diarism prism

9/29/12.  Plenty notes today.  Piecing all together.  That spot, in the Hood Mt. parking lot, unpaved, still in/on mind.  Off to dinner with Alice.  5 years, a married character, me.  IF you were to ask me ten years ago where I’d be in 10 years, I never would have projected here.  Jack, focusing this penner.  Tonight, I’m going to take a close look at the wine list, targeting Syrah.  Took home some $ from wine club room shift.  Promise to write–er, I mean TYPE–more, later.  Peace … [6:48pm]

9/30/12.  My Friday night.  Interesting, that on my Saturday, I’ll be getting a cavity filled, working in evening.  Well, lecturing.  Tonight’s varietal, if you can believe it.. Zin.  An ’09, from the winery.  I don’t plan on ever making Zin, but I’m deconstructing it for character, and just as a standalone wine.  Everything in its stature, structure, stride continues quite level.. Love what’s on palate.  Again sipping…  A humble voice conveying assurance.  Returned to the book Katie bought me for Christmas, the winemaking text.  Still in winemaker mode, especially with this harvest’s pace.  Kazzy told me by phone today that our fruit could be arriving any day.  He’ll let me know.  Katie picks our Chardonnay tomorrow.  And I would be there if it weren’t for my bloody appointment.

On Self-publishing– still using the other night’s quote, from my students’ reading, to get novel on shelves.  Right now, looking at content scribbled on little pages.  Well on way, especially with the character today that said the nose of the Syrah reminded him of fish.  He laughed, as if to inform me that his opinion’s immeasurably valuable, that I should pay attention, let someone know.. Right away!  I didn’t know how to react, honestly.  And you know what, I’m glad that–  Sorry, readers.  Have to save it for book.

Feel like I haven’t written in some time.  I mean, really sat for a meaningful sitting, beyond my usual posting from phone.  Which HAS TO STOP.  Typing on this monster device, bad enough.  Posting from a phone, lower than any feared Literary landfill.  Don’t know why I capitalized, as no post from my devilish phone’s “Literary.”  Moving past, I think about the heat, what that means for grapes.  Not sure I’ll be in the vineyards early this coming week.  May be a good thing.  Should get some footage and stills of the Chard, or SB, being pressed, that juice surging from that nozzle.

Ms. Plath’s entries down here with me.  Remembering the class I saw on the Stanford website, including her work, analyzing her as a Literary celebrity.  Been going to my campus’ site quite a bit, lately.  Still in sight, but how will that blend with the winemaking efforts?  Maybe it’s okay to have winemaking as a hobby.  NO.  Want it 2B more than that.  I want to be a “professional” winemaker, like Katie, but keep/perpetuate/boast/promote my Literary practice, standing, roots.  What other winemaker has that elemental composition?  2nite’s session, looking to do 500 words here, for the “wine blog,” then 500 in novel idea.  May postpone novel’s .5k for morrow’s morning.  Setting alarm for 5am.  “Vineyard shoot time” I call it.  Want 1000 words in book, actually, from past notes, entries, pages, whatever.  Before little Jack wakes.  This wine, this Zin, of all varietals, tells me to do what I want as a writer.  IT urges me to follow Kelly, how she separated from clock.  And the Syrah I had last night, know I could produce one more enigmatic, more artful.  Just have to study more.  Thinking I should submit some of these pieces to contests, or competitions, after hearing the winery’s reserve Zin won a gold medal at the harvest fair.

Papers to grade tomorrow.  Leaving castle at 4p, headed for Starbucks on Farmers.  Know I’ll finish early, but the mocha’s muscle assures another thousand.  I’m hoping.  Also need to start running, again.  Maybe I should do that tomorrow morning instead of writing.  What?  How dare I write–I mean TYPE–such.  Writing first, all secondary.  Maybe I should one day craft a Zin.  No?  This is the Zin talking.  IT rewrote me.  Pushing me2POETRY.

I swim in Zinfandel from dim wells, never under critics‘

thin spells.  Pen’s perspiration, the way gin smells.  My sin tells

memoirs afar; scribbler scarred.. at concerts with a wand curved.

I’m gone, stirred.  All statements, articulated, hardly