limited light

6:49.  Up with little Kerouac.  Coffee, here at home.  No visit today to that corporate dealer.  Only a couple dollars, LITERALLY, from paying off credit card.  Put 500 words into book last night.  Deciding still if I want the chapbook approach, 50-60 pp, or gather 200-300 pages, and only have 10 copies, first run.  Have time to decide, but not much TIME.

Think I’m at main bar, today.  Hope so anyway, as that’s where most of the best material is.  Yesterday’s characters: British couple, his parents, 4 total; the mother, interested in my writing, how wonderful it would be to write on Mountaintop, where I took them.  The wife, Amber, professional photographer, snapping several stills on our tasting.  Before my 12:30 tour, I was out in the vineyard with Gerry, the vineyard manager.  He showed me several methodologies to pruning.  Everything from where to clip, how to train vines, where to plant, among much else– more than I have time to catalogue with Jack doing touch-and-go’s right before me.  He’s smiling at me, threatening advance.  And here he comes…

This French Roast, better than a mocha.  Well, it’s more suiting to this type of morning, with how early it is, how I bring Self to write.  Or type.  He stands right next to me, now, leaning on the ottoman.  Just watching me type.  I’m honored by his interest, frankly.  There’s several toys just over by the seat providing much more color, certainly more engagement, than my sitting.

Wish rain would return.  Been thinking this for while.  One of the driest starts to a year than I can remember.  The news, promising precipitation, but always mismeasuring.  Need a large sip of this vampiric roast…  Assigned the first pages in Sun Also Rises [Hemingway, case you knew not].  Excited to study this master, especially alongside the fiery 100 crew.


Need to visit my wines today.  CANNOT let Self forget.  May have to top both barrels.  I’ll do so with Merlot, from one of the tanks in the tank room.

At this point, not much to record into journal, as the writer’s day just starts.  My little notebook, need to trap more observations today.  One, right now, however bland: cold downstairs here in condo.  Should have put on pajama pants, ‘stead of just descending in this non-legged uniform piece.  Red blanket over knees, as if to age me decades in less than 20 minutes…  Coffee getting cold.  Remembering espresso in France.  Especially yesterday, watching D at work, going online, previewing possible lodgings in my city.  Would I could write on a 3-week adventure through Europe, or anywhere in the world, I can only hypothesize.  It’s close, I keep telling Self.

Hemingway, seeing so much.  Feel like I’ve seen nothing.  Paris, probably my most prized observation nugget.  I’ll revisit my footage, visual and written trappings SOON.  Have to.

About prepare for day.  Last night, sipped Zin.  Surprised by encounter.  Not as messy as many I’ve before met.  [2/23/13]


Making this check-in short.  Have to work on book, writing I can SELL.  Busiest day in some time, today in tasting Room.  Like it were August, or any summer moment set.  Loads of material, so I’m quite thankful.  Forgot to log the last couple from yesterday, the man challenging every bit of wine knowledge I humbly offered to conversation.  Why do people get like that over wine?  I’ll never understand it.  Right now, I’m with the remainder of the 2010 Zin from last night.  Much more melodic, not that it had many flaws last night.  Notes from my phone:

= Up early with Jack,

= Coffee, home…  No visit to dealer.

= Don’t need go go back to sleep.  Too  much in stream.

= Condescending managers.. Thank you.

= tired.  My office’ll have a bed, more than likely.

= Imagining pulling up to my office for work day.  What I’d be thinking about, how I’d envision day; How I could actually enjoy my coffee, blueberry scone.. how I’d feel unlocking door.  I’m almost there.  I know it.

= Long day ahead.  Want bed.

= wine club letters… endless bother.

= Heard someone say, “…it just camps out on your palate…”

= Should be in my office.  Writing.

Used to think that writings posted to this “blog” had to sit in their parental screen for a year before being let to actual page.  I’ve untied that progression knot.  This is all salable.  It’s writing, it’s mine, so I can do with it whatever I see most Artistic.  Need my Zin glass, over there in kitchen, by coffee machine, somewhat ironically.  I remember today calling this a “Merlot lover’s Zin,” because of the soft expansion of its texture, flavor traffic.  Thinking I might have to buy some of this tomorrow.  Just to have a stash on-hand.  Brought home a 2010 Syrah tonight, as we made one of our goals.  Not sure which one.  I just tune-in when I’m told to take free wine to base.

Think the only true block with this writing, Self-publishing, would B ME.  So, in the simplicity obsession, and only seeing writing as my obligation [not this childish blogging], this device’s tenure is tentatively targeted.  MEANING, I may not use it for writing.  At all.  Eventually.  Would love to use 1 typewriter, my whole life, like Woody Allen. Just want to get away from electricity, the tech dependence.. the mechanical tentacle.  Then maybe I just need to change, Mike thought–

He set the screen down, pressing lightly into keys.  Rising from sofa, he skipped to kitchen.  Another Zin sip.  Needed.  This was big for him, no laptop typing.  He could taste it.. that Autonomy he’d always forcibly hallucinated.  Showing up to his office.  Only job: WRITE.  1 page, 3.  10, more–  Didn’t matter.

10:41pm.  That was another thing: He hated the clock.  Time.  It only made all shrivel, age, decay.  Grim view, yes.  But quite stooped in truth.  Papers, not even touched, in bag.  He told his students it took about two weeks to get through them, didn’t he?  He couldn’t remember.  Didn’t want to think about it, the tired writer, his overlapping narratives.  Readers had to get used to it, he thought.  Was he wrong, in his separatist song?  Kelly’s counsel, not available.  He could only sip, scribble in that neglected Composition Book.

= People saying I’ll be famous someday, from sharing my winemaking aims.  But few share enthusiasm such for the writing.  Odd.  Wine is consumable, easily forgotten.  The page, ETERNAL; a collected forever.

= Drying glasses.  Don’t know where to start.  Try to look for Art in everything.  But this…

= Letters, to certain varietals, have to be written.