Posts Tagged With: wine

4/18/15: A Matter a matter

First, walk with Alice and Jack up Bennett Valley climbs (by golf course, those streets, with those houses that cause fantasy in me), then coffee (mocha for the writer), then rush ready for work then a frenzied day of pours and preferences and varying attitudes from so many from so many somewheres.  Now I’m in the nook, ever-focused on consolidation for the students, writing the most interwoven and intricate and antagonistic lectures I can.. so the maddenedread blog will be executed at this term’s end, which is now only a matter of week from the when in which I sit.  Tonight’s wine, a Zin, the Dry Creek option from Arista.. then later write about the RRV Pinot, then just, quite bluntly, keep Self writing, and no TV, no shows, not even the writing documentaries I frequently use to push Self.  Monday a day off for the writing adjunct and I’ll spend it completely in adjunct role, and I’ll write a lecture on Sedaris and the essay form, around 1500 words worth.  I’ll have them all silent and connected and eager to respond but reluctant to as well.  I have to keep writing and posting and SELF-publishing to this bloody blog so one day I can print and disseminate my own efforts.  I do value the traditional printing and distribution of page, but this is what I have to do for the being time.

I do find my Self in a bit of a mood, here at the nook table, acknowledging Time’s assault on me and my work and my knees and the patience I may have never had.  I want to walk outside, and I would on the Road, at whatever hotel I’d be put in, just walk and with no aim or destination, stay away from the bars and people– just find the moments for Self, look at sky, knowing it’s the same as Yulupa’s but with varied angles and positionings.  The Life– topic and glow, in the pages I’ll show, who’ll read and who’ll conceive?  I’m quite overthinking the prospects and punctuations of my presence, with any.. but there I am, HERE I am.  And I don’t know what to do with this mood.. concentrating on wine, making wine, wine of my own and with my interpretive sieve.  Know Eddie thought of this once, maybe once or twice before he was published, but I can only wonder, and I’m getting tired of wondering, why am I still pouring wine like a local dunce and why do I let my Self be lead, carrot’d as an adjunct by Them– those chairs and deans and presidents– doing whatever on stage on professional development days, trying to look like one of us or give some convivial impression.  And who’s now the dullard?  You should have seen him, this guy, this ‘president’, dimwit dope with that assured grin knowing what his salary is while adjuncts laugh at him and thinking of throwing something.

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He finished the glass and thought, thought about what he was supposed to think, of his first vintage, 2012, a Merlot, and what, what was he supposed to think.  He’d start his label, yes, but Merlot.. Merlot, so many hated Merlot and they didn’t even know why, why, who why what.  Merlot.  So he sipped and noticed an added vocal layer.  But maybe it was how much he’d sipped of his own, this bottle, the first, the first from his first vintage, and this was what he was to build, fight uphill, and more than a battle, a cabal to all.  But he was distracted by his thoughts and fascinations, dreams, and paintings internally–

Finished.  So another opened, so he could open possibility’s locket ere long.


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He slid the thief into the barrel’s opening, gently as if not wanting the wine to know, to surprise it with a visit, a knock on its puddled door.  Pulling about 3-4 ounces, he put some in his glass, then Aaron’s.  The expected swirls, smells.  Aaron sipped, did the lip air-through-lips sound which he hated, then again.

He smelled, examined the color obsessively, then threw the wine around the corner, outside the garage and into that weird plant he bought down the street.

“What are you doing?  Is something wrong to you about it?” Aaron said.

“No, I just want to do everything but actually have it on my tongue..”

“It’s not ready yet.”

“I think it tastes amazing, you should taste it at least.

“I don’t need to.”


“I don’t need to.  I know it’s good.  I’m saving my first taste till after it’s been in bottle for at least a year.”

“Are you serious?  We’ll be releasing it when it’s been glassed for about six months, maybe sooner if we need the money.  Come on, you jerk, just taste it.”


“And you’re not going to taste the other three barrels either?  Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.  I just had the idea this morning, driving here and thinking about the wines and how they build themselves.. we have to let them build themselves, and I think we step in if there’s something wrong with that first impression, with the odor, or ‘bouquet’, or nose, or … whatever those idiots call it.  The wine’s telling me it’s fine, so we can move on.. and it can move on,” he said, walking to the other barrel.  Thief, swirl, admire, nose, dump.

“I can’t believe this…” Aaron said before tasting barrel 2.  Taste.. “Hey, seriously, you need to taste this one, this is better than 1, it’s more–”

“I know, I don’t doubt it.  Let’s go to 3…”

Thief barrel 3 and stopped Aaron before tasting.  “Just smell it, let it interact with you as IT wants to…”

Aaron swirled a couple times, looked at it, almost sipped but stopped himself then smelled more.  “Huh…”


“I can tell it’s good, maybe not as good as 1 but just as good, or actually quite better now, than 2.”

“What would you say about it?”

“You mean describe it?”

“No.  Not describe it.  What would you say about it?  Or, what is it saying to you?”

Aaron swirled again, smelled for a robust twelve to fifteen seconds.  “It’s deep…  full…..  confident.  I don’t know, there’s a lot going on.”

“Do we need to get involved?”

“No, I don’t think so.  No.”

He pulled from 4 and motioned for the glasses, Aaron first.  “Put it back.”

“What?” he said

“Put it back, it’s fine.” Aaron diplomatically growled.

“We should smell it, check the color and–”

“No, it’s fine.”

He released some for himself anyway.. swirled then smelled.  He stopped.  “This…” he said, “this needs to be its own.”

“Not part of the blend?”

“No.  It’s own. It’s different.”

This was a surprise.  To Aaron, to him.  To the wine, to it all.


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4/14/15 journal — “Tackle”

Done with 1B grading, and ready to leave. Will write more after class, planning on going to Redwood Café for some short fiction and a water with lemon.. no coffee, no more for me thank you.. or should I come back here, to the condo, which we’ll on inhabit for another 24 days or so, and nap? Oh how I wish I could nap now, but no, no I need to keep today in proper motion with the lectures and the short fiction ahead; the café and people waiting for their plates and coffees and people they’re meeting there.. and the conversation in 1B, centered around Baldwin and his views, his world views.. more later…..


Little Kerouac with his new truck…..

Classes done, no nap, and wasn’t in the mood to write, earlier. And who else to prompt me to pen but little Kerouac himself. We now, just back from store where I bought him a truck and now we have our usual end-of-day conversations and cartoons and play with trucks and cars and the usual chase down the hallway and through the kitchen. While driving he waved at all the trucks around us, and individually, methodically at the corner of Yulupa and Hoen. Why do I stress as I do, and why do I let so much bother me? Money and classes and so much that’s out of my control? Yesterday was given the greenlight to write about an Arista wine for the purpose of generating sales, case movements. I’ll write up some copy tonight, some short prose and post some pictures– but, shit, those were erased when I restarted the phone, I think… Yes, gone. But I refuse to let it bother me. If I do, then tech wins, and I’m taking my war with it quite seriously. More writing by hand and less of the typing but I’m typing now, that’s what the Story renders and I can’t be divergent with the Story, ever. I can’t afford to.
Now I’m in the living room seated, leaning against the couch, while check claims that he’s stuck between the arm and the endtable. I laugh while and after he says whatever he does in that dialect of his, the Jackie tongue.
Nothing to report, bored and still not in much mood to write. Just want to be lazy and watch Jack, no assignment or prompt around this moment-set. Now he engages me, running away when I threaten to get him.. here comes the ‘Daddy Monster’ I impend. And then we together laugh, hysterically sometimes. And now he’s back to his own language with a little bit of a higher octave to his words and this funny squished face he does.. I laugh now, and continue, don’t want

IMG_54479:36PM. Tomorrow I vow to wake early, and write track after track, just like a singer-songwriter locked in studio. But fiction, all fiction, short rushed panicked fiction. Back from Mom’s birthday dinner at this new spot, or relatively new stop in Windsor call.. what is it?– oh, ‘Kin’. no complaints, really. No, at all, none. Great service, great wine selection.. amazing Cab the waitress selected to pair with the burger I ordered (which was cooked flawlessly)– sometimes I feel I should be a food critic, or blogger, some tweeting foodie that just talks and tweets and posts and doesn’t care, just puts themselves out there– and why not? Why not do that with the fiction? With the small pieces? So much on mind right now with this new house and the sale of this condo and moving and Summer & Fall semesters, booking the Fall classes this Friday.. and work tomorrow….. Need breathe, just calm and forget about everything, just write and react to what’s here in front of my game, this adjunct plate, and not stop– a social media friend of mine, a blogger she is (not sure about what), said that “you can never put out enough”, referring to blog posts, tweets, material, copy and photography.. just put yourself out there, all of you, and some of her work isn’t precisely mind-strangling.. so if she can make a living doing what she does, then a writer like me, this writer here at this nook table, should have no problem transcending.. and why has it taken me so long? I’m just venting, and I should, I deserve to after what I’ve been through this last week and what’s been on my mind– the grading and the prep and the money and all arranged into that maturity box.
Sipping still water from glass, and getting tired. Bed, go soon, so you can wake early and what– vent to the page as you always do. IS that what Baldwin does? I find his essays scenic and instructional, but a tad prolix. He’s it, though, lived as a writer and done the traveling trek that I dream of, and when I listen to NPR in the morning, of these journalists traveling the world and seeing war and recording it and relaying the findings by page to us in America, I feel ferociously failed. And I know I shouldn’t. I can just hear Mom saying something like, “Don’t be like that, don’t doubt yourself.” OR, simply, “Stop.” And that’s why my mother is invaluable, and I have to note that today, on her birthday.. if it weren’t for her, I’d be nothing like this writer, here in the kitchen nook of the condo we’re about to sell thinking of the next words to write.. sip the water again, more than absolving.

Day, time to end. No more writing. Just living, thinking, like Mom told me earlier when I called her stressed, she told me to just sit and think, don’t write. And that’s what I need do now.. soon phone to be OFF, this devil laptop, too. And then to bed, and I have to note how thankful I am that I’m not in wine’s throws at current current.. just this water, Equilibrium, and thinking of the day’s lectures, this morning’s 1A especially, on the symmetry and value of living, being one of the living, that tomorrow’s not exactly assured.. now I enjoy my night, for thinking. Writing done.

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4/12/15, journal

Up, 6:08. Been up since 5:20-something I believe but I tried going back into dreams, which I shouldn’t have, I should have been down here in these blankets and on this couch collecting thoughts.. I again realize the crucial nature to these mornings for me now, as yesterday I hadn’t a time to write, busy at the winery (no lunch of course, which I technically don’t mind but I needed time for writing), luckily I brought the little pages in with me and wrote some notes for Tuesday.. didn’t grade, and didn’t further Compose what I want to present Tuesday. Had a lovely dinner with Alice at where the Cantina used to operate, but with writing and running yesterday was blank, no entry, a failure. I gently shook Alice and let her know I was coming down here. She didn’t respond, tired of course, further getting us in preparedness for the move, which I estimate now is only 25 days away.
IMG_5381 Yesterday, I couldn’t stop looking at the colors of the wines and how they behave, how the colors and shapes and overall stamps in the glass changed as you swirl them. I was obsessed with this one Pinot, the Anderson Valley, and just how outspoken the color was to my optics. I stared and stared, and finally took a picture. And now I stare some more.
Thinking I should go out for a run at 7, 47 minutes from now, get my miles logged. And no music, just the watch.. the struggling light of morning in that bluegraypurple sky. Ugh.. but I can only think of Thursday and how I need to prepare.. tomorrow I’ll make a point to bring papers to work. I will today, I just don’t know how much I’ll get done. Yesterday wasn’t what I call ‘invaded’ busy, but it was fluid enough to keep me alert and motioning. Sold, total in day, over 2 cases, I’m pretty sure. Sold one case to that guy from MA, the one who loved the Mendo Ridge Pinot and the Gerwurtz’.. how he’s building his cellar and how his son, I believe, was either married on the estate or had a rehearsal dinner, or reception there. Can’t remember but there was much mention of memory and the occasion and how it to this day IS their impression of the winery. That interests and attracts me, greatly, and stills serves as much of the reason I’m even interested in the industry; the positivity and togetherness, family and the moments people recount several years forward.
Looking left, more light, perfect for run. Yes, then, I’ll launch at 7, exactly, which means I should go upstairs around 6:50 to brush teethe and jump into gear and what be… 45 degrees outside now, or so my phone says, and who knows how spot-on that devilish device is. But I need to run, stay running, run consistently like Alice.. and I’m boldly thankful for her counsel in electing the Surfer’s Path ‘half’ rather than ‘full’. As I’ve always noted in this log, running is writing to me and now I focus on short fiction, and short short fiction, not long exhaustive novels. Same sets with my running practice. So this morning, target 7, then stop. Thinking of it as seven pages, typed, submitted.. and I remember that one of the students in the 1B class submitted his short narrative both single and double-space, him telling me “I printed it both ways, ‘cause it reads better single-spaced.” I thought that was wonderful, this young student taking such pride in his work and such ownership and onus. I learned from that hand-off, that I need to demonstrate more ownership and pride, boldness confidence bravado and all associated…
6:24, so still quite some time for me to collect and wonder innocently how the day’s to mature and evolve as its own character.. then I have an idea for class that I have to write down, type just below this, I can’t stop in my types this morning and can’t be distracted by email or my phone or any messages– Image: last night at dinner, before our plates landed, the family to our left was at the end of their visit, and all were on phone, no communication, no interaction or love, no closeness, just surrender to that little rectangle. It made me sick and Alice could only be disgusted as well.
More and more I realize the dire nature of a morning for me, now, and I feel for some time. But I’m here at the keys typing my life away, telling my story as an adjunct and finding it more aggravating but encouraging at the same time– the idea of traveling with these lectures and ideas and offering them for sakes of generating discussion, not like I’m some note of genius but simply that I want to talk, and share my ideas.. and they’re not actually “mine”! That’s the beauty, or part of it.. the ideas were inspired from other authors or in something I witnessed, or from someone with whom I spoke. I’m not aiming for ownership, but I do credit Self with the urge and courage to share these ideas, or note, or notions, or compulsions. My first idea of the day stems from Sedaris and his storytelling urges, precisely what he shares and how.. how the conversational nature of his prose and of course the humor, only make it more inviting and comforting… And Baldwin with his razoring diction and argumentative precision.. I’ll be posting all day to the teaching blog, and hopefully students will engage me and each other.. but I need to get to the estate early, set up and do some work for Tuesday.. Tuesday, like the day of a fight, a title fight or some show, some reading; a concert.. or one of these Road lectures I fantasize about, and why not! Treat it just that way! I will and have a result to share at 7AM when we’re beginning.
6:37.. jumping over to teaching blog/journal.. ideas for Tuesday, prepping for run soon…

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In a coffee count.

To the winery, which takes about either hours of my day, then to dinner with Alice.. so I worry, when will I write? When will I prep adequately for Tuesday? Woke this morning from a nightmare that I wasn’t at all prepared for class, and the students knew so they upon me swarmed like ravenous wasps. That won’t happen, ever.. the semester closes and I must end strong.. revealing no specific plans here but know that I have some explosive, vibrant, and magnetically layered material and ideas for the students..

Today, I’m an adjunct, a professor, not a wine blogger or wine force of any kind, justing writing while admiring wine..

On Estate and the clouds seem to have scattered.. writing lecture through out day, absent of quotes from selected MSS.. I’ll add that later. My plan, this ‘master plan’ ‘solution’ approach, taking more shape and accumulating gravity.. more later, but just know I’m noting, and everything I write today will be in Tuesday’s lecture.. starting with a reflection of Life, Death, and what the living do after death, in the presence of it, and how it shapes their character..

To the tasting room, pen moving, me moving, noting, reshaping, from yesterday only Life–
new shapes of calculated rushes…..

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Up and I have the needed coffee.

Drive to Belmont.. and while driving to get the coffee and standing in their nonexistent line this morning, I thought.. wine or Literature, wine or Literature–
Then I stopped myself. And I had to. Too late in life for that kind of rigmarole. Both.. both.. wish I could look at a vineyard right now while sipping this, ‘stead of sitting in this cluttered nook. No one ever wrote about moving being enjoyable, to my knowledge. Hear one soloing bird outside, singing in singular, separated notes. Then they stop. And I’m left to think further, about school and my lectures, taking them to the Road.. anti-commodity, an interesting idea for Tuesday’s lecture.. I really let some things yesterday find a home under my skin. But not now, not today, not before I’m to be in the presence of Death– today’s funeral, Time reminds me that it knows, it knows everything we do and when we do it and it, ‘it’, will have the say final but we don’t know when. Wish I could lock myself in a room with words, mine and others’….

Have to print some documents, more, for our loan, organize and further arrange for our new house, this transition– and yes in me a slight tincture of annoyance, or exhaustion.. something, something. So I refocus on Life.. Tuesday’s lecture– and I know I write this all the time but this WILL be the lecture of my career. Just have to make sure I’m not too caffeinated and excessively charged and fiery. Want the students to follow me and walk away with more than they thought they would.. and I’ll lecture alongside the two authors, Baldwin and Sedaris. And now that I think, both are about societal commentary, just in different deconstructive vehicles..

A revisit to Poe.. coming.. and I’ll start with his poem, “Al Aaraaf”. Think I spelled the tag adequately. But either way, his fiddling with imagery and how we targeted beauty in his work, worshiping the concept of Art, rather than Death, the Gothic perpetuation, the “grim”, as people say. And I return to my exploration of that term, what I was to write about for my PhD sample piece…..

Car packed, coffee done, now to Road, up to parents’.. moving, ugh… Thinking of lectures all day, and how to link everything I “teach” to wine, and around other way.



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Connective Shelves

IMG_5372Sipping some of my wine, the ’12 NDC. That’s New Dad Cuvée, if you forgot. And I get not so much weepy, but .. no, not nostalgic.. just reflective, and realizing that I can make wine and have my own label and write about it if I wish and create some new story for this writer. Discerning this moment and how the wine amalgamates with my current sentiment.. the adjunct war, coming to an end as I want it to– no surrender, no armistice, no walkaway. I’m sipping, here in the nook, to a bottle I, with much help from my friend Blair, produced. And I have to settle on varietals, I know. Don’t want Pinot. Just Cab, and SB, and Merlot.. that’s it. All Bordeaux. This sip… The Cabernet romps silence the Grenache assertions (and Grenache is the lead voice in this assembly, as I recall..). I feel this wine is its own occult oscillation, with the dark notes and visual, with the undercurrent of conviction and avant-garde story.. this wine speaks to me, and I made it!– Well, with Blair’s help. I’m not winemaker, but I’ve made wine with the activity and prowess of IMG_5371professionals. And here I am, after a day completely enraptured in the thought of wine, and I think more, about the winery I today visited and the Pinot I took home and the other wines I tasted in that rustic garage-like cove, making me think of what I can write and what I can do with wine and what I can write to while I do what I do with wine– postmodern repetition and mirroring; the Plath realization looking at the puddled cogitation in this bowl, this night’s pouring vessel. I’m just rambling I know, but like I said this was a night and day of wine…
Tomorrow, Ross’ funeral. I guess I’m ready, and I guess that’s why I’m sipping with such fervency. Who knows. I’m not blaming Uncle Ross, not at all, I’m blaming me, and my inability to decide that death is integral in this existential equation. I’m the problem, as I’m a writer; I’m to blame, I’m a writer, and death is everywhere, and I can’t hide from it; I’ve evaded it once, defeated it, to be technical and keep score, but I know it wants another scuffle with this Beat, so what do I do? For the moment, just enjoy the wine Blair and I made..

Now: still with caramel and raspberry and minty earth and herb. Need to share this, and the Merlot Blair with me aided, with the Arista faction. And soon. Saturday, then.. decided, for the next episode of the ‘cast Tome and I shoot every week.

IMG_5351Scattered in my thinking and I know tomorrow wil try me but I’ll continue, and stay in writer mode even though Tobias Wolff said in that lecture, specifically, that if you’re a writer at a funeral you should take time to grieve, not observe– but I have to disagree. I can’t just de-activate it, as some do, or can, or think they can.

So the wine’s done, and so am I. So till tomorrow, where I bid adieu to my uncle, my father’s brother…..


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Mock Somm: Sheldon Wines, Roma’s Vineyard/Anderson Valley, Pinot Noir, 2012

Virile and musical, rousing modulation with a pursuant pace on palate; light red fruit with earth and tea, spice and seductive sensibility; this is voice, the IMG_5365kind of rhyme I look for in a Pinot or any other wine, and I’ve never tasted here before so this was a bottle that made me subscribe, already envisage my return. Upon olfactory initial, I’m in redolent exchange, observing all dimensions in that cranberry, or earthly pomegranate, or rhubarb– I don’t even know what rhubarb is. Again, I’m not a somm– No, I know WHAT it is, just not what it tastes like, sorry. I’m not rounded, like a somm.
IMG_5354This Pinot stands as that poetic Pinot that I’m always looking for, the low ALC giving the fruit saunter a an invitation to be observed and appreciated.. again, musical, jazzy, Hutcherson on his keys, with the random shuffles and syncopation.. the romantic cryptogram, me thinking, thinking and fantasizing of my sip next. It’s Beat and pages set on palate telling it’s own story, and the winemaker/owner Dylan and I discussed today, there’s depth in this pour, in this bottle, here in this 13.5% ABV Pinot. “How can it be deep or have depth if it’s so ‘light’,” I just hear someone challenging. Well, that’s a whole ‘nother exchange. With this bottle’s submission and today’s visit I define depth as intrigue, innovation; enticing evasiveness and resplendently interactive transcendence; its own haunt, if you will. And that’s the lore of Pinot, but here it actually materialized. This is a Pinot that questions and answers.. vanguard and phantasm. My senses are wholly hexed, charmed, coerced in the palatable octave of this ’12.

Okay, so now a rating. I have to do that, even as a Mock-Somm.. so.. I don’t know… 96. “Where’s the other 4 points?” you’ll pose. “Okay,” I act, “I could have given it 100, and I want to, I’m just trying to seem sagacious, in the luscious loom of such a laudable and attractively actuated Pinot.”

So… ‘MM 96’

(But MM 100, if you promise not to tell…..)

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Vintaged Mood Mud

Clocking in late, 9:51.. rough morning with little Kerouac and his unwillingness to go to school, get ready, just being defiant to I believe see how I’d react.. but I’m here now with my head in a million places with Ross’ funeral tomorrow, the move, packing, getting all the documents for the loan, me calling in classes today. Wouldn’t say there’s IMG_5348tremendous guilt, but a little, and a little, as they say, goes quite a long way. So I dive, headfirst, olympianly, into the coffee. Was going to write at SBUX but decided no, the people just annoy me, and then the library but then I saw myself only being frustrated while there– BUT WAIT!! There were some books I wanted to rent.. maybe.. no. I need to stay put, here on couch and type. Jazz to be activated in a minute, and in such artful spirit I also need to visit some wine spot today, for my ‘Mock Somm’ series.. listening now to KCSM jazz online, wouldn’t have anything else frankly– this tune, not sure name, doesn’t display on website, but it motivates me and understands my mood, with the blues suggestion and slow New Orleans-esque pacing. Lovely. Again, just what the writer needs in and on a rough morning like this. Papers from yesterday, right.. and I think about the adjunct life and world and role, and how it, IT itself, may drive me away, and if not away then toward another FT attempt in wine, that bridge to my own label and wine-oriented outfit. Wine, always sharing a story, something expressive; some voice, there’s no criticism like with that greasy pig full-timer that slighted my writing and teaching and me, and at Mendocino College no less– no, wine is that sensory embrace that reassures you, brings you to a certain Reflective Equilibrium, leave you pleasurably pensive; spellbinds, find, sings in its own individualized chimes. The adjunct world, and Education collectively, notably at the JC level, and Univ’, seems to contradict, convolute and corrupt all it professes to endorse and support.
Jazz, wine, more closely linked that the classroom, teaching and real writing, real expression. Wine encourages; wine IS jazz.. more than poetry but a colorful Humanness that I can’t stay away from, it’s own auditory opiate– I want everything from this day forward to be jazz, in my Life.. everything is jazz and poetry and wine. LIFE. No struggle and if there is there’s victory and sight in the struggle.. so I write like I’m making sense and not at the same time– jazz, as I said. MY morning suddenly begins an incandescent insinuation about everything around me, and what I’m about. So my story has a new chapter and song.
Driving Jack to meet his grandmother, Cathy, somewhere between here and Monterey. More than likely in the city. Should I take a detour, do something new, find some Newness, that Beat time that she wrote about.. write by the wharf? I’m thinking too much, and all the clutter around me doesn’t help, the move, crunching my consciousness like frail dirt clusters under a determined tractor tire. Keep moving, you’re on stage, wine wine wine– The thought and alchemy to the reality ahead of me, what I want.. Eddie’s story. I’m soon to be there, I know, on the Road writing and talking about writing and wine and California, not so much how to write but certain ideas I have for starting a project (where my adjunct years will serve me). Not that I don’t want to teach, I just don’t want to be in this context, but that too I’ve written already. I’m tired of the consistency and the perpetual presence of certain certainties and realities.. I want the Newness.. the randomness, the not-ever-expected. And quite and noise, just like the breaks of this current track..
Blogging, not exactly how I want to do it, but I have to now, and it’s instant, as Amber said.. what she does now in India, what she writes or blogs or sees I can only imaging, but that’s that Newness! Experienced by one of my students; she’s passed me, ardently, admirably. I want too to walk those streets and smell what she does there and talk to those characters, drink that beer she mentioned, and just write in some kind of NEW. When, though? I have to ask. Humans always want the stew of stimuli to stream, especially us, the real writers. Not the people that post to a blog everysooften and say in passing, to people at a party or meeting new people in a tasting room, “I’m a writer,” or “I write.” Really? I always want to say, “How much?” “Oh, every few days or so,” they’d say, and I’ve heard this reaction, I have! Not saying I’m a better writer or person, but much a more frequent and serious penner than this character. I’m losing you and myself, but that’s what jazz does sometimes. Where’s my word journal, the little Paris book that Mom got in my city, for me? Shit.. kitchen? Upstairs? This house is a mess, and I doubt anyone’s reading still, I’m exhausted by this prose as well, but it’s truth and my Now and the room I’m in, the mood that has me, or rather had me.
2:30 or 2:45, have to get Kerouac. Then driving south, to wherever.. lunch, what to have? More writing? Sure.. reading, have to dive into my five MSS I promised to read. And that’s another facet to teaching English at the JC, or at all: you can’t read! Papers, yes, but not the books you wish. Robbery, the “profession” pummels us into stoic simplicity, and I’m tired of it. That’s not jazz, not Art, not Lit. And not wine. Wine wouldn’t do that to me, and doesn’t. I know, my relationship with wine is lovehate, I agree, but it doesn’t abuse me like the adjunct world. Why would I keep going? What would I be if I taught HS English? Failed, in certain strain. So, no.. I know me, and I wouldn’t be happy, or alive even.

And a note: job titles; they’re ridiculous. Do centralizing, and not in a beneficial way. And the title THEY determine, they decide what you’re called. And yes my mood’s back.. I need to keep moving, go get some more coffee.. the mocha I bought this morning from that barista, or brewer, or whatever she’d be called is plebeian and limp. My job title: what do I want it to be? I mean I guess I need one, so what, WHAT, what is it? Writer. And if someone asked me a couple years or maybe months (me being optimistic) down the TimeRoad, what do you do? I’ll say, “Write.” “Write what?” “A blog.” “About what?” At this point I’m thinking, “What the fuck? Why all the questions? What are my answers going to do for you?” But, being the mature “professional”, I’d respond “Life.” I write about Life. Yes, the dominant topic is being an adjunct, and wine, and writing, being a dad, and running as well.. so, why couldn’t I say ‘life’? Over thinking, and I blame the jazz, the crazy baritone sax that competes with the frenzied drumming, and the string bass, not sure if it’s a cello or.. but I’m trying to keep up. And the morning’s back on my side, no more mood, no worry, I’m not letting any anchors into my sight or senses this morning. I have toughen, and I will, have with this entry, with these tracks. So… what wine place to visit? No sipping, just smelling, and okay maybe a couple spits, but that’s it.. then coffee after, more coffee for the writer, and no planning! That too adds to this writer’s stress. Just live and write and play like this sax. Song title doesn’t matter, just like a job title. It’s jazz, it’s music, ART, and I love what it does to me. To the kitchen for some coffee, then some thinking, just listen to the sequence, this playlist, and think. No writing. Not now. Just live, note in Comp Book if you need.

Just noticed there’s a lot of blame in my writing. I blame my moods…..


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