Posts Tagged With: wine world

Stay Sagacious

IMG_4436Knew right where I was going from the Petaluma Campus, I wanted something to sip of a Bordeaux bend and bravado and I had a certain centering in mind.  So I stopped at Bwise Vineyards, the little embracing tasting room right by Café Citti.  Started with the ’12 Pinot, insisted kindly by my longtime compadre Josh from around the AVA, Sonoma Valley.  Upon aromatic contact I was nudged by rich subtlety, almost to the point of befuddlement, but with a couple more swirls I was wooed by its inherent exposition; the story, the charm and the radiant roar of this Occidental Pinot, as Josh disclosed; 18 months 50% new French.  I this is what I know Bwise to show, tell, share.. so, no surprise for the ravishing start.  Then to the Wisdom, the bottle I nearly always take home when I visit the Bwise Room.  What is there to say but “loud engagement” in this bottle; provocative, voice, persuasion and sensory magic, beginning to finish.IMG_4439  Only reason I didn’t buy a bottle today, I had to get another notebook, as the current Comp Book heaps, and I have over 13 weeks left in the semester…  Then to the ’10 Trios blend, 59% Cab Sauv, 20 Syrah, 12 Cab Franc, and surplus split about PV & ME (Petite Verdot, Merlot).  And I could list and summarize everything else I tilted into my character but it was all uniquely resplendent and quite voluminous.  And approachable!  This is what anyone would deem a “luxury” or “boutique” winery, or “label”, and its approachability and universal feel and character, and song, make it inviting.  That’s why I stopped, right there, on the corner of 12 & Shaw, to have my connection, my appeasement, of Bordeaux interpretation–  “So why the pleasure with Pinot?” you might probe.  IMG_4438Well, curtly, they do it right.  In that ’12, there was assertiveness without the barbaric bravado you might meet from someone producing a Pinot but yet wanting to avoid its intended and inherent softness, ease, and artful acts.  I came to Bwise today to experience a wine producer with care, with respect for the varietals and that connects with sippers on a postmodern level, beyond simple definition and a dumbing-down of descriptor enumeration (and that’s how well-woven these wines are, and will present themselves to your sense and “palate”).
IMG_4440At the end of the visit, my good friends Josh and Sunshine poured me a flight of Bwise behemoths; the ’10 Monte Rosso, the ’10 Brion, the ’09 Napa Valley Cabernet, then as a show of welcome the ’03 Napa Valley Cab, to illustrate how the project will hold in cellar.  I was charmed, and not to much shock this was my leaner, or favorite, for the day, and to a writer/professor it blares character, all of these pours and the label inclusively.  I’m home now, in the nook as I always type in eve at day’s close, and think of what I should have tried again, again, and maybe taken a bottle of.  Next time, as I’m committed to again visit, and, again, if you know me you know I will.  I’m a Cab-chaser, and a Pinot-peruser, so maybe tomorrow or next week or sooner than soon.  We writers need be wise with our words and what better room than this little cove at 12 & Shaw.. do I have that right?  Who cares.  I know where it is, I know where IMG_4441I’m going…  Looking at my pictures, and can’t wait to they take me on that mountain/cave tour.. I find mySelf obsessed, consumed in thoughts of IMG_4442that entity and that bar and everything that Josh and Sunshine poured me.  Readying for bed thinking about these wines, and what I should have bought and that doesn’t happen too often; these wines, all of them, have voice and coercive qualities.  I’ll be there, at that bar, with Sunshine and Josh, or whomever’s behind that sleek counter, I don’t care, long as the Bwise wines are there… which of course they’d be.  I left rapt, devout, and thinking of my next visit, which could very well be next week, or sooner.

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Check in.  Made a fair amount of grats today.  Will count publishing stash, and the novel will certainly have decent subsidization from the poetry vending.  Sipping an ’11 Chard from my sister’s winery, then moving to a ’10 Rockpile Red blend from her op’ as well.  Today was a fight, right from the launch, but smoothed with the mountaintop guests, the views, and the strange winds which I thought would be uncomfortable but only eased me, allowed me to meditate while holding dialogues with visitors.

This Chardonnay, forcing me to see what my sister has done with her career, and what I’m about to do with my writing aims, efforts and leaps.  I’m a falcon, or some type of hawk, not necessarily hunting, just enjoying the wind keeping me aloft, with these views, above all troubles and angst.  Another sip, hardly any oak override.. more of a harmony shove through levels of sensory shades.  This is just what keeps a writer of my gallop quite motioned.  Tomorrow I’ll be running after work, as the ‘half’ is a week from tomorrow, exactly, up in Windsor.

11:03, and the night’s cap has been mustered, a glass of the ’10 Rockpile.  I can only laugh at what earlier stressed me.  Do I jolly as Poe, no.  But certain method to be soon implored will mirror his illustrative ilk.  About to count publishing stash, and I find myself more eased, rational, level than I’ve been in some time.  She would compliment me, as she won’t let her office frustrate or shake her.  She has her sight on the wine, her wine.  And I sip this thinking of her, how she’d react to it, and she’d do so without showing how much she knows, or how much she’s recently learned from her studies, her research, and what bottles she’s bought to deconstruct, searching for “notes”, as she notes.  With this Rockpile Red, she enjoys the depth of current in the wine’s way, but think the impression, the impact, is a bit much.  It’s a Bordeaux blend, from a hearty AVA, so that’s to be known, or expected, but that’s not what she wants.  And no, she doesn’t seek to make feminine or gentle wine, she wants to provide bottles with an artistic feel to them, a certain painted grace about how they bow to sippers’ senses.  She walks to the kitchen, sips again…  Too much oak, she writes.  But that could be from this as her third glass.  She’s focused, she’s intent, she’s serious.  She WILL get out of that office and make her own wine, sell it.  She’ll pour her bottles and sell it and speak of it how she wants, not how They want her to.  It’s wine, she tells herself, looking over some oenology website’s article, stating how Cabernet should taste.. then Chardonnay, then Carignane, then Sangiovese.  She hates that.. ‘how it SHOULD taste’, what it SHOULD express, or deliver.  Wine isn’t that.. it’s supposed to be expressive, Art, something for someone to sip and channel through which one making wine can relay his or HER belief in what comes from the vineyard, the vintage, varietal.  It’s voice.. concerted code to sip.

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journal– 1/28/14

And I’m home.  Switched ResRoom for Mountain, with Dwight.  Relieved, as I had a chance to enjoy views, air, quiet.  Tomorrow, back in classRooms.  Feel like doing nothing associated to material.  In other words, only touching on themes, not necessarily analyzing texts.  Announcing first formal paper, in both sections.  After 100, I’ll be at a café.  No nap tomorrow, no ma’am.  I plan on fully enveloping mySelf in a Lost Generation’s habit, pretending I’m in Paris; with no bills, obligations, appointments, responsibilities.  Oh no, I won’t be drinking.. just writing.  Not grading, planning, and certainly not thinking about wine’s industry’s tightening noose.

Past entries, from recent days, posted below…  Love the short story I wrote this morning in Annadel Park.  Takes me back to graduate school, that one presentation I gave in Dr. Fuch’s class, on Postmodernism.  My partner, Robert I think his name was, a newly-converted and very proud Buddhist, had the most ambiguous non-specific, and confusing, definitions for the theory itself that I was lost, even when giving the presentation.  Fuchs was an interesting guy.. pulled from retirement to teach this class, a fiction writer, poet, in love with Alexander Pope.. had a great time in his class.  Think I took three classes total with him, if you count the independent study credit, where I wrote several papers on Pope.

Sipping my night’s cap, already [8:11PM].  Want to get coffee tomorrow, for my 5-ers, so they can sip it while we watch “Midnight in Paris”, getting a sense of what Hemingway’s in love with, while he writes ‘Feast’.


Started a vignette today, writing when I could, mostly before the two mountain tours.  where’s my wallet?  Oh yeah.. the kitchen.  That’s where it is, in my wallet, those stapled pieces of scratch paper.. the makeshift notebook that I always make.  Mostly dialogue, inspired by slow days like today, in the tasting Room, where all you can do is sample wine, repeatedly.  But, just so you know.. IT’S FICTION!

More compliments on my wines from co-workers.  Today, on the Merlot.  Maybe I should do another, for ’14.  Why not?  No.. dedicate your entire life to the page.  If you want to write about winemaking, follow a winemaker.. use him/her as subject.  Anything pulling me from page might as well be death.

You know.. the image of me at the delicatessen, eating my chicken salad, sipping a Racer (as I am now) sounds beauteous.  And no, I won’t be inviting any writer friends, or anyone claiming to be a writer when in fact they only write little dialogue snippets and do nothing with them, to join this REAL writer.  And I’ll stay there.  No need for location change, as I did that first day of class.

And my little son, losing his littleness.  Nearly 2.  Was just looking at a photo album with him, of when he was only months old.  His reaction was interesting.  We’ve done so before, but tonight he seemed more pensive, realized.  That that’s him, that he’s aging.  And it’s documented.

Finally transferring all the pictures from this devil phone to computer.  So many old stills of little Kerouac.  I have to say, for as much criticism as I throw at visual expression, it proves legitimately valuable.  I can’t believe what time has done to us all.  But that’s what has been documented, I guess.  Sipping what remains of the ’08 Syrah I opened night before last.  Tastes more like a Pinot, frankly, now… Has to be the oxygen.  Just received another compliment on my blend.  But it’s from a friend.  Does that count?  IT’s wine.  How hard is it to observe, critique?  With writing, you have to be acute, precise, poignant.  All these pictures I’ve taken, the computer now shuffles through…  Makes me think about observation, as a concept.  Need another sip of the red, this tired, tumbling red…

Should go to bed soon, actually, and change patterns, as I’m set to run again with Carmen on Monday.  Will definitely be obstacle-laden, as that’s a teaching day, and I haven’t sprinted since 1/1.  Changing habits, now.  Tonight, my last of a bottle brush, please note.

These pictures, still “downloading”.


1/26/14.  Interesting day.. only 1 mountain tour.  Class tomorrow.  Bought another notebook, as I accidentally left my mini Comp Book in pants pocket, along with some notes, so it could have a nice stormy challenge in the wash.  Angry at Self, or was, now I let go.  Sipping the only glass I’ll have tonight, the ’13 SB I last night opened.

Hemingway tomorrow morning.  Setting alarm for 4:45AM, like mother-in-law.  Getting grading very much done.  Have to put Self in runner’s mindset tomorrow, as Carmen and I again go out for a 5+.  Not nervous, as I was earlier in day.

Book, thoughts over and over, all throughout day.  So much material, especially since ’09, when I started the first blog.. I can only bind something.  And all those cubeNOTES, while at the box.. what am I doing?  What am I waiting for?  I think it’s so funny, that it took them so long to let me go, those office bunions.  I wrote so much, on their dime, on the stationary that THEY provided.  They had this little area, for supplies, a medium-sized, waist-level cupboard, or “office closet”, I used to call it.  And I would absolutely pillage it, rob it for goods, for what the writer could use.. pens, paper, notebooks, highlighters, even paperclips.  Then, on lunch, I’d go to the roasting company, write for 50-60 minutes.  Oh, that bloody office.  Their obsession with sales–  Yes, I know that’s their gig, or what be, but I don’t have to like nor agree with their tonality, tenure, track.  I find them repulsive, with how they bastardize wine’s innate intention, which is enjoyment, fun, familiarity, the ‘ease’ of it all, far as I, and many with whom I now closely roam, feel.  And I know, they’ll say it’s ‘so Sonoma’, how I’m talking.  And of course.  That’s what Napa people always say.  So I’ll topic shift, take another sip, of this SONOMA VALLEY Sauvignon Blanc…


Tomorrow morning’s class, or classes, may be a bit curt, as I’m going to put them in essay mode.  And with English 5, the ones reading EH.. I want them continuing their research, finding out more about Mr. Hemingway, his habits, ways, beliefs.

Nearly bought a copy of the NYT.  Would love to have a piece published in their borders.  Much as I slander publishing, its world, and “being” published.. there are a few houses into which I’d like to be invited.


In kitchen’s nook.  And sitting at a different side than usual.  My back, not to front door.  I see it.  Wish there was a rain storm on the other side.  My friend, ‘N.S.’, working for the JC newspaper, against a deadline tonight.  He came out for one beer, but made it quite clear that he’d be in his office, in the pressroom or whatever, working towards final draft.  I want deadlines, I want the rush.  There’s so much I want, as a writer.  And now it’s time I take.

Have another bottle of this ’13 SB in freezer, chilling.  Please don’t let me be as hungover as I was this morning– wait, I don’t think I was so much hungover as I was fatigued, slow, not at all interested in giving petty repetitive tours.  But I did.  Only one, thankfully.  When I’m back in Paris, I’ll use the journal I today bought.. I don’t see much of a long wait for my next visit to my city.  So funny…  Only one cent over budget for that notebook, $3.01.  Hilarious.

Mom and Dad, back from SEA, today, or tonight.  Think there in home, now [8:46PM].  The only way for a writer like me to revolve is to travel.  I want to go to Mali, like Dad, and Egypt, like my distanced cousin, Nick.  Nick.. so sad, his story.  Once an Artist, now a mere mechanized commercial goon.  Yes, oh yes, he’s paid well.  But his soul’s  a lost goat, looking for suckling, for Life.  I don’t have any time to help, be some sort of savior.


Centering.  Tomorrow morning, being a shepherd of sorts, bringing students coffee, as I did on that first day.  But we’re only going to be there for an hour.  Yeah, I know.  IT’s part of the plan.  I’ll put the “traveler” in the lounge, or copy room, let the other instructors have at…

The SB, still in freezer.  And the pasta, still on burner.  So paranoid about time.. am I going to get enough sleep, am I going to be ready for tomorrow…  Will I have everything ready, perfect…  Just relax!  IS this any way to live, this obsession with time?  No!  Thinking the best way to defeat Time, my ever-enemy, is to ignore it, deny it significance.


Four years ago, I was adjuncting.  And that’s all.  I may have been in the wine world, but on my terms.  4.  YEARS.  Ago.  So I guess me acknowledging this would calculate another win for time, right?


My friend, J.M., been with the estate for over 20 years, a true connection with terroir; all its conditions, fiddles, respites, wanders, contradictions.  I admire him in a number of quarries; first, work ethic; second, knowledge and encompassing familiarity with the vineyards, all the blocks, micro-blocks, microclimates…  And, frankly, wine as an element, before it reaches the bottle.

Tonight, just as interesting as today.  How, in that I sit in a different seat in this nook, with an empty glass, waiting for this dinner to cook.  Ideally, I should be asleep, now.  But ideal is never the real.  So here the write reels.  And, I just checked on the SB, in the freezer…  Nowhere near what I’d deem “ready”.

Want to post one more note on the teaching blog before I resign to rest for night.  But I’m unsure.  Only one more glass for the writer.  With dinner.


If I were in a café on some hidden Paris street, I’d probably, in this current Literary shape, not write.  I’d just observe.  Have my wine.  Relax.  And OBSERVE.  Like the Hemingway depiction in ‘Midnight in Paris’.

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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

this morning.

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.


I do.


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.


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Three pages typed today.  And I didn’t save one of them.  Not one.  Just typed, edited, printed.  Like I had a typewriter.  That’s the writer I want to be, realizing again, sitting here with Peanut Butter M&Ms, 1st decaf cup.  Running or writing tomorrow morning, early.  Haven’t decided which.  See how I feel, just wrote on third page.

Want to enjoy my writing more, I also wrote.  Look forward to what happens next, if you know what I mean.  Character from today: woman who rang me at shoe store; scared of monitoring supervisor, confessing she was always nervous with her there, right in front of me she said, “You always make me so nervous when you stand there.” Felt sorry for her.  Is this where she is, at this point in her Life?  [Probably mid-50s, or late 40s, hard to tell as she looked worn, tired.]  Made me again affirm to Self how I will never run from some “manager.” I work for me.  Writer/Educator.  So, what do I write to make me more a fan of my work?  My first response, Fiction.  And Spoken Word, yes.  But there’s something to Fiction that has always rallied with me.  The characters, it’d have to be.

So, more vignettes.  Fictionalize everything.  I understand I’m not the type of New Journalist to fire lengthy chapters.  More than fine with that.  And frankly, that loses me as a reader.  So, snapshot approach.  Link them, see what you think.

Another M&M.  Sip.

May need another cup.  Wonder if the café at which I today ate, wrote quite a bit, has coffee.  They must.  Tuesday, I’ll stop there for coffee, write.  I’ll eat on drive to Cotati, where it locates.  I’ll trap everything I can.  Everyone.  Every color, sound, scent, scene.  It’ll all be mine.  And yours, reader.

And, 10pm.  News on.  But I’m not interested.  Can only think of tomorrow morning, anyway.  Run, or write?  What would you do?  Shouldn’t involve you, sorry.

My visions of tomorrow’s run, lurid.  But sitting here, in dark as I did the other morning, just the same picture potency.  Oh, what do I do?  Two M&Ms left.  Feel Self tiring.  No 2nd cup.  What if I closed this laptop?  Would that make me less Literary?  A little, I have to say.  But I shouldn’t be blamed, judged.  Not now.

Running clothes still upstairs.  Ugh, when am I going to run again?  Not letting Self go another 10 days.  No way.

The news, muted, more annoying than with sound.  Why don’t I turn it off, listen to my wine bar beats.. good idea.

There.. imagining scribbling as I did today at Redwood Café, in Greece, looking out at ocean, acknowledging its might, its voice, how much it’s written.  More than I ever could.  The night air, playing between all those islands, writing rival pieces.  Don’t want to get in middle, but I have to.  My character, giving way to ‘nother.  She travels, only observes, never complicates.


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Re-blended Blend

Tonight, writing freely.  Won’t touch book till Tuesday morning.  Hoping to run in earliest of morrows, tomorrow.  No matter how drained I seem.  Took home a bottle of Merlot tonight.  Already opened, but nearly 100% full.  Complete glass to right.  Plath to left.  First piece of memorable dialogue this morning, the only except worthy of record, for day’s whole: one of the stockers, a 20 y/o JC student, quoting this morning’s poem back to me, approaching, repeating “whisked white whispers.” Made my whole day.  Was nearly tempted to leave early, pretend I was sick or something, flee to nearest coffee spot to write.

More punchdowns this evening, after a glass of this same Merlot.  I noticed the aromatics intensifying, the temperature contrasts more pronounced.  And the color, differentiating in intensity, barrel to barrel, trapping me.  Again, with winemaking ardency, insistence.  Love the way the cap looks, above the juice, and how the juice looks when rising through the skins.  The process, more than the finished product…  Always animated, for me.  Just took first sip of this glass, and still quite impressed.  Wish I could have bought my Merlot, but I’m moving forward with this 2013 Meritage.  Need to think of my own suggestions for this Bordeaux blend they’re doing.  I don’t want to be in their way, with no contributing ideas.  The most recent issue of WineMaker Magazine, just above Merlot glass, here on table.

Can still smell skins on hands,

fermenting pools.

Gorgeous vampiric strips.


Ms. Plath, on the cover of her collected poems publication, staring right at me, telling me to stay focused, be an Artist.. write your poems, and now that the first chapbook is finished.. bloody release it!  Time, readers, 8:51pm.  Always looking at time, so how free am I in this writing?  Only one more glass after this, then to decaf.  Have to run, everyday this week, M-F.  Just set two alarms: 1, 4:15am; 2, 5am.  Met a gentleman today, visiting with his wife from New York (Staten Island), who runs all days of week, waking at 4am.  Wish I could do so.  Well, tomorrow’s my chance to try– or do.  No “try” for this penner, never.  Not at 34.


iconic, but off to drop it– what,

the pouring, to coffee’s sleeves,

no, my inner incline never resigns,

please.. to cold to fold2mold, poetry my

sole street.


Again, so thankful to the coworker this morning, reciting my lines.  What’s more remunerative for the Artist?  Plath, still looking at me.  Should open her book–

“All the Dead Dears,” first piece I see.  Interesting, her reflection on artifacts captured, how they’re seen, and what we should think of her, Plath, observing it.

Social media, anything technological.. disgusting, too easily infusing.

Not may notes from day.  Actually, only a couple lines added to a poem I started a couple days past.  Didn’t date, so certainty’s only a wish.  Thinking the next release should be a collection of poems and not the flash fiction effort I before pinned.  What do you think, reader?  Ms. Plath, too much in this writer’s wheel, winds.  So tell me then, what do I do?

“Do what you feel to write,” I hear Grandma saying.  “It’s your Life, you have your choice.”


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newest journalist journalism

10/6/13–  Spicy pasta from Alice, tonight.  Tired from day.  Sipping last Ale, and the writer’s about finished.  Want to wake at Barleycorn time.  Not to run, but to write.  Still very much feel yesterday’s Lawndale jaunt.  Today, party of 42, handled by Ed, also a teacher, and mySelf.  All from Norway.  Interesting group.  Not many questions, but still.. considerable interest in our wines.  Opened a random 375 from downstairs stash, just a minute ago.  On cork, in permanent marker, “EP”.  I opened it, thinking it was ‘extra pours’ of Lancaster Nicole’s Blend.  But…  Extra Port, from a friend’s [Lauren’s] boyfriend, who works for, I think, Fritz, in Russian River.  At my age, I’m convinced, I can’t do hard alcohol, or Port, or anything Port-like.

Was finishing this last bowl of pasta, imagining mySelf eating it on an overnight in some hotel, east coast.

Visited my wines today.  But only to top them.  Didn’t taste.  Only tasted the topping wines– a Grenache, for NDC [New Dad Cuvée], then an incredibly dark, smokey Malbec for the Merlot [MMFM Merlot].  Have the winemaking bug, again.  Making wines as a writer, not winemaker, if that makes sense.  IT should, to writers.

Distracted, by old videos I shot around estate.  Would love to go for an early early morning run.  Maybe I’d see a mountain lion–  Oh!  Maybe I would.  Annadel, promising such interaction.  They wouldn’t hurt the writer, I’m sure.

So pleased to be in base.  Ready for bed, I feel, after today, that group Ed and I had.  This entry: 300, no more.  Words conserved.  Need days off.  Don’t I have some “professional development” day, soon?  Yeah…  I’ll develop professionally.. with these pages, nothing to do with that JC, the activities they have planned, on how I can be a better educator.

The umbrellas, at work.. labor symbol, excess.


10:04pm.  Sipping sparkling berry water, preparing for early rise, a Barleycorn session.  Need the Road, my Newness.. sick of waiting, already.  Little Kerouac, crying.  Think he may be excessively tired.  Turned off internet connect, reducing–or rather improving–this device to a typewriter.  Can’t wait for morrow’s morrow, the harshest hours.  Setting alarm for 5am.  Want at least 1,000 salable words before Kerouac wakes.  And his crying, stopped.  For now.

Quiet.  Not elevating the TV’s volume even a millimeter.  Oh, just, remembered.. out of cups for machine.  Will have to brew own cup.  Not a big deal.  Having trouble focusing on any details, as the exhaustion gifted from day’s more persistent that I can handle.

Finished water.

Watching advertisements, muted, screened.  So many colors, promises.  Interesting, to us thinking types.  The semester, nearing its halfway point.  Not fair.  Should I start composing the book, for the term, that’ll ‘do something for me’?  No.  Not yet.  Not rush.  Wait till morning, when head’s clearer.  No way I’m touching that ‘EP’, Extra Port.  That has to be what it stands for, right?  Doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m not going near that poison.

What if I just stopped writing, for the night?  Should really be playing with words, rhymes, ‘stead of this run-on prose.  Decreed, then– in morrow, poetry, solely.  Caffeine, in doses mean.

Want another water, but I don’t want to wake the little Artist.  He seems especially sensitive this eve.


journal, 10/8/13

Jack, exhausted.  Still with cold.  Me, not so.  Second cup.  Larger than first.  [coffee]  Want to remain home, write.  Print.  Not as upset about losing long verse on phone.  Printing this morning.  Not losing anything else to devilish tech.  Annoyed by more systems.. not getting too specific, or at all so, but I’m in revolt against pattern.  Artists don’t engage with such.  And certainly not of my form– fiction, diarist, poem.


7:40pm.  No evening class.  Home, with sick mini-artist.  Red wine, Cab.  Tired, after 1,800+ words.  Still need to post to teaching blog, answer student emails.  When Thursday comes, I’ll be a dragon of diligence, direction.  They’ll never know what hit them.  No, I shouldn’t say it like that.. I’m just anxious for a better day.  In English 5, felt heavy, soaked surreally, with lower inner light, bent peddals.  Better now.  And after I read some Plath, I’ll be even higher, standing more straight.. more Literarily.

No social media distractions tonight, as I’m turning devil phone OFF.  Not giving to the chutzpah.  And no TV.  That’s just as bad– no, worse.  Thought I heard the Artist upstairs.  Poor little man, with his sniffles.  I’ll never get used to seeing him sick, or even slightly desensitized to it.

After these however-many words.. to newJournal.  Why don’t I have a bloody book out, already?  Honestly, with as much as I write.  This is truly laughable.  OR pathetic.  Or maybe both.  Can I have another glass now, of this fabulous Cab?

Getting annoyed with doors of other units I hear closing.  Don’t they know my little boy’s sick, trying to sleep?  Irritated, angry at Self for earlier weak state.  Should always have Self in militant, vicious Artist mode.

At home, all day with Jack tomorrow, taking care of him, making sure he defeats this system bug.  Have to get some reading, writing done.  The three boxes of k-cups I bought, little over an hour ago, maybe more, just behind this screen.  Should be set for month.  Maybe less, knowing me, how much I drink in morning.  Sure I’ll go through more than a few in morrow’s skatings.  So quiet down here.  Little Kerouac, finally getting some rest, poor bloke.  And his father, hoping to shift everything.  Won’t go on some wishing rant, but there will be reconfiguration.  No more nonsense.

More of the spicy pasta leftovers from Alice.  The writer needs a break from his page.  Some laziness.  We’re allowed to do that, right?  OR maybe I should lookup a Plath quote, post it to some social media site.. see if any of my “friends” respond, or “Like” it.  So contaminative, the whole thing.  That’s why I’m stopping.

Another glass, Professor MADigan?  Why yes, thank you.  I look at it, after a sip & .5, at my right, moving slightly, the purple puddle, as I type, slapping keys like a recommitted journalist (aren’t I?).  Want to watch a movie tonight, with a writing theme.  But what?  Ugh.. what was that Sylvia Plath movie, starring Gwyneth Paltrow…  Oh, “Sylvia.” Why didn’t I know that?  Anyway, hoping to watch it tonight.  Or some of it.

Keep writing, Mike.  Don’t stop.  Don’t let this devilish wine catch you.  Decaf is starting to sound good.  And I can’t get too diverted, as I want to be ready for Thursday’s class, by day’s end, tomorrow.  Thursday morning: running, the only priority.


And this moment, here at table.. just re-collection.  The wine, respecting my pace, my aims, what I want done tonight.  That I want to get poetry onto ACTUAL page, later.  Looking at this tower of coffee boxes behind laptop’s screen.  Find it funny, honestly.  I truly, and quite quietly, laugh to Self, as to not wake the little Artist.  The writer surely loves his coffee.  Why do I find this so comical?

Glass, empty.  Good.  Leave it that way, for a bit.  Need to fill the untouched Comp Book I recently bought, with notes on ‘Johnny Panic’.  What Ms. Plath is, where she’s going.  “When in doubt, put it back on the author,” I’ve always told students.  Time to practice while I bloody preach.  Drat!  Left her book in car.  No surprise, with this crazy day.  Tomorrow, off, but not.  Little Kerouac, his little sneezes, sniffles.  Would take it from him in a blink, nevermind a heartbeat.  Reading some of her poems online.. should bring these, or some of them into class.  “Blackberrying,” just read for first time.  Beautiful imagery, language, voice, temperament and tonality, stanza balance.  One of my students, making her journal a gallery, each entry with prose, painting.. showing the most vicious of ownerships.  Mimicking, starting tomorrow, with my reading journal, the new one I mean.  Putting Self in role of student, in own class.  But I’ll be with Kerouac, THE Kerouac, as well, for Thursday.  His form, style, voice, veritable page journey.. only massively applicable.  How can people not read him, admire each of his writings, typings?

Cutting Self off at 1,000 words.  I’ve already gone on FAR2long.  Kerouac.. what else can I find from him, online…  Only poetry.  Was hoping for some prose, or journal entries.  Maybe I can find them at bookstore, if I have a chance to go, tomorrow.  Probably not.  Should keep little Kerouac inside, with Papa.


24% on laptop.  Tired of this machine.  On couch now.  With this little buttoned monster charging.  Nightcap in kitchen.. ON kitchen counter, make it longer last.  Looking back at day, knowing I need not let Self get so frazzled, worried, stressed, depressed, what have.  There’ll be a day after, theoretically.  So calm, writer.. calm.  Peace.  And I’ll have true peace tomorrow with Jackie, sipping my coffee [one of the 3 types I bought tonight] while he zooms about this condo’s lowest floor.


umbrella tops, tickled by

polite fronts, pacific and

wherever.. picnic by houses on 19th–

oh the city, busy with its tempestuous

tizzies, lamp moths, fixate on

gas station drizzle, hoping to

square their dares.  hope they fly,

flee west.

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Autumnal Concernz

Hard to keep up with Kerouac this morning.  And before you ask, no.  No run.  Still feel Wednesday’s.  And today’s only Friday.  Friday, that means nothing to me.  I’m writing till I see that bloody office of mine– till I’m scribbling by that espresso machine.  Jack just leaned off his toy car, over the keyboard, seemingly saying “why, why…”

7:41am.  19 minutes till we get ready for Ms. Lisa’s.  Not making wine this year, I’m thinking.  Want to devote EVERYTHING to page.  All of it, Life.

Narrative, of a teacher, writer, Literary addict.  That’s what’ll get me to Stanford.  And the shorts– be them stories, vignettes, or poem.  Thinking about everything this morning.  Want little Kerouac to have a certain father type.  And I’m almost there, I swear.

Going to finish 2nd cup, then [–]


Next day, 10/5…  Upstairs, with coffee.  Just posted to teaching blog.  Almost wrote a full 3PAGES last night, but the Cabernet caught up to me.  As did the run from Wednesday morning.  Running Lawndale, for one of the last times this year, after work today.  Days, so much shorter.  May have to join the gym, like Alice did, to get my workout in.  Oh, and yesterday A.M.’s entry, interrupted by Kerouac’s little sprints around the downstairs play area, kitchen.  Just for specifics…

Only thing on my mind.. teaching.  Each day, I’ll do ONE primary act for sakes of getting my into the classRoom, fulltime.  OR, to teach, lecture fulltime.  Need more coffee–  But lost track of time.  8:09am.  Should get in shower, get ready for “work.”

8:04pm.  Lawndale, again toppled.  My favorite such run, on that challenging course, to date.  Lower sun, cooler temps.. even smelled someone’s fire, chimney’d.  What aromas on that rural run.  Didn’t hit goal, of finishing under 50min.  Still have some training to do before I get there.  BUT, in end: 59:14 total time, 8:14/mi pace, 7.2 miles total distance.  May run a bit tomorrow, like 3 miles or something close.  Maybe I should do an intense 25 min workout.  Not sure, but I will run tomorrow.  Not in morning, as I want the vessel to rest.  But when home, yes.  Or should I take the day off?  I’ll let you know.

Will grade 10 items tonight.  Also, post to teaching blog.  Will grade ten items tonight!  The inclass pieces from English 5.  Everyday, take a major step towards Artistic Autonomy, I tell Self.  Just finished 1st beer, may be time for another.  I’ll have the rest of the ’09 Cab I last night opened with dinner.

Memorable characters today, in tasting Room, all the clowns showing up right before close, asking “is it too late to do a tasting?” Technically, no, but we close in three minutes.  There are several signs outside those tasting Room doors disclosing our hours, did they miss those?

Gorgeous on estate today.  Exciting varietals on crush pad, Cab Franc and Barbera.  Took a few pictures, shot a quick video.  Love this time.  Heard today that I may be getting some Merlot.  But it’s not locked-in, not yet.  Speaking of winemaking, I’ll finish that short story, yesterday’s 3PAGES, 2nite.  Then, into the old entries for this first chapbook.  Like the ‘barreling philosophy’ I have with blog posts.  At least 1 year of aging before it’s bookable, manuscript-worthy.. “ready to bottle,” as the winemakers voice.

How is it that next week is Week8 of my best semester EVER?  Not sure, but I need come at students next week with methods, activities, interactions, WRITTEN lectures they won’t expect.  May have to sacrifice running time, much I hate to.  But it’s for the writing.  It’s for my path to Stanford.  And if I never see Stanford, not fatal.  But if I never travel, see the Road, my office, write for Life.. that would be terminal.  Don’t even want to think about it–  So I won’t.  That won’t happen.  Not sure why I mentioned.

Running past a Kenwood winery’s vineyard, to left, watching vines’ tips pass as I passed.  Cool, no traffic, peace.. won’t forget that, ever.  Need to train on hills more.  Lawndale did succeed in slowing the writer this evening with those 4 hills.  Would have been lower than 50min had I trained on steepness, like Woodview (where my wife walks, runs), or its neighboring inclines.  Can’t be too hard on Self.  I’m running, consistently, that’s what pushes pages.  Don’t get too competitive, writer.. detract from your books.

Funny, seeing the vines without grapes.  This harvest came so fast.  But I love the fall patterns, what is does to writing, or just the walk by vines.  Not everything has to be captured.  Sometimes, many times, simply living, observing’s enough.


Full glass of the ’09.  Thinking of today’s run.  And if I could get up tomorrow at 5am, but for writing’s sake, not a jaunt.  Would write in poem, as I did this morning.  Want to read to audiences, see them speaking with me, singing with me.  Isn’t that the most full form of Art, that level interaction?  May not get to yesterday’s short story.  Better for tomorrow morning, probably.  This Cab, not as illustrative as last night.  Still enjoyable, but not with the same skip.  But it catches me quick.  Need to keep typing.  Won’t get to teaching blog tonight, sadly.  I have mySelf too stressed with efforts.  Need to simply let all “flow,” much I hate the term, when people say that.  When I ask students what ‘coherence’ means, regarding a finished paper, to have a sense of […], they always say something like, “like the flow of the paper…” But either way, that’s what I’m thinking right now.  After this sitting, going to perform poem surgery on some lines I’ve been safeguarding, adding to, for the last few days.

Getting sick of this laptop anyway, as I always am.  Hoping for one verse tonight, that’s it.  Wish the rain would come back, that always helps with poetry’s tap.  And I could use it now, this moment, while I’m here at this table sipping Cabernet.. more than any time usually sprouting.  Again thinking, what Literary shape do I want to take?  Have an idea, but I don’t want to settle on anything right now.  What does that indicate, psychoanalytically?  Probably a lot.

Near glass’ end.  Lovely.  Wonder if the production crew’s still on Estate’s crush pad.  Pulses…  Thinking…  My Merlot– or, my POTENTIAL Merlot.  Like the writer I want to be, that I may already be.. Literary shape.  Want readers to go agape away from page.  Is that wrong, self-centered?  Isn’t that necessary for writing Life?


images, study, re-read,

suggestion, reply, letters,


calculate tape, check, monitor,

scattered scrimshawing, look–


Watching some murder mystery, or just murder report, nonfiction telejournalism, on TV.  Volume quite low, as Alice texted me from upstairs, letting me know Kerouac was sitting up, strait.  Talk about the writer I’d like to be, or type.. that’d be it.  Him.  Mr. Kerouac.  I’m Literary, not musical.  Although I’d like this writing, MY writing, 2B more musical.

No grading getting done tonight, as I poured what was left of the ’09.  This may be one of my last Lawndale runs– may have been.  Grammar jumbled.  I blame the wine.  And the run, ironically.  Looking forward to coffee.  And the day I can sip coffee from lobbies, in early morning, only up so early to write, capture all characters in my favorite stage type– the hotel.  All the roles, doing what they’re cast 2do.


Cabernet call.  All, no stall.

Report rumor.

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entriez, 2days, orMORE

10/1/13–  Finding it more difficult, stinging, to get everything done I wish.  3:43pm.. budgeting till 4p, precisely, for this entry.  Done with lunch, sipping sparkling lime water from bookstore.  Surprised how warm it is, thinking back on this morning’s chill.  Students, proving even more inspiring than gambled.  More organized after visit to office supply store this morning, somewhat.  Just have to stay atop grading.. that’s the most important menu item.  Give mySelf more time to read, enjoy student perspective on assigned authors.

In morrow’s cruelly chilled, dark hour, I’ll run.  For 60 minutes, not a pulse more.  Then, to work.  Readers.. out for readers, new readers.  Need inject more newness to these pages, act more out of character– or at least do what’s newest to me, MY role in this story.  Speaking of fiction, didn’t touch the 500-word piece last night, shamefully.  Maybe I’ll make that my only aim tonight–  NO.  Stop doing that, promising what you’ll do.  Just do.

Or do not.

Not much to type form this adjunct coffin.  Other than I’m eager to explore ‘Johnny Panic’, the Plath piece I picked, with the English 5 group.  BUT, this semester’s main event, left to the 1A section, with Mr. Poe.

Too enclosed in here.  Need air, again.  And maybe a coffee, eventually.  Yes, the writer more than likely will.  As I’m tiring.  Maybe I should have it now.  No– wait for class, get it just before.  Going through more of Walls’ ‘Glass Castle’, after watching a movie clip I meant to show them last class.

Need that air, I think.  And that coffee.  It’s 3:58p.  Bringing some papers and laptop back to car, put in old bag, in trunk.  For what it’s worth, I have maintained admirable habit, day2day, this far this Fall term.


Found most of my students are night writers.  Think I’d benefit from more P.M. prose, poetry.. pages, whatever the shape.

4pm–  Depart.

10:12pm.  Set to rise at 5am for run.  Sipping decaf, which I probably shouldn’t be.  And some of the remaining peanut MnMs.  Which, also, I’d be better off without.  Posted twice to teaching blog, already thinking of first discussion on ‘Johnny Panic’ with English 5 section.  But I can’t go on, here, about how I’m going to approach Thursday’s sessions, or how I need to go through old entries for sakes of this first chapBOOK [and that’s how I’ll be writing that, from now on..].  Need to finish story, now, that 500 word piece.  This decaf, romantically sensory.  Glad I used that [descriptor] on coffee, not wine.

And please let it be noted, readers.. I’m not at odds with wine, its world.  I just reserve the right to reiterate that I’m a writer.  Above and before all else.  And that my artistic aim can only be sequenced in one arena, one quite distant from anything relating to wine, the ripples it leaves in those sipping.  Tonight, accented example: I’m sharp, awake, acute, astute.  Wine wouldn’t allow that.

Either way, bon nuit, my readers.  Off to my fiction…

10:55pm–  Done.  Mostly dialogue in this piece.  And limited to 1 page, only 458 words.  Fine by me.  And I like its rhythm.  Have to give it a read, obviously, but I’m enjoying being done with it.  Should get to bed, if I’m to do this run tomorrow, write about– have something to write about– any newness.

Going to watch a little of the news, then bed.  So glad I renounced wine this evening.  Would not have been able to walk anywhere near what I’ve written this evening.

Hoping I hear new sounds, feel new atmosphere.. only sip newness on tomorrow’s run.  I will.  No music.  Only bringing device with me to track/measure progress.

Prêt pour mon prochain jour…

10/2/13–  Finally did it, this morning.  My 5am run.  7.5 miles, 1 hour.  Couldn’t have been more pleased.  But I want to note, tonight, with this glass of ’09 Cab (the bottle I unexpectedly located in upstairs stash): those reading these exhaustive, “rabbit hole” entries– Alice, Cindy at work, one of my [easily stronger] students.. thank you for your eyes, your thoughts, reactions.  OF course I want the cash from these pieces.  However, what rewards me more, the cognitive confirmation.  So again: Alice, Cindy, —-…  Thank you.

Tomorrow, dropping off little Kerouac, then to Petaluma.  Running again Friday morning.  Not looking to outdo what I this morning feat’d.  Looking to duplicate.  My goal, when I woke this morning, at 4:46am, and after a long talk with Self, finally getting the writer out the door, into that dark, strange setting.. 1hour, set on device.  Glad I charged it last night.  So quiet this morning, as I expected.  But what I most loved, that I literally outran the sun, with dark surround upon departure AND return.  I remember being somewhat afraid, when I started.  But that faded, quickly.  Had just enough light, especially on the run back up Yulupa.

Not touching book tonight.  BUT, wrote quiet a bit of poetry, spoken word.  Haikus from home, from after Jack’s dream descent.  This sequence, still being scribbled.  And this Cab, starting to catch me.  But I type faster.  I won’t let this devilish wine catch me.  Looking forward to the 1st Plath discussion, tomorrow.  I find the introduction, written by Ted Hughes, quite interesting, how Plath struggled with prose, had somewhat of a life plan, Literarily, spanning fiction, non, and even journalism.  Just want to see what they see in her.  And what do I now see in her, as I’m now a student in my own class?  I see dedication.. a certain obsessiveness.

This Cab, taking on more boastful a stride, in the last five minutes.  So intriguing in fact, I’m without content in glass.  So, the only logical remedy.. one more splash.  How many papers do I have to grade in morrow…  Not many.  Did manage to make a respectable dent, past couple days, especially Tuesday.  I’m right on schedule, but I need to be 10 leaps, not steps, further, at 12 [o’clock, as in plane-speak], consistently.  So tomorrow, taking Kerouac to Lisa’s, coming home to shower, shave.. then instantly leave.. speed to PC [Petaluma Campus].  May pick up a mocha before, but I’ll have to get another one of the mochas made on campus while there, probably right before class as I did on Tuesday.  Better than the usual mochas I buy from that corporate coffee brothel.. this one, from campus, 2shot, small, with something sprinkled atop, possibly caramel.  So sensual in how it slid across senses.. back, forth.. teasing.

Just poured Self another glass, keeping in kitchen so I have to rise2sip, making the glass longer last.  Had another thought, while taking first sip of this final glass– starting my own wine business.. a wine shop, as I once dreamed.. but seriously investigating.  Beat “the industry” at its game– or not that, just be a serious player in their game.  I don’t hate wine, at all, or the industry.  I just hold certain qualms with its, wine’s, dimension.  But yes, I agree, I need to reshape my objection’s page approach.  Very well.. so what business do I build.  Or a better question.. what do I want it to be, look like to customers?  If that one clotpole in Sebastopol can run a business, wine shop/art gallery, for over 8 years now, then I can succeed with fractional seriousness in effort.

Going to research a “catalogue” from a Napa-based wine business.  Parent company to the box, actually.  Watching news, now.  Still can’t believe I finally did it, that I’ve been awake since 4:46am.  And I’ll do the same come Friday.  And you know what, reader…  I do want a better run.  Want to start my stomping before 5am.  And go past 8 miles.  Go into work, into MY day, with even MORE confidence than I today had.  Loved the feeling, this morning, walking through those 2 tall doors.  Never in my Life has the writer been more confident, healthy, quick, more LETHAL, a WRITER, than I am 2day.  Praise the Craft.. sip, sip…

Re-reading these older entries.  So pleased, and yes PROUD, I’ve written as much as I have–

10:59pm.  On a poetry binge.  Want people to want to hear me, see me, speak.  Prose, still on radar, on my manuscript menu.  But poetry, above elevated.  There more invitation for innovation.. with words, rhythm, speech.

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Propeller Basket Leave

Tonight’s routine.. blog then book.  Did manage to sew a few notes before shift, sipping the 4shot mocha, looking out at a green field being assaulted by random September rain.  Tonight’s varietal, Pinot.  Wasn’t foreseeing, at any point, my picking of this bottle.  Vintage, 2011, Russian River.  Don’t feel like giving the winery a plug.  First sip.. surprisingly heavy.  Like my thinking.  May be tired from yesterday, blended with today.  Have decaf in cue, after glass.  Or ‘glasses’, if I have one more.  Had an idea today, actually 2: 1) start file of “New Standalones,” all prose pieces, and 2) start a short story hustle.. self-publishing collections while sending them out.. become a master of the short story.  Would rather be so, much more than a bloody “novelist.”

Had short discussion with Blair today, about the Merlot I’ll be making this vintage.  “Okay, but you’re doin’ this one all on your own,” he said.  Partially, I was spooked.  Then the other, much louder, excited.  After that, met a couple people sharing a kinship with my world, the Literary.  Much catharsis, needed.  And I haven’t started reading, or re-reading ‘Glass Castle’ by Jeannette Walls, yet.  If I wasn’t at the bloody winery 40+ hours a week, I’d be at a desk, weeks all, each hour.  Reading, writing/responding.. student again.

Just decided, I’m not starting another “doc” on this devil laptop.  I’ll write everything in newJournal.  The black & white Comp Book, retired.  Looking at little pages, only writing 1 line today, with sane reason.  Can’t share it here, much I’d like.  Sorry, reader.  Another Pinot glass.  Thinking of some remarks I heard today, about people wanting sweeter wines.  “It’s okay,” the lady said, spilling the Chard into the ceramic bucket, “but do you have sweeter wines?  I like my wine sweeter, ya ‘now?” I could tell she was from Texas, or Arkansas (to which we can’t ship), or Mississippi.  Somewhere South.

Going to load decaf, prep tomorrow morning’s coffee– oh, I don’t need to, as Alice bought me some new k-cups, medium roast, which doesn’t jolt me as roughly as darker roasts, like the French.  A calm fueling [preferable], rather that one rushes, panicked, leading to more panic.  Thank you, Ms. Alice.

Enterprising hoopla.  Maybe that’s my genre.  Just started another short.  Poured last Pinot glass.  I like the wine, but it’s not a Pinot, to me.  Too heavy, too thick.  Doesn’t bring the elegant nature that Pinot promises.  Typewriters–

Need one, for my new form.  Truly Literary.  Ms. Alice, in other Room, enjoying her show.  Me, I have to stay far from TV.  Disregard it.  Pretend I’m in Poe’s day.  Reading “Hysteria” by Eliot, for the first time since…  Done with Pinot.  Good.  Don’t want any more wine this eve.  In fact, that decaf would prove bright at moment current.  But I just sat, into this cushion, comfortable.  Why does the writer always have to move?  9:43pm.. not a lot of thinking time.

Hate typing on this


so removed from create.

Coffee, why me

wait?  Finish my story.

So easy.



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