Posts Tagged With: wine

4/21–  Especially tired today.  Onto 3-shot mocha, had 4 this morning.  Quick meeting planned with ‘100’ students.  Sending them to library…  Need nap before Fountaingrove hills.  Presently in Adjunct cell.. sipping this espresso, but cautiously.  I’m starting to wake, and quicker than my mind can process, decode.

Still surprised I wrote 3,000 yesterday.  Days off yield the unexpected, often, even though I don’t have them that often.

12:35PM.  In library.  Students looking for topics, researching.  I’m on the fourth floor, trying to keep Self motivated, awake.. difficult to clearly think.  Week 15 we’re in, and I’m ready for break, a break, of any length.  What the author could really use: a nap.  All the students around me, motivated by deadlines, thinking of my deadlines.. don’t want to be dead before reaching.  And I remember what I looked for when I would research.. which was–  Too long ago, once in graduate school.  And here I am, exiled in the library.  Hungry, but ignoring those impulses.  Hear students laugh from one of the group study rooms to my left.  The novel, my novel… under some type of construction.  So tempted to rise from this chair, leave, go get something to eat, take my nap.  But what if I didn’t?  What if I actually practiced what I preach; “Stay in the chair,” I’ve always told them.  I mean how else will the novel finish?

Around me, quiet, concentration, panic with the semester closing.. all these students facing their last days in this semester’s story..  Asking reference desks where books are, ‘where can I find, where can I find…’  There’s Life in here, pursuit of what one wants from Life..  You can build your Self here, in a/this library, in any library.  But I’m here, wanting to be a student again, but I don’t want to spend all the time, money, in some institutionalized program, where I have a questionably competent professor.  Am I talking reinvention?  Maybe a little, but more of a simplification, separation.  A “new era” for me, indeed.  One of the page, constant typing, writing…

Those students in the study room, doing anything but study.  Just laughs. “We were just talking about how tan you are,” just heard one of the boys say to the returning girl, back from restroom visit.

Kerouac, the poet (not my son) in thoughts.. thinking he may be my new focus, maybe something to read with students in coming terms.. ‘On the Road’.  I so very much want to be on the road, just for a week at a time.  Here and there.  Travel, Life, seeing, observing, recording.  The stationary day sets will not be permitted in this “new era”.  My ‘new era’ embodies rebellion, defiance of convention…  POETRY…  BOOKS…  revolutionizing the Self-printing platform and plight.  Publishers, I’m knowing now more than I ever have, are wildly evil.  And they can be defeated by Us, small presses.  And my journals will be the starting salvo in this period of my Life.  What in here I look for.. affirmation, not from outside sources or articles, necessarily, but some kind of lens that assures me what I’m doing is needed.  8 days, one month, till 35.  THIRTY.  FIVE.  Time, easily my greatest enemy, but it too will suffer tremendous setbacks in this “new era”.  Hate that wording.. meant to be so profound, emphatic, when really it’s hyperbole– flabby and false.  Allow me to hold, “Illustrating and cementing chapter”.  And it’s been in motion for some time, as I’m tired of regularity, expectation set upon my character without my permission, or any sort of negotiation.  Who do you think you are, fool, devil?

1:13PM.  Wrote a poem, one easily destined for reading, recital.  Think I’ll submit it tonight just for laughs.  The poem is meant to capture me, in this library, my moments in this place that’s supposed to be quiet.  But now that I’ve finished my criticism, I’m glad, quite pleased actually, that it’s anything but quiet.  Talked mySelf out of the exhaustion I felt before ‘100’ and much of my presence here.  Ready for lunch, some sustenance.  And I think I’ll submit the poem right now, here from this fourth floor.  The volume has declined, and I’m in better mind, finally.

Not submitting from here.  Have to set up some account with an online submission manager and that could take a little time, so I should leave, go home, enjoy lunch and a nap.  Then, ready Self for run up hills.  Yesterday’s jog, or walk/jog, through Annadel/Spring Lake was so fruitful for my thinking.  Need to enjoy that same course more frequently.  And now, I make the leave.  Should count Self-publishing funds once home.  I know I’m over $300, which I said I wouldn’t do.  So I’m stopping, sealing the envelope, and not digging it up till I have my MS printed, ready to truly publish.  I’ve been in this circle for years, I was reminded last night reading entries from years ago.  But in these new chapters, it stops.  And I finally can begin.

8:14PM…  As tired as I was all day today, and after the broken nap I took once home, I can’t believe how well I did with that Fountaingrove run today.  No intervals this time, but a 2.25 out then back.  So 4.5 total miles.  I’m pleased, and that’s all that matters.  I still very much plan on sending off the poem I wrote today in the library, and I begin a new log of my submissions.  Sipping a Little Sumpin’, as I always am anymore when it comes to beer.  I’ll open one of my wines for dinner pairing, but I need to stay alert, sharp in this ‘new era’ of MINE– like the beat generation; rebelling, confronting conformity at it stands so bold, sure of itself, convinced it’s so witty and invincible.  And I start with this poetry collection.  One title I thought of, while running up one of the first hills, was ‘Oblong Ode’.  But anymore, I’m beginning to have an aversion to alliteration.  And how poetic is it, really, in its obvious commercialized slouch?

Sipping my Merlot, so very re-laced.  My story tonight, about the moment I’m in, as will be all my work in this new stupid era.  I’m in a new character’s suit, and it feels lovely.  That would be the reason this writer still sips.  I won’t be in my late fifties, or sixties, just celebrating the publishing of a book-length work, a novel.  Why, ask you.. as I publish my Self.  I only need approval from myself.  And I’m not like all other Self-printed penners..  I’m fanatical, extremist, militant.  Publishers kill writing, except when the publisher is a writer, and his only Artist is himSelf.

The re-inventive chapters begin.. tonight, and tomorrow.

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C—— had the last glass of Rosé. She thought about opening a bottle of the blend Rosie made a couple vintages ago, but thought about the meeting she had in the morning, what they wanted her to present; budget, projections.. How do you “project” how many people are going to visit the website, buy wine.. visit the tasting room, join the wine club, which was becoming more and more humorous to her. Whenever she had her own wines, or tasting room (which she was more and more against by the day), she would be that label that didn’t have a “wine club”. She hated how that sounded, the whole idea… Wine club. Rubbish.

“So are you gonna quit?” Mikaella asked.

“No. Not yet. I’m a ways from that, but eventually I have to leave. This is just too much for me, all this pressure to sell, the constant threatening.. it’s ridiculous.. this isn’t wine, the wine industry.. this isn’t why I got into this business,” C said.

“Are you headed home after this?”

“Yeah, I have to study..”

“For what? Are you trying to be a sommelier?”

“Oh, no. For making wine.. I’m just looking into different wine styles, yeasts, oaks, and whatever else I can learn.”

“You don’t want to be a sommelier?”

“Uh, no, not really.” C poured the rest of her SB into the sink behind the bar. Everyone else saw her dismiss her wine, and thought she would say something, but she just walked out the front doors. Why was it so odd that she wanted to make wine? Her own wine… What did anyone know, especially Mikaella. She’d been in the wine industry for what, two months? Once home, she’d study like she were going for the bar, or something else.. no, she wouldn’t compare, because there was no comparison. This was for her.

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Drinking her coffee, she knew this was ending, this pattern.  Today would be hot, like yesterday.  She could only think of her first day, selling her own bottles.  There was so much to work out, “logistically”, but she didn’t want to spoil what she saw.  7:34AM, the clock configured in its lifeless digital intone.  Maybe she’d be late today.  Take her time.  After nearly seven years, it was time she spoke, time she chased something for herself.  Time she started living what she wanted, chasing something worthy of early risings.

Yesterday on her walk, she thought about how she arrived where she currently strolled, in total.  The wine industry, the bottle that hooked her– or interested her– or tempted her.  She didn’t know which perspective to assign it.  But now, it was about wine.  Her wine.  Her translation of wine.  She would show everyone that she, only she, had this understanding of wine; connection to it; ability to translate grapes this way.

She finished her coffee, rushed.  She was ready to play the role, quite happy to, today.  Because she knew it was nearly over.

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Mountain Letter [draft]

3/30. Not 5AM, but not after seven either. 6:32AM. Was going to go back into the morning’s sleep, but suddenly I was jolted. And I’m not sure by what. As if something said, “Don’t you dare. You need to be writing.” So here I am. Still very much feel the run from yesterday– And like that, I hear Jackiie upstairs calling for me. He’s not crying, nor seeming upset, just light calls to “Dada.. dada…” No rain this morning, but there are clouds. Not sure if we’re in for a day as busy as yesterday or not, but I need to be noting wherever I am, wherever they have me. Yesterday, I wasn’t a writer at all. No notes. Just overly concerned with my bloody phone, where I could charge it as I didn’t the night before. That’s not Literature. And not writing. Won’t be the case or set of affairs today. Need coffee. None in the house, shame. So very glad I didn’t have any wine last night. I already feel like a monster writer, someone who would be in the café with Hemingway. And on the note of cafés, I met another writer a couple days ago. ‘Faye’, her name. From D.C., a writer, ballet dancer, and one of the more memorable, sweet, and enriching characters I’ve lately met. She messaged me yesterday, with a sample from a writing project of hers– a blog, with her friend I believe. I loved the tone and vision of her prose, and the almost immediately disclosed backstory and impetus to the effort. She sent me honest writing, which as you know is my obsession, very much these days. And she also reminded me, through the narrative of her piece that life is hauntingly curt, and that we need jail our dreams, keep them captive, put them into action, join the dream itself in blossom. 6:41AM. This room quiet. And no more calls from little Kerouac, upstairs. The fridge, not humming as it was a bit earlier, when I first woke. So the sound circulating this room from these writing fingers spiking the keys hopefully doesn’t travel upstairs, through little K’s door. I think it’s so pride-dousing when he recognizes me as a writer, seeing a pen on the couch or ottoman, so floor, kitchen nook table, and saying “Dada.” “Dada? Is that Dada’s?” I’ll say. “Yyyyeah!” he yells back, smiling, so confident and proud of his answer. And I say ‘pride-dousing’ not because I’m proud of mySelf, that my son already knows me to write, but I feel such pride in him, how vocal and almost academically analytical he is, this little Artist. Still feel the Lawndale run, very much. Both in knees, back, thighs.. strange, for when the run was finished, I didn’t feel quite as damaged. If anything, I felt very much as I do now: championed, in control of everything in this writer’s way. Class tomorrow. I’ll prep FULLY tonight. And I’m quite settled on Life & Death.. how the semester became with the latter, and ends with the former. Writers need to acknowledge death, yes, but be charmed by it as some ‘marketable topic’. The focus needs to be Life, and how it can belong fully to you. But, then I think of Faye’s writing, and how it sharply carves the reminder that Life is short, and that you won’t be here forever. The heater comes on, Jackie calls. Of course…. 7:17, downstairs with the little Artist. His waffle cooks while my coffee brews, and he watches his usual fish movie. Which is “Nemo”, if need you note. C sat in her office, which was really more of a glorified cubicle. “No, this is a cubicle,” she declared. She started with answering emails from people on the call list, then club members. She had an interesting relationship with the club members, as she didn’t deal with them often. But when she had a campaign with many of them on the call list, she had to deal with them. And may times the needle swam to hate, far away from love. Once that was done, she had a new campaign to design, then pitch to the owner at some point today, or tomorrow, or in the middle of next week. It was never really made clear. Shocker. Right before lunch, she decided to look at her wine/winemaking notes. She looked over what she wrote about the Sauvignon Blanc, night before last. Her writing more took the form of the wine speaking for itself, she thought. C—— didn’t really think of herself as a writer, nor did she really like to write since most of the writing she did was for work, for those campaigns, advertisements, the “tone of voice” as the owner said. She read, seeing the sentence “In the wild, herbal, electric, gripping your attention. I want to put you somewhere else, somewhere far from whatever stresses you…” It made sense, in more that a single stroke. She’d take her lunch early, go to one of the nearby tasting rooms on 12. Something small, though. Something with character, charm. No corporate maze or minefield. XDR Wines, at the edge of Kenwood, almost in Santa Rosa’s proper. She walked in with nothing. No purse, not notebook. Just her, her memory. Whatever made an impression she’d remember, put in her notes. Bar approach. “Hi, welcome,” the young lady said, with her light blue collared shirt, blonde hair tied back. “Wanna taste a little wine?” “Yeah, that’d be great. This is a beautiful tasting room,” C said, looking around, admiring the rich wooden walls, bottles placed on shelves, pictures of the vineyards, both estate and sourced. C didn’t want to say she was “industry”. She wanted to be guised in silence, in the tourist role. And she wanted to feel like she were on vacation. Just once. She looked forward to forfeiting the tasting fee, which, here, was only $5. “Have you had our wines before?” “No, I haven’t. But I’m excited to try them. You do just Pinot, Chard, and Syrah?” “And a Reserve Grenache.” “Really? And who’s your winemaker? Is he here?” “Oh.. actually, I’m the winemaker, I’m him,” she said with a little laugh, for comfort’s sake, making C feel welcome, unashamed of her statement. “We’re just short here in the room, so I thought I’d get out of my chemistry dungeon.” Hmmm, C said to herself.

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Intrinsically Intent

10:12PM.  Alice home, little Kerouac still in Monterey.  Today’s shift, contributing much to the Self-publishing well.  I’m nearly to my budget goal.  So I celebrate with this ’11 Russian River Pinot.  No, I won’t make 3 pages.  But I’m writing, which is more than I can say for the Self of last night.  Today, Dad and I finally walked through Annadel.  For the first time since I-don’t-know-when.  We discussed the concept of ‘intrinsic’.. and how to apply it.  His curiosity, or knowledgable pursuit of the word’s circulation, generated, as he disclosed, from an article on Warren Buffett.  Interesting, I thought, how this word is so contingent upon, both in definition and theory, denotation and connotation, context.  How do you know when something–a characteristic or attribute, value or perception–is sincerely intrinsic?  Then, Dad and I talked about all the ways the concept and word could be entertained, and how so many conclusions could be reached, and would be reached by any energetic mind intent on such a surf.  But, we also acknowledge that it’s not so much an understanding or clear hold on the thought of ‘intrinsic’ that needs to be valued, but on the dissection of the idea itself.  That’s what’s of value here.. the process, more so than the product.

A couple times, Dad and I stopped, admired certain perspectives, or “views” in Annadel’s whirling woods.  I explained to him that I much prefer flat running to trail traverses.  But when walking, notably with Mr. Madigan, the trail and its rocky challenge don’t diffuse me, even a slight.

This Pinot glass, probably more full than it should be.  Lovely…  The Napa mission the other day with Chris, on mind.  Wish we would have visited one more door.  I sip this…  Think about my wines, how the quantity fades, but gloriously.  Haven’t received one critique or complaint about my bottles.  And while applying foils to Zach’s bottles today, towards the end of my shift (first time I’d ever worked on the line..), I could only think of not just my own wine label, but also publishing.. SELF-publishing.  My office, my releases.. my Creatively SOVEREIGN voice.


After our walk, Dad and I had a beer at the Mountain Hawk base, had some almonds, crackers, chips, discussed goals, Life, aims, passion.  And I’m again reminded of Time’s intention of folding us all under its claw.  I don’t have so much a plan, as I entertained with Dad, but more so a vision.. one encompassing and definite.  And this night’s final glass is in celebration of not only the day, my saunter with Dad through Annadel’s dimension, but acceptance of who I am…  “You’re a writer,” Dad said to me, while at the Mountain Hawk home, deconstructing purpose, passion, “is there anything that you’re more passionate about?” he asked, in a wording somewhat close to what I just typed.  I told him ‘no’, “that’s who I am, not just what I do,” I softly retorted.  But Dad, where he is, after an amazing career as a commercial airline captain, and what his next chapter is… what I currently turn in my analytical wheels.  His story: bullion.


And the day ends.  The fridge makes some weird sound, and I think of the Merlot I tasted today, and yesterday, from tanks, while being bottled.  Critical as I am of wine, its industry, I can’t stay away.  It’s part of this writer.. what he sees, does, breathes, acts, enacts.


So odd, not having my little Artist with us, here, in the condo castle.  I hope, and am quite sure, he sleeps well in Monterey.  Sure to be frantic tomorrow, with all the groups, reservations.  But I’ll make it what I want.  The day will never rattle me, at a winery.  I stare at this glass of Pinot, about three ounces full, and think about what wine does in its process.  I tried explaining this to my group, 9 girls from Cocoa Beach, FL, but they weren’t interested.  They just wanted to be driven around the property, after being poured who-knows-how-many wines.  And that’s what bothers me: wine not being seen for what it is– energy, effort, ideas, expression from the Earth.. it’s not just alive, it’s voice, it’s culture, history, an encompassing magnet.


My next run will be on the trail Dad and I today walked.  Was thrilled that we ran a little on that straightaway, after the first significant incline.  Can’t remember the last time Dad and I jogged together.  His words make me think about my intrinsic intent.. what I’m meant to do, what I’m “built” to do.  I already know.. I’m intended to write.  So in that reality, how much of the current currency should I tolerate?  When to I enact Pangea, and swim in a more separatist sinew?



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3/16/14.  5:37AM.  Everything about me’s asleep, but I can’t sleep.  Crumby feeling as a writer.  But I’m up.  Typing.  About what I have no idea– no plan, aim, nor vision.  Warm in this house.  I’m uncomfortable, and with dry mouth.  Probably an effect of last night’s Chardonnay nightcap.  I’ll say.. I’m quite pleased with these new glasses.  Should have bought more than just four.  And I should have took home some cooking equipment.  Of some kind.  I need to cook more.  Not just for saving money’s sake, but for the creative act, or the new direction in my story.  Or, simply, to do it.  For no other reason than to cook.

Hear my son calling..  Have to cut the session short, I’m afraid.


Now, he’s with his mother, in our bed.  Seems he too is stricken with these allergies.  My left eye, the small corner stretching to the forehead’s center, rumbles an intense itch.  That’s usually how the allergy season starts for me.  And it’s maddening.

Two emails to answer.  From students, that is.  Odd not having class tomorrow.  I’m certainly not complaining, but that’s what I’m racking, returning, sitting down here on this couch.  I’m also thinking I need to spend more time in the library between classes, collect more “scholarly articles”, as they call them.. read more.. study…  Be a student again.  And I mean TRULY live as a student.  All day taking notes, reading, formulating my own papers for submission.. these papers will be my lectures, new lectures to be read, submitted to journals, establishing a new turn in my story…  In fact…  Let me look for those Plath articles I found a few weeks ago.

Found all of it.  But I need to add to it, this bay of articles, significantly.

And another author of very recent interest, one with whom I struggled significantly in graduate school: Joyce.  The documentary I watched on him weeks ago, where his prose was called “impenetrable”, frustrated me, made me want to be a stronger reader, frankly.  Battle Joyce again, as he very much defeated me in grad school.  And I will be, living in that library.

Coffee.  The writer needs his coffee.  But I don’t want to wake Jackie.  And there, I hear something from him.  Think he said “froggy”.  Meaning, his stuffed froggy that my sister gifted him a while back is near him.  Everyday, this little Artist of mine develops, offers some new detail in sentence or expression’s form.  This, too, motivates my own character to that library.


Wednesday, we’ll be in Napa.  My friends/co-worker characters, that is.  So far, no idea where we’re going.  And as much as I like that, we do need some itinerary, or direction.  What I want to “take away” from the mission: writing material, obviously, but that’s easy [as, my new understanding cements.. ‘if I’m living, I’m writing’]…  Pictures.  Vineyard stills that tell some kind of story, or offer thought provocation.  Something.  I just want pictures.. visuals.


In the reserve room today.  I remember some telling me yesterday, right as we clocked out, and I thought they were just joking with me, teasing as it’s well known I despise the reserve room.  But I’ll make it mine, today.  Pocket as many tips as I can, put that into the Self-publishing swamp of crumbled bills upstairs, in that Philosophy Encyclopedia.  Where did I buy that?  I think at Borders on Santa Rosa Ave, right before it closed.


Quiet upstairs.  Think they’re both asleep.  Which is interesting considering how hyper little Kerouac was when flew up the stairs to him.

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He looked at his wine, in the new wine glass, one of four he purchased just more than an hour ago, after the cooking class with her.  Also a coffee cup thrown into bag.  The dream house, again in thoughts.. a kitchen like that store’s.  The day reviewed, images flashing.  It tired him, he sipped…  The Cabernet/Syrah shake, even more active tonight.  It had to be the new glass, he thought.  He interacted with the soft, rich, smokey pushes into his first sense.. calmed.  He forgot about the day ahead, tomorrow.  Barrel tasting.  True, the winery wasn’t participating, but it’d surely be busy.

No papers to grade, nothing to plan for week coming, Spring Break.  But he wasn’t on break.  Working, of course.  No rest.  Yes, on the days he had class he’d have a day to Self.  But he’d be working, as normal, otherwise.  But this glass, this new glass, its contents, from a bottle opened last night, freeing him.


Notes surrounded him.  This new novel, teasing him like a predator right before it surged.  You knew you were going to fall to its jaws, and it knew you knew, but it still taunted you.  He laughed, at his characters, his scattered sheets, his hovering story.  The wine was what he wanted to give all focus.  His day’s word goal was in that glass, he realized, sitting in his apartment’s nook…  It’s romantically dark, evasively flirtatious body only encouraged him to combat wine’s industry, not let it strip away the passion he held for certain bottles.

Empty.  And the glass was atop the notebook he called “the traveler”.  He’d fill it, but not yet.  He wanted to just stare at it, watch the tiniest purple puddle bob back, forth as the table shook from his tempestuous types.  And that wine, the marks it left, putting him into docility– a state he could use.  Finally finish that cursed MS.



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I’m Dedalus

At winery this morning at 8.  Actually a couple breaths before.  More than a long day.  Sales meeting.  And while the woman spoke, I wrote– material for C——’s story.  And my first thousand for her story: printed, given to a couple friends for a read.

Sipping the Cab I opened last night, and I think of how it’d taste to her.  She’d think this is too harsh.  C doesn’t like the ultra-syllabic descriptions of wines.. she wants it kept simple, relatable, everything that her winery doesn’t do.

Surprised how tired I am, really.  But then I’m not.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll be working on my possible routine for Sunday night, Hop Monk in Sebastopol, well as other versed pieces for my first short release.  Alice said she’d be going to the gym, early with little Kerouac, so that should free some silent space for the writer, allow me to print some pages, frolic in fruition.  Interesting material today.  From seeing those two wine club members I really enjoy (one a doctor, his wife a nurse) to meeting a local news anchor I’ve watched on and off since I was about 10.  Then, trying some new releases from the winery, for the first time in weeks.  Only thinking how they’d taste to her.  So, now I think, while thinking about her: tomorrow’s goals; 1) 1,000 words for C——, 2) a standalone poem for recital.  Now I want more wine, putting mySelf in her thinking, how she’d react.. what would she see in this pour, the next, the next…  Would it influence the wine she eventually makes?

Almost forgot I opened the blend, 2011.  I pour a glass, one small, in a moment’s matter.  Rain, done for now, but it fell hardily for much of the day.  And while in that room, in the “meeting”, I could only think of snow, what my parents are seeing in central Oregon, sipping my Merlot, or Cuvée.  Jerry, my friend, one of the vineyard managers at the winery, said he’d be able to get me some fruit this vintage if I wanted it.  But where would I store it?  Would St. Francis let me keep it in their warehouse if I paid rent…  Would they charge me rent?  Guess that’s a Katie question.  But I have to make wine again, at some point, much like my character…  Only difference: she’s never done so before.. she’s barely been out of her office, during the work week.  Yes, her family owns a vineyard, sells grapes, makes a little wine, but she’s been distant, inadvertently so, for much her life.  Now, she wants to speak through crush…  And she will.  Make wine for herself, not for someone else’s label.  Her direction and understanding of wine won’t be directed.  But she has to study.  Or does she?  Will she just jump in.. literally, tangibly, theologically?

Now, to poems.  Ones short, sharp, character shaping.  I need to attend this reading on Sunday, read at least one piece to whomever attends.  How about one verse.. start them slowly, into my catalogue.  Ugh…  Need another glass.  And need to enjoy my days off, next week.  Finishing all grading on Sunday.  Tuesday, writing.  And that’s all.  Possibly even sending something to print, finally.  Wouldn’t that be something?  So what would I do on Friday, then.. my other day off?  Maybe go tasting.. or café writing.  There’s a challenge to Self:  produce a vicious piece of Fiction, in 8 hours, at 1 café…  To just skirr about my pages.  I’ll write on all the days off.  But Friday will be the most displaying of the three, guaranteed.

Now, finally, to poem.. progressing in wine’s perpetual plumes– perforated perfection.


And now this morning, I feel it necessary to be hard on mySelf with this writing.  Even harder than I have been recently.  With my second cup right, I revolve in this new character, C——.  Back, forth.  And the material I scribbled yesterday, while in that infantile meeting, only cements what I’m feeling this morning.  MATERIAL.  And not just material as in subject matter…  As in pages PRINTED.  Something I can touch.. a bloody page.  Not screens on some devil blog.

Outside, wind, and plenty of it I need note.  Perhaps this is the correlative, the thematic edge that’ll send me where I need be.  And talking with Bonnie yesterday, about her boyfriend Chris’ graduation from Davis’ V&E program, another rhythmic shove.

Starting with this first chapbook, the poems, and the first thousand on C——, will start this new Month advantageously.


Think the rain may be over, which saddens me, surely.  But the coffee comforts.  The clock, boasting 8:23AM, mocking my reality, that I can’t stay here, my chair, and write the day away.  Yesterday, I was already there, in that room, in the uncomfortable chair, not talking seriously even a partial particle of her position–  Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not a bully.. she was very communicative, approachable, and certainly knowledgable about certain aspects of wine’s interconnected and incestuous industry…  But I learned nothing.  And as a teacher, she was wretchedly weak.  Made me think of my instruction, though, motivating me to diversify my presence in front of the students.  Like with Thursday, writing an entry to the teaching blog in class, WITH THEM.. having a student, “B”, push the ‘Publish’ button.  I thought it worked.  It did.  So I’ll do it again.

And tomorrow, in SRJC office.  Going to willingly cube my Self.  Target: grade 60 items.  Rubric for Essay 1, for both classes, simple:  Intro (5), Organization (5), Voice (5), Mechanics (5), Conclusion (5).  Going to stay in Teacher character all day, tomorrow.  If I stick to 60 items, I could grade all the formal papers.  And I’ve lately found that when I time mySelf, I have better results, definitely working more efficiently.


This song that I’m listening to.. giving me visions of me, traveling.  On a train, writing while it speeds past some snow-sewn field, somewhere in the midwest.  I sip an espresso, nothing with alcohol so I can focus on my writing.  I’m finally here.  On the road–Road, capitalized…–  What I’ve always seen.  And I have no idea what’s next, where I’m going, what I’m going to write about.  It’s just my moment, MINE.  And I’m going to stay here.

If I take a lunch with any of my coworkers, there’s no way a Lit Lunch will take place–  And why did I start a new paragraph, take mySelf off that train, to talk about work?  Shame on me…  Who cares what you do on lunch, Mike…  Just enjoy the sights from that train.


He sat there, feeling the train car’s invincible spherical bodies roll over the tracks, with the most curiously consistent rhythm.  It was music, one to which he scribble a verse.  Or maybe it was the espresso writing, at this point.


class, do I have some?

I’m involuntarily in one.

Categories: artist's notes ..., SPRING2014 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ideas into my system like this wine.  I love drinking my own creation.  Makes me think I want to proceed with this aim, for this ’14 vintage.  But then the other side of me says, “Absolutely not!  You write about it, drink it, and nothing else!  Commit only to page!” And that “side” has a point.  If I’m to be a Joyce, Hemingway, Plath, Poe, or Wolff, I need the tightest of tunnel vision.  Not going to OVERthink.  Just enjoy my wine, my writing, my night.

The winery, giving me no material today.  Which I expected.  That’s always the case, in that bloody tasting room, anymore.  Need to follow my winemaking allies.  Was going to visit my lab friends, but took a late lunch instead, enjoying a burrito Dwight got me from the taco truck on 12 & Dunbar.  And I was surprised it didn’t fill me as Dwight said it did him.

Done with my first glass, already.  I can’t believe how palatably pietistic this vine-based wave tastes.  And my character, with her leanings, I’m only urged to write her story.  It has to be.  And with her wine type acquiescence, we’ll collaborate splendidly.

Need another glass, but I’ll wait till our dinner’s at consumptive stance.  8:52pm.  A late dinner, I suppose, reminding me of the late plates we enjoyed in Paris, at La Coupole.

All my authors surround me, at this circular surface in the nook, upon the teetering table; Kerouac, Hemingway, Ms. Plath.  With my prose, and verse, I’ll be a literarily delusional harpoon with fanged directives.  I’m not being stopped.  By a single single-dimensional mind out there, anywhere, in and out of the industry.


C speaks to me, from the page I haven’t even written.  This, magic.  What all writers envision, dream of, drink over.  And with this second glass, left, I only see our novel coming to quickened completion.  Quiet in this condo.  Wish rain were here, but it seems to want to remain distant from our county, Napa’s as well.


The letters I intended to write, now more than ever beckoned, by this new character.  Her wine knowledge is moderate, to slightly past.  But her realization recent, that she needs to make wine, is what drives her; provokes her, nearly cruelly; she won’t stop till she sips from her own bottle– which is interesting, as I’m doing what she hopes to someday do.  And I, as her driver, need make it a bit difficult.  Not just with fruit being hard to find, but having the winemakers help her, the wait, all of it– I had the thought today, actually tonight, just before giving little Kerouac a bath, that she could do some blending seminars at other wineries, or at some custom crush pads, walk away with a case or two of her own blends, just as practice.  She doesn’t see that as winemaking.  No.  She wants to touch the berries, watch them get crushed, crush them herself, maybe with a basket press as I did.. come out the hose, into a bin, get dry-iced, cold- soaked [somewhere cold, wherever she can find.. maybe that’s another challenge I can project at her], racked by hand– everything done by hand.  She wants to be the rare type of winemaker.  But she doesn’t know how.  All she can do is read, study, and hopefully get fruit.  But maybe I shouldn’t let her.  Maybe I should only let her follow the winemakers, take notes of everything…  I don’t know, frankly.  Never felt this way about a character.  Not even with Kelly.  I’ll let the story itself tell me what to do.

In unfamiliar terroir, if you will.  And I love it.  Need another glass.  Maybe some of that TR Elliot Pinot from last night.  I deserve it.  So does she.

Categories: SPRING2014 | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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