10:18pm, 8/21/12 —  Not going to write in this log, tonight.  That’s my compulsion, but I’m going against.  Off to Comp Book.  Verse, only..  [Closing document on monster, so no temptation.]


8/22/12, 8:33pm — Sitting for the first time in hours.  Writer finally unwound, relaxed.  So, thus far with a new winemaker acquaintance, I’ve sipped Petit Verdot, high elevation Cab, old vine Zin.  All from 2010’s vintage.  Spent just a touch of time in lab, with winemaker, oenologist.  Took more notes than I knew I could in such a condensed time string.  No notes from tasting Room.  Was too much in winemaker mode.  Thought about nothing but what I see Self producing, after devoting my half-hour lunch to lab time.  Couldn’t hear anyone talking, couldn’t see people walk in.  Only saw wine.  MY wine.  My tasting Room, my barrels.  More time I spend with these wine producing characters, I’m all more proselytized into this Art.  Yes, I want to “reflect terroir,” as everyone says [hate that word, “terroir,” by way, how it’s so overused, overmisused].  But even more, I want to write, through the fruit I source; Interpret the varietals in ways consistent with my vision.  To say, I don’t think Sauvignon Blanc can be produced ONE way to be “good.” Same with Syrah, Cabernet, and more than certainly Chardonnay.  And I think all this while sipping a sturdy local ale.

Was invited to recite at an open mic, tonight.  But couldn’t.  Had to come home, write.  After this sitting, back to Comp Book.  Tired of device dependency.  Like I said prior, I need more organic shifts and progressions in my scribed practices.  […]  project R, right around time’s corner.  Have to keep writing, if I’m to see this consolidation put me on Road.  Time, 10:06pm, sipping an ’09 Cab.  Somewhat surprised with its docility.  And just like that, a stall in my types.  Hate when this happens.  My style, I’d like to think, like Kelly’s– continual Creation.  So, I have to just write through it, keep tips in tap, on this cursed keyboard.  And then I think, “What am I doing here, on this devilish device?  How is this organic?” My novel begging me to come back.  The Stanford PhD, also calling my scribble stream.  Sip 2 of Cabernet, more balanced, seductive; like a vampiric femme, alive on page, one which only selective cognition manifest; she comes alive as you want her to.  Again, Kelly…  Interesting wine.  Haunting.  Just what I see Self bottling.

Looking through old notes, reading what that man from England said about our wines.  “This right here, just a bit too forward for me.” Now, I have to ask, “What would want them to be, passive, light?” And then, a couple from Missouri, said they only like sweet wines.  I know, every has a “valid palate.” Okay.  But how many wineries in Sonoma Valley produce SOLEY wines sweet?  Exactly…  And if you’re going to respond, “Well, Mike, they’re tourists,” I’ll agree.  But wouldn’t you do a little research, or  simple planning before embarking on your tasting trip?  Maybe I am being too hard, harsh.  And, honestly. this topic, or anything wine-focused, getting boring like a robotic comet, right now.  In Literary modus.  Topic next …

Think I’m on the mountain tomorrow.. but that’s not what I want to talk about.  At all.  I’m thinking of mobility; contrasting the stationary.  Writing from random hotels, scribbling between sips of a wine from the wine list that some muddleheaded sommelier hairbrainedly amalgamated.  Writing while in midst of vocational dashes.  Make sense?  Think this may be my Cabernet voice.  Don’t tell…  2 my comp book.  not capitalizing cuz i’m 2 lazy.  this is definitely a writer’s cab voz.  hope it didn’t hurt, or annoy..