progression ascend and never comfortably stabilize, she’s always moving and advancing–  I’ll use that as the model, her as idol, like the grapes of this vintage that continue their maturation, their storying.  This morning, walking the rows with a friend, I noticed, it came to me, the inevitability of a vintage.  It will happen.  Their will be grapes pulled and wine made.  The writer must develop as nature does: inevitably.  Tonight on the porch, sipping the Pride Syrah with Dad on the porch as little Kerouac played with his friends in minutes remaining before they were called away to bath and or bed.. he said, Dad, “It looks like something could come from these clouds,” meaning rain or some front.  That’s natural, that’s more than just simply predicted– it’s definitively systematic.  The writing need be the same, part of my climate and system and yes the wine to me codes but I entrench in my convictions and out carry my mission.  Again at the pictures, the onset of real pigment and life and visual– me lost in the night and my session, looking at bottles on counter, by kitchen– the SB and the Pinot, SRJC, that I opened a couple nights past.  And now this glass of barrel-borrowed Pinot, 2013, oh that amazing vintage– why are so many so quick to IMG_6922forget about 2012?  I’ll never get that.  And I’ll never get the innerworkings of the wine life and world and circle.  Tired, and bent from Pinot and not knowing where I’m going with this narrative– can’t wait for the novel to be done, what Mass’ does with his life and how he figures all into his story, what he wishes and what he sees, what he does wit his adjuncted reads.  My mind’s not the most sound it’s ever been, but I’m writing looking at pictures I shot this morning of Kevin and I walking that block and how the story correlates to my permanency here in this stage and moment– wish I were on travel, on some street and in some hotel unknown– is that not the life that we all want, the unknown and the unexplored?

IMG_6910Last sip–  Yes.  I know I’m one with wine and I can’t get away, not from the biological effect but from IMG_6909the character code it poses to my persona and Personhood.  I remember the first wine that really told me something, something– a 2000 Merlot, from a larger producer– An old song, Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”, comes on, and I think and think and imagine me, the world and the time and whatever– confused and contorted– others talk but I don’t listen, at all, because they talk.  I want to feel and think and postivize, that’s me and my aim, disposition.

Can’t thank my wife enough for the coffee– can’t wait to wake and not run but just write and look at these pictures more.  But now, I drink this Pinot that my “friend” set aside for me in “her office”.


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MOCK SOMM:  Archival Wines, Sonoma Mountain, Farina Vineyard, Chardonnay, 2013

IMG_6653This translation presents not just an apexing display of fruit and acid synergy, not to mention textural prowess, but a view; a view of the vineyard from where it generates; high altitude voice, Sonoma County elevation and anointment; saga, the small producer, autonomous and palpably dexterous winemaker Blair Guthrie sharing his love for the often misunderstood Burgundy white; melody and euphony of everything a California Chard should be while still offering adulation to Burgundian intent–  Quite plainly, this Chardonnay translation, and the conveyance of its AVA, are unspeakably awe-inspiring.  Once more, Chardonnay and I haven’t had the best relationship to note.  It’s been confrontational, judgmental, pugilistic, and just unbearable.  But this Chardonnay tier makes me look at myself and how I’ve treated the varietal rather than be more bold and bullying.  I’m humbled, I’m taught, and like Virginia Woolf ordered, “Language is wine upon the lips.” This wine, with its own language, patting and provoking my layers of thinking and my narrative, making me think why I ever fouled Chardonnay in the place first– then my narrative goes dark, dumb, distant.  Next glass touch, the first impressional plume speaks more caramel-curved apple and crème brûlée surface; smoke-sewn and slightly charred; just a relief, candidly.  Me mute, just learning, a student, learning new language and new wine and new views…

Language and wine have always taunted me and made me sit at this desk and write, and wines like this won’t let me leave.  I’m learning a new language–  I’m here, sipping, and envisioning.  What, I don’t know.  Whatever the wine from that mountain tells me–no, orders me–directs me giving me new direction and a new Road; a new Beat–

Woolf also said that “A good essay must have this permanent quality about it…” This Chardonnay, then, from Mr. Guthrie, is a series and tsunami of expository deluge.  And I just sit here at the desk; sip, learn, write what I can, as I can.  And there’s civility, no more scribbled or typed pugilism.



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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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wine thought 2

IMG_6657And on the red or white question I always answer both.  Be closed off to anything, why?  Why not be open and then decide?  My sister’s a winemaker, and she used to say she didn’t like Pinot.  Simple, plain.  And now she makes one of the most well-arranged and sculpted Pinots I’ve ever sipped.  So…  Always say yes, then formulate a well-thought opinion or perception.  Not that wine has to be over-thought, but there should be some thought, right?  Oh and Pinot, maybe I’m saying yes too much.  Maybe I should go back to Cabernet and with her run away– what if I.. what if I…  There needs to be more exploration for wine and this writer, so I can be in position to yell yes, more.  More travel, more removed corks, more blending, more blind tasting, more journey and just throwing Self to wine; more Education and Self-Education.. more Roaming–


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This Day, oh this day, this musical day..

went to Pride winery and was kept and transferred and pushed by everything I saw, heard, IMG_6676spoke about with the Pride pride… And now I’m here in the SRJC library more than prepared for my session– oh you should see me reader fly over these keys with my 4-shot mocha and the Kerouac books and notes and the poem I wrote yesterday with my new 100 crew, one I titled “No Math in That”, in response to one of those National Geographic daily pics I put on screen. And I feel more than alive, this writer, those vineyards on that mountain and the Big Sur-ish quality of the drive, most of which I drove with no music playing. The entire route back to the Autumn Walk castle I had not a single measure or note slipping through the Passat’s speakers. I’m on the fourth floor now, where I’ve written before, staring out at those trees, the campus trees that dominate the quad between this library and the bookstore. And when I’m on the Road, with my Kerouac paper, much of which tackles the notion of a Road, THE Road, or anyone’s Road, and how it can be either paved or ‘un’, but how there’s more reward in the lack of quietude; there’s struggle, and that struggle’s the gift, the Road’s gift to the one writing it! Oh, need to write that….. Just did, one page in the legal pad I used toward the end of last semester.
The trees move a little outside, wind or slight gusts, either way activity. Need a sparkling water, store closes at 5, not much time. Hate to give up my station on this grandiloquent 4th Floor. But then I think about something, and another something, all like varied drum hits on an odd-sounding snare: Why complicate when I’m trying to consolidate? Why take on additional assignments, of any Literary, journalistic or professional shape and scape?
I’m rising and leaving. I need a water, and time in that adjunct office, time to collect and take myself through the lecture I have written, yes very much written, and planned for 6PM. Tomorrow at winery and I don’t know what I’ll be thinking and imaginatively deconstructing in my sight. That drive and that mountain, and that cave system sang something I’ve never tasted and now I’m in a carouseling composition. Hydrate, wait, precipitate…

IMG_6677In office, or office for all of us, which doesn’t much an office make. Sparkling water, lemon, bought two, other in freezer so chilled to my kingly liking for class. Only thing left to do, print poem, plan and lecture.. later post to blog. And I’ll do later as there may be something I want to add– want to try this new approach, incorporate during-class adds when I get home to post, show the students more the process, my process. Like with wine, all the makers have their methodology and precision theologies.. so the wine is its ‘best’. And I want tonight’s lecture to be even more sterling and shining, beaming than last night’s if that’s at all possible. The caffeine from the 4 shots still much in my makeup.
This prose perpetuity, much my preferred poison. And on the drive to Pride I saw what I really want, in this greatest of consolidations.. my pages sold, me traveling with the reads of certain texts, independent lecturer and writer and speaker.. auditoriums assailed and meddled and marauded by those wanting to hear my words and listen to my reads, not that they’re the right way to read a text, just a new one. My socratic practice all over this country’s map, and elsewhere; France like the owner’s brother today, who also happens to be the CEO.. so interesting a man, everything he’s done and what he still does. And on the ride back all this and milieus more, new scenes and settings and senses, stimuli for me, the writer and Beat and skating back and forth for ideas, and the property today, that new songset, finally me one, more, gifted.
Refusing to be a beat adjunct. That stops. On the drive back I just asked myself, “WHY?” Why do I let them do this to me? The students are my reason for being in that classroom, yes, but the other facets and grindings, my core qualm. I’m just ignoring them, the Them, those devils that have it this way; I write about it and blog and expose everything. Why should I be afraid? Language is on my side; the paginated freedom of this Beat, this Beat and beatness of mine. So beatific!

I start to calm now, sipping this water.. I have enough time to print my pages. IMG_6675I’m so very excited to show up to class as my students do with pages, actual pages! Ready to read! I’ve done my homework, this student! And as I told the Pride pride today, in that cinematic room with the long gothic madera surface, “I teach because I love being a student.” And tonight, in a matter of minutes, 41 precisely, I’ll so show… And so pridefully. There’s nothing wrong with pride or being prideful in something you’ve done, as long as it was done with love, and eagerness to share and help and exchange.. I’m proud of what I’ve written, the lecture and offerings for the evening. And this evening, what I’ll take home, think of while I water our front lawn with a Racer in hand, maybe a glass when inside, some of my Merlot, or the Pinot from Arista, something, something for me, for my writing and the session and shift tomorrow.. Wine at the center of it, its analogy and impact and symbolic Jungian value– Here now.

My use of Time today, evidence I defeated it. I’m not accessible in these sentences, in these streamings of peculiar syntax and diffident punctuation, that too I realized on the mountain, walking through the cave with Tim, and into the Room where I saw Sally; the winemaking sorceress who clearly mentored my sister.. creating then the materialize and actualized bottled content, bound for someone to home take. Her Road, my Road, my new prideful Road and traversing.


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