Posts Tagged With: wine

And just like that I’m 36.

And downstairs in the dark, or semi-dark, typing. Like I did in the condo, and I look outside at the house behind me and see a single light on, small window, translucent, one of those blurring window (obviously as it’s a bathroom and I think that one may be just to the side of the shower). Posted the MS article to blog, checked my account, and the winery paid me, but the goddamn college didn’t. They’re making me wait till the 10th, but they paid the full-time rumpbags today. Not going there with thought, not ruining my day. I’m new as I said in yesterday’s entries and pieces and I wait for wine to tell me something, and what .. I hope something that will further jolt me, like yesterday morning–only time I had to write–and the night before.

Going to sell my personal pages and sell them wildly like the woman in that video yesterday on the Paris Review site, and just keep going.. she said “And this is how I pay my rent and it’s hard”, something leaning from that swivel of thought, mixed with ambition and anxiety; true artistry and expression and TRUTH. And I’m addressing the Hemingway caliber of Truth.

Keeping myself to less than 300 words this sitting, on the couch like the condo with the day rising before my sight and me trying to catch up. Looking at my account I start to anger but not today, not on MY day– but every day from here out will be MINE– the see-through nature of my life as a writer, not blocked or blurred like the window of this other house– Dad here yesterday teaching me to fix, all around the house, tricks like leaving a new hose in the sun so it stretches out and is easier to curl; then the toilet upstairs with the new handle and how to cut it, the looking at the water level and how it’s low which means we’re not getting a full flush. Dad reminded me that I need to build, BUILD goddamnit, both character and manuscript pages and sell! No more depending on the college, the system that strips enjoyment from learning and has everything so masterfully measured in semester length and fucking word counts. Give me a break.. going to somehow get my grades in tonight, don’t ask me how, but I will. And that’s another thing: they gave us, all faculty, only a week to do final grades. Which sounds like we’re all in the same boat which insinuates fairness, but adjuncts have other jobs. THEY don’t. THEY have offices and now THEY enjoy vacation.

I’m over 300 and I don’t care, I can’t stop and I haven’t even had coffee, not a drop. Thinking of the wine last night, a little of my Merlot, what remained, and the Rougue bottle from Sanglier.. which had more magnetic traits? I don’t know, again I’m not a somm but I’d have to affirm my Merlot, and I opened it not last night, or even the night before, but before that! And it was still composed, with visible sequence and soundness in all palate syncopation.

And I need coffee, and to stretch my legs. Both hanging over this couch cushion hurts my knees, both, especially the left.. no, right.. no both. Went upstairs to check on Alice and little Kerouac and both are resting in the new bed, our room.. Jackie already shows he’s not interested much in leaving the house, and neither am I frankly. I want to stay here and write– Looking right and that light is still on, showing fuzzily through that window. Wonder what their story is, when they moved there, how many kids they have and all. Feel like I’ve learned so much in 36 years then the second next I feel remedial myself, completely, like I haven’t been paying attention or I have ADD or ADHD or something.

Mother in law, Cathy, emailed me a gift card for Starbucks, so I don’t have to worry about that budget score. Relieved. And I’m thinking that I want to– doesn’t matter.. budget ideas but I’ll have more money coming in vending these personal pages, which I tentatively have tagged ‘foryrownjoy’. Yes, inspired by Kerouac’s Spontaneous Prose Rules. So quiet in the house now. No fridge hum. No Jackie upstairs talking. Just the morning, me, that light from the house at our 6, and me typing, plastic key sounds and me thinking where the pages go– well they go out there, into the world and at the judgmental types, and how they only wish they could write but just sit in their puddle of inner-bickery and wish, wish they were me, that they could just sit down like this and write like Miles plays, like Bobby, like Sonny and Monk.

Coffee… Now I need it. And I need to note everything today, and not just say I’m going to. Observe and record and scribble while walking, don’t wish you were at the laptop– if you have ink and a little sheet then you’re fine. You’re 36– how. 30. 6 more. Zen.. peace….. I’m fine, I’m writing and I’m in the Autumn Walk of things, ideas and states of Personhood day to day which will benefit me and I’ll grow through this new maturity, if I’m mature. But that too’s not a focus this morning. May be busy today, hard to tell but I won’t let it get to me. The quiet of this neighborhood is both relieving and terrifying, a dualistic principle that you can feel walking down the block to San Miguel, then up to the busier Coffey.

Should clean up a bit before leaving as I don’t know how much time we’ll have to do that after the workday, before Mom and Dad, Tim and Denise, get here. Huh.. our first family dinner and gathering in this new base. Time flashing in its passing and I can only write as fast as I can, try to catch up. But I’m starting to feel Beat…..


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This morning the laptop moves so slow

and what I the coincidence do as well. Already into the coffee and little Kerouac watches his favorite cartoons. A bit of a day off today but I have to wait for the delivery of a bedroom set and assemble and situate something with Dad then somehow fit in running and grading of the papers.. how is this supposed to take place? I’ll figure it out or not, more than likely I’ll just write– With this new age I’m not not-caring but more so enjoying whatever ebb presents itself then align with it, write alongside it. Pardon my venom last night, but it’s the age, and the older I get I very much get like that around birthdays. But more punctuatedly this one, 36. And why? Not time to deconstruct that ad nauseam as that’s won’t do a thing but put me back in that mood from last night. Today I target zen, wine zen, novelist zen, and the writing practice that will build what I want to build, not just a career as a writer but more than that: a pervasively Creative Equilibrium– And that’s why I’m so prodded by some comments, as it minimizes and trivializes my character– but only if I let it, I realize. And my cousin’s counsel, and the Art I used to study more, the verses of Shakur and other poets like Kerouac and Eliot and Plath, Poe, that seemed to have this reactionary and non-excessive deliberative quality– like Artists in a studio, like Pac.. just create, just voice and write and put it out into the readers’ world.

And those pages ‘for my own joy’… Writing a few of those, but putting them into the novel and I will finish that goddamn thing by the 14th and release it. And always stay writing, like a sick addict, like the show Alice and I watch (“Nurse Jackie”), and find times when I can scribble, escape to the restroom at work to scribble a word or five, just write whenever I can and however I can and place the scene on page, like now: 6:39 up with Jack at laptop and sipping coffee with my cellphone on the island (kitchen) with me, right, and wallet and keys and little notebook left. Motion all around me and I can hear Ms. Alice upstairs in the shower and the day is off… But I’ll outrun it, in my short pieces and the novel, MY novel.

Jackie expresses his lack of desire for school today, and of course I have to be the bad guy, the domestic villain telling him he has to, and embellish saying “oh but it’s gonna be so fun” and “everyone’s waiting for you!” Which may be true but my tone and syllabic emphasis conveniently contort truthful perceptibility.
Want to finish the MOCK SOMM piece, which I haven’t started, reacting to that Rhône blend, and honestly I was surprised by its presentation and sensory presence. A wine like that makes me think, about my place with wine and the story about wine I want to tell, and I want to print them not just throw them onto a goddamn blog — I’m a mess this morning, that character side of mySelf I tag ‘Mikey-a-Mess’. But I’m writing through it, at least — The novel, don’t work on it today.
No, just write short pieces, and release them all, print them! Like your students how they come to class with their printed submissions ready to hand in, smiling and relieves and eager for me to hold the pages– that’s what I today do, execute.
Decreed then.. start with a piece about your winemaking visions, the character, the tireless blending trials and being at that bench — The laptop moves slow now and frustrates me and I feel the call of the Comp Book, and the papers I have to grade but in no way want to and why’s that well it simply takes from the writing, and that with this new age especially is a reality I’m in no form to tolerate. How I’d love to tell the “chair” that I only want to teach one class, how I wish I could afford that– need something to sell, to fill those income gaps I addressed earlier.. how about modern pamphleteering? MY short fiction? Yes! Going to screen those Paris Review videos of that comic artist and that novelist, see what pushes and propels me.
Now my mood lifts.
Here in my studio, the kitchen, this island. And no heliocentric buffoon with a self-endowing acronym job title (ick, and how could anyone be proud or boastful of a title that some corporate body assigned them? I guess some value the whole identity thing than others..).

And like that, I think of something, descriptors and descriptions of wine and the characterization; the vinoLit of it all. Over 800 words already this morning and I can’t forget what I have to do, what I want done going into 36; fiction, wine, more writing and the narratives to perform, to PRINT! 20 pages of fiction and narrative, stay a writer in your age and know that;s all you are, singularized beautifully in paragraphs and prose and verse and the Beat of my own music; a fusing of Hutcherson and The Doors and Tupac and Ginsberg– today, all Literature, all to the mic, all recital; Beat Beat BEAT!

Jackie eats his cereal and plays with the monster truck I bought him yesterday at Safeway before picking up the order from Tres Chiles (from a gift certificate given by our old neighbors Jen & Ken). And my mood again ascends, trying to reach a thousand words before leaving the Autumn Walk base and traveling to the Yulupa zone.. so glad we’re away from that locale. Not that it’s a bad place to live it was just time to move, to move on, to have the story develop and have that Newness I’ve so long craved–

Back from taking Jackie to school and write to a mocha paired with Miles. Davis. The house quiet and I ‘m surprised to be clocking in 5 minutes ahead of schedule– next domestic or regularian duty: deliver lunch to Alice, the good husband’s work. Oh.. and grade papers. Grades due tomorrow night by midnight, and there’s no way I’m rushing through those papers or stressing about them, not one of them, on my birthday. The 1B’s are still in the car. And I’m here– or I should write “But I’m here,” which of cours connotes, and denotes, priority and interest, and it’s not with the grading or at least not now.. my Kerouac books at side, next I write the MOCK SOMM article then some personal pages to print.. yes that’s what I’ll sell, pride mySelf in and on transparency as a writer, nothing to hide and ALL written down.

Switch stations. My usual now, Bobby Hutcherson. Well past a thousand words for this morning’s reflection and catalyzation but I can’t halt Self, not with this momentum– although I very well know I should be writing my MS article– ha, ‘MS’, like I’m a Master Somm but I’m proudly not no I’m an actual writing with a noted education and intimate depth with Literature. In fact, that’ll be my gift to Self: Some new books; Dostoevsky, Sexton, Joyce.. and whatever else.. oh, Austen! This morning, oh the mornings themselves and what they teach the writer about himself and how I don’t mind a bit if others have criticisms or remarks or some self-appointed and -stapled superiority in their voice because their salary is so stratospheric. I still write, I’m still ME my Bear and to this jazz and coffee not at all slowed as I would be if I were sipping some wine or some Craft beer– no, no slowing and no distractions I don’t care who’s emailed me and who’s trying to contact me or connect with me in some fusty social medium.

I know some will read this and think, “Jesus, what’s his problem? It’s his birthday…” No problem. And yes it’s my birthday mañana and I don’t progress toward a ‘birthday’ as others do. I always as a writer take the time to self-analyze, be a bit evaluative of my steps and progress till now. And with this birthday, just a little more direness, urgency. No problem at all. In fact, I feel wonderfully renewed in this new resoluteness! A true Beat! When does the bookstore open, I wonder.. want to go get my gift! No! Not before I write the MS piece– I still have to laugh at that, ‘MS’. If I put that on a card, can you imagine? “Oh, wow, you’re a master sommelier?” they’d probe. “No,” I answer, “ I mock them.” Oh I love it! Gelatinous dusty-brained vermin with their two letter and their knowledge of wine that no one can ever question! Consumers are always wrong, right? And the somms are never wrong, no? Again, I feel spirituous, stalwart, a strong scribbler this A.M.

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And.. I think I’m changing everything

about my mood and scope before 36– actually I don’t think I know. And telling what certain matters and conservative-isms concerning the wine world and its industry and anything else, I just don’t care– or not that I don’t care I’m just not going to preoccupy mySelf with wheels that I have no interest in turning. And how I write, how some jab at it with placings like “interesting” or “it’s different” coupled with a snide smirk or laugh, I don’t have time, that’s it, and it’s altogether obvious those types are gargling their own envy in how I write what I like and just bob to my own Beat– I care little about these plebeians, about as much I do about students that flock to some hollow-headed website to gripe and pipe about my pedagogy and lecture patterns and writings. I’m going to do what I do, that’s what REAL writers do. And yes you’ll make more money with your plastic acronym job title– yes you should be so proud of yourself having a job title– but I’m in the ionosphere, downlooking, not concerned and free– no suit on me, devil– and I sip the Rhône blend that a new wine room friend me gifted.. I could spend the rest of my life caring about what people think and so concerned about reviews and acceptance or just live my life, and wine IS about Life so I’ll row in that flow– but wait, the wine tells me something as it escapes my circulatory: slow, Michael, slow.. don’t be too much a whim runner.. tomorrow’s the eve of the next death reminder, and with that you have to be introspective, I think Tell-Tale Heart, I hear it beating and I can only bob to that Beat. So now I don’t care, like my cousin would cite with that Howard Stern movie, “I want to see what he’ll say next…” So here’s what I say: bring on all criticism! I’m the one writing, not you! You only comment– And if you react, then you’re imbued in my compositional cue! I win.

Only a little more to write then I go to bed. And tomorrow, I’ll run. 6 miles if my body’ll let me. Then I wait for yet another delivery. And my mood gets more sharkish– I go into this new number with kung-fu sense; sharp and quick and ever-ready. I’m more logical than emotional now, if you can believe, and I will write on this blend tomorrow for the MOCK SOMM series.. I’ll be the rest of my life like this, a want-to-please-er, if I don’t become now drastic.. no more adjunct fishing, and no more silence in the wine industry and for certain targets, like the box from years ago and that pig-poled Kenwood winery that’s more like a supermarket than a place for wine-lovers or even the most naive of tourists. And I WILL name names, when I’m ready– Like Nick, my cousin, said the other day in a message: “Just do what Pac would do… Hit Em Up!!!!” Funny, as I was listening to one of his tracks form the ‘Me Against the World’ album this morning, “If I Die Tonight”. And what if I did, what if I didn’t have much time left? Would I want to leave like this, in this position and always chasing and hoping to please? Not that I am, entirely, but I am partially, I feel– Need sleep, the rest for the writer– “Yeah, that entry last night was.. interesting.. different…..” That’s such a useful comment, and I’m so beautified in hearing you voice it. My forever thanks, pig…..


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MOCK SOMM: Sanglier Cellars, Sonoma County, “Rouge Du Tusque” — Red Table Wine, 2011

IMG_6377And I met one, a Rhône blend I love. In fact, as Poe said, it’s a love that’s “more than love–”. And I do, I do! Finally! Pardon my effusion but I can’t seem to conceptualize why it took so long to find this prominent small producer, but the Story made it so, with Ms. Chelsea and her amorous little daughter, Emilia, walking into my tasting room. She gifted me a bottle of their blend and I tasted it nearly immediately; it had everything I look for in wine character; credibility, believability, narrative, conflict and tangibility of persona– and I know, a somm would break the wine down by IMG_6378remedializing descriptors, but this wine, my new love with its Literary pervasiveness and apparition-like palate, warrants more. Poe too said in his ode to his love that nothing could dissever him from her. And that’s just what my inner-narrative composes alongside this wine, such staunchness and genuine harness, with its gentle but assertive and definite palate intention; red fruit and a serenading attack of spice swarms, introduction to conclusion. And with my consideration of this new oeno-seraph, its producer in downtown Healdsburg, near the square which I transfusively adore, I want to let it connect a bit more with oxygen, which is what I did, pouring myself a full glass soon as in my writing cave– And then, connection and dialogue and I found myself like Kerouac atop his underwood, traipsing further into the blend’s paragraphs and sensory syntax– me, the writer, caught, with bottle now versifying more energy behind the crimson fruit catapult– and I love when wine does this to me, and few do, especially Rhône blends. And what would other critics say about it, I don’t care, I’m in zealous sentiment, partiality. I feel like Hemingway when he saw the dark-haired beauty, noting a sense of belonging. I belong to this blend, and how I don’t need to figure out– I’m compelled, propelled, to my own Heaven and Hell. Singing alongside the Rouge, feeling wild and roaming with the boars and finding a sheltered sepulchre; all life, no exit. In the ‘Tusque’ room, fulfilled and fostered in tasted intricacies– No Rhône before’s done this to me.

IMG_6380Yes, you’re expecting an ‘MM’ score, but I’m not a bloody sommelier. I’ve written my capillaries with this bottle, and that’s what I intended note. I’ll be by their tasting room before long… Was supposed to go today but Life slithered toward my periphery. I stare at what’s left in the bottle, maybe enough for another glass tonight. Which saddens me. Only so much of the Love tarrying. Perhaps enough for two glasses, maybe. Eager to see what new chimes me await in palate and odorous plumes, resonance.. I wait.


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Too tired for the novel

and, or, its journal. Now wine tonight, not a drop, so I’ll sleep well I’m imagining and I’ll wake gorgeously early to type away on the Massamen novel. Will it be done by the 14th? Well… it has to be. I keep thinking “It has to be 200 pages, or 300, or something paramounting…” But I write what I write in that time, that’s when its due, and that’s it. So there will be a printed MS by 6/14. I have to teach myself better project management.
Back at the winery tomorrow and I’m looking to write at the Yulupa coffee spot after taking little Kerouac to school. Oh.. and I won’t give up short standalones, fictive and or non. The novel is my grand project, I think of it like these actors that work on sitcoms but work on a movie in whatever spare time they pin. In fact, a piece of flash, or rather micro fiction before bed, after this entry. Time now’s 10:02, and I can’t wait for bed as I’m sure I’ll early wake for some writing and some thinking, reading some of those Kerouac dreams– and print pages soon– and officially kill the other blog, the teaching blog, and then go further into wine’s story.

This thought of wine and how finally I have control over its story and thematic makeup, and how to place it in my story and it has nothing to do with the act of sipping, tasting or drinking, but just observation, how so many walk into the room with this blank canvas or palette, and with that I see and I hear and my senses are elevated as they are now– empowered isn’t the word, but more of a voluminous story compounded somewhat cubist-like.. not sure it rings any bells for any of the readers, but I’m getting somewhere I know with my story, with the shorts (my TV show, if you would), then the novel, my movie.. This can be done this will be done it is done.

3 days till 26.
I mean 36.


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I know I

should be working on the novel but the Story has thrown me a bit of a curveball, if you would– Nick sending me some information about a place where bloggers/writers may be compensated for content (what an idea!) and Jackie staying home with his writer-father to ensure he gets better and back to his ever-frenzied form. Going through these pictures of IMG_6238wine in glass and the vineyard, the tasting room and my notes even on wines I’ve tasted at the winery and elsewhere, I’m clear what my beat is, not just wine but ‘Wine Language”. And buy such I mean the communicative properties of wine, how it speaks and what its intent is, and what we say in response to wine, how it impacts and stamps our memory. Reading again Kerouac’s ‘Atop and Underwood’ piece “[One Sunday Afternoon in July]” I appreciate his sentiment “My eyes were glued on life./And they were full of tears.”, a reaction to a song, music, music associated with memory and Time and Life and our place in It. Kerouac remembered exactly where he was when he heard that song, the exact point in New York. Just as we remember the setting and Time and mood when we sipped a certain bottle, or walked a certain vineyard block. And that’s why I only stayed at that tasting room on the Healdsburg Square for a couple weeks– it wasn’t on a vineyard, they wanted me to recite from some hokey simplified and non-inventive scripts they wrote (at the fourth-grade level); no stimulation, no push, no curiosity to follow. I was dead there. That’s not wine. At the current estate with whom I’m working and writing about, there is only life, only the constant reiteration wine and the pours and the voice and Time and Literature to wine. It’s own story, and one I want to read. Kerouac later writes, toward the middle of the piece: “…I find myself the brethren of many other poets…what is my next move?” My next move, this writer, can only be with wine, this new winery (Arista, Westside Road in Healdsburg). And to what and to where, I don’t know, and I shouldn’t know, not now. The story will take and tell me, the wines and those Pinot Blocks in front of the tasting room will instruct me what to write while syncopatedly encouraging autonomy. Delicious duality in this wine, this wine scribblers life.

I push the ‘Underwood’ MS to the side, open some of JK’s poems, much of which I can’t understand but enjoy. And that’s more than lovely with me… So much to do today and I only want to write, escape into my wine fantasies, of when I have my own room and pouring out of state at some restaurant or hotel, explaining and showing my story and how the Literature and the Wine formed what they see, taste, hear– All five senses arrested, and that has to happen with what I produce.. so picture: The Cabernet chasm; dark, deep, opaque; you smell the chocolate darkness and espresso whirl and the subtext of charcoal and rich thick moist earth; you taste and feel a texture essentiality you never have, heavy and holistic, softly aggressive; and what you hear, your own thoughts and voice and the elatedness of learning a new character, a new reality; new Newness…


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A Family Winery.

IMG_6361Of my own. Of our own where I could involve Jack and Alice if she wanted, and whatever other little Beat’s on the way. Sipping the Meritage the other night and my ’12 Merlot last night confirmed what I’ve already for so long apprehended and arrested in my scope: it’s wine, and that’s it; written about and explored– but enough dreamtalk, time to plan, my wine and vintage this vintage and what I want expressed in my bottles– half to secure 1.5 to 2 tons, 80% Cab the surplus Merlot for this chapter, this year. And the wine itself tells a IMG_6359story, something like the thoughts of Kerouac and Hem how they absorbed the moment and just like that my wine needs to absorb and propel not just the conditions of the vintage but the winemaker as well. Me. A winemaker, and why not, I’ve done it before and I thought yesterday when in the ‘TR’ I had a thought.. “color, focus on color not marketability and I want the wines to taste how they look”… Like with my Merlot last night, the lighter red presentation with magenta edges and a seemingly raspberry or rose subtext in its visual, and that’s what I tasted. And the Pinot yesterday in the room, that ’13 Anderson Valley, the one I couldn’t stop visiting and re-visiting and trying to understand, each sip with a new paragraph or a revision, and then the next bottle I opened for some guests from IMG_6275Southern California, with the eagerness and vast cellar they couldn’t help but tell me about, too saw something different than I did earlier. And I just like realize: ‘evolution’, in so much, both wine consciousness and interaction and language and connection to stories and how the production of the wines and those sipping scribble their own autonomous notes and pages. So what do I with them, translate? Not so much, I don’t know, certainly draw and share certain observations, isn’t that the job of anyone writing, writing about wine? Again I’ll try to be Socratic and say ‘I don’t know’, but I have quite the anchored idea.
A small family tasting room, of my own, my own ‘TR’, but just me, a 1man show, no? My son greeting people as they walk in and charming them with his energy and grin and how he knows so many new words and where everything is around the winery… A dream, more dreamtalk and dreamchat with myself but that’s how something reaches a bottle, that’s how winemakers finish their projects and pour them for people at a table, at a dinner, or for themselves– and there’s nothing foul or disturbing about that! And on that first day, the first day we open I’ll have the bottles pre-tasted and in-the-moment characterizations of each bottle more or less prepared, memorized.. nothing written down, I want to be in the moment with my room and my wines and the visitors sipping them for the first time. New stories, characters, and me with a new role in the cast, sipping and talking with them, holding the wine up to the nearest bulb to see the color and character clearly, examine what it promises…..


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MOCK SOMM: Kosta Browne Winery, Giusti Ranch, Russian River Valley, Pinot Noir, 2013

IMG_6243So I opened it. Yes, I opened it. Because I wanted to. And I’m sooooo glad I did, elated actually, visibly fractionalized in my joy. The first Kosta Browne I’ve ever opened in my home– “Oh, Mike, you’re such a follower…” Yeah, so? Don’t you buy the wines you follow, or open the ones from the producers you admire? And I didn’t buy this enigmatically verbal bottle, actually. It was a gift from Mr. Michael Browne himself, and I drink this and feel inspired and moved and wanting more exploration of Pinot, but why, I think, none of them will be this good, with the amorous ebb of thick cherry and raspberry and a little Dutch chocolate.. not much pepper or spice but a marvelously meek terrestrial hug and herbaceous jab on “the finish”. But this wine doesn’t finish, it’s prose and poetry and a novel and a short narrative flash. And I couldn’t be more eased and in a wondrously warping Utopia oeno-coma with this bottle, this modernized yet integrity-checkered staple doing true to those imbued Burgundian roots.

Drank the remaining two glasses the following night, which is tonight. And it’s gone. And I’m lowered, with a reflectively slow but charged tide and cognitive seismology, and how, well it’s a Kosta Browne, what do you mean ‘how’? This Pinot makes more more a lover of the type but also more reserved– I mean, how many out there are with this fortitude and charm, allure, enchantment, bewitchedness? Honestly I’m not in my prowess usual to react to what I met in this gifted bottle– and Pinot, such a shapeshifting character and amebic transient of a wine structure I’m not at my most stalwart with the pen, this evening. I’m looking to the Kerouac ‘Book of Dreams’ for answers, since I feel and felt and still so much feel like I’m dreaming after finishing a KB Pinot in my new house, that I’m just a sipping wine-loving-writer-wandered, shamed, and humbled, and taught. And maybe that’s why he gave me the bottle, my new friend Michael, to teach me something; about wine and about Pinot and about me, my unionization of wine and Literature and about everything, some Postmodern pondering. For what? That’s the point: no “point”. Just the moment, the capturing of it in my wine journal, this dream, this new bottle Beat in Pinot’s pervasive pulse– cherishing the trenchant charm of what this is; wine and love and Art, all in Pinot, from a lagniappe, a chorded exhortation and discourse; a class, a notestream, and lecture and story and containing instructional and ambrosial hilarity. A wine that teaches and so much else in its verses, and that’s what I should have been writing about this entire oration; the musical tide of this RRV Pinot’s voice. It was like Michael told me, about the river of Life, riding it and seeing where it takes you, and at times it’s trying and turbulent, but the reward’s there. And I sipped one of them last night and this eve. So I’m sent, taught, reconciled.
Vino. And Literature. Like I’ve always lauded.



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Work Log, 5/24/15 (2)

Didn’t write any more in the novel, but I’ve been thinking about it all day; while selling wine while pretending the wines I was pouring were my own– Still on page 19. Sipping the last of the Meritage ’12 I bought the other day. And back in the TR tomorrow.. leaving early and finding a place to write. Everything I type tomorrow, I promise, will be for the novel. 3 FULL pages, like I used to tell my students.. seeing just what it is that Mr. Massamen wants and what I’m supposed to do with his story as the author; I think about it now and see my character has the best role and responsibility, to simply be molded and shaped on page and told by someone, that being me–

The house now quiet, and I see that everything depends on this novel and its completion. What if I could touch page 25 somehow, tomorrow, and submit it when its done if I keep such pace as a long scroll like Mr. K? that would get me out of the adjunct world and that would keep me from anything worrisome. A nice little shot of Meritage over on the counter, I can see from this island where I type in the Autumn Walk kitchen– one firm shot which I’m sure will make me want to write more but I won’t let Self after this entry [almost said ‘post’]. I will make wine, and write about it. Mark, one of the proprietors that said he’d help me get fruit, out of town on vacay. And the man works hard, so hard with his travels (which I envy, obviously), so I understand. But I can’t wait to see my fruit come in on pad, then have it crushed, to bbl for primary, racked for ML, then bottled.
But this novel, this novel, it must be finished. And I’ll give myself another Kerouac extension: 21 days from now. June 14th. My bloody novel will be finishes and printed and submitted.

Finished the wine, now I just want to read. No more writing. I’ve written enough today just not enough in the novel. But I have tomorrow. Thankfully. Where I find my written Zen and Peace. 10PM exactly now, and I see the semester is over, I mean really over. What happened? Only one blog now, and one novel on which I’m working– this novel, what should I call it? How about ‘Call I’? Just thought of that and no no connection to last sentence. Hear dogs around this new neighborhood barking, interfering with my meditation on this new project. The one that will make me.. the ME I want, if that makes any logic for you plate and counter.
Servile to this project, and that’s how I want it to be, how I want to be seen. My book on shelf, and never on some clearance sale table or some sale of any kind.

Tomorrow, no random entries. Only pages for what’s to make me ME, the ME and ‘I’ I want to see…..

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Had to force myself

to make it to the island but I’m here, and needing the novel done goddamnit. Having another beer, my cap for night as I think I deserve it but I’m frustrated with myself, 6 days before I turn 36 with the age that makes me realize I need hurry, type fast and finally fucking finish this goddamn thing. The novel. Then another one– and I ask myself what I really want, short pieces or novels. Well, both. But I need to finish the novel. Hoping to wake tomorrow morning and invade the wouldbe MS with 2,000 words. Today, a man from Arkansas with his wife, first couple in the room technically before we open, around 10:34, saying he didn’t know much about wine but he “got a kick out the description words…” I laughed with him, not at, and talked more about wines from different regions and how each has its own voice and impression and “light” to it. He found that interesting then told me about a Bourbon tasting he went to a while back and one of the descriptors, of some high-end sample believe it or not read: “…a touch of sweaty horse leather…” We all on our side of the bar laughed, and I said “Wow that would make me want to try it!” The man then added to the exchange how much he loves smelling the wines, how each “bouquet” as he repeated showed him something different about himself and how he saw wine.. “I just love smellin these wiiines, that’s half the fun…” he said, holding the bowl of Zin close to his olfactory receptor set. After they left, he and his wife, the day turned into a battle, leaving me much of the time behind that counter battling by myself, but I wouldn’t say I became stressed, just rushed, and I wished I could have written so many things, people, I remember thinking that a number of times, but I could only pour, and I wouldn’t let myself repeat the same descriptions and stories and pitches (but I don’t pitch, I just share passion for what I pour, I like to think). Then with day’s end, I saw what we did and I felt accomplished, and thought “What if this were my winery, what if I sold that much of my own wine?” My character wants to build, and he wants to build something people enjoy, he doesn’t want to grade papers anymore, he doesn’t want to hassle with students, he only wants happiness and Equilibrium and to feed his family; he wants to have the relationship with wine that his sister does, that Michael Browne of Kosta Browne does. He wants to be sovereign, and empowered, fuse the two: wine and Literature, words, not conveniently contort and bastardize words as marketing teams and most winemakers and sommeliers do. No– this would all be different. And he would have it so. But this character, ME, I, have to write it, his, his story and pursuits and dreams–


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