3/20/13 [journal]

Again, I’ll ask, “What if I just divorce these muddy devices?” Only my daily thousand to this “blog.” I know, someone’ll say, “Well that’s a lot of writing for just one sitting.” For me it’s not.  Not at all.  Met an editor from the Huffington Post.  I’m humbled by how she welcomed my interpretation of the wines, in that small Room during our remodel.  Tonight, I’m opening a wine I “shouldn’t,” one I “should” save for some occasion.  But, like what?  Tonight’s an occasion.  I’m alive, with the day off in morrow.  Might go upstairs, to my more top-shelf collection, snag something like one of those ’09 Lancaster Estate Cabs.  Not sure what I want.  But I will tell you this.. my mood is a targeted fang at this hour.  Not just with wine’s industry, but with certain communal constituents.  Not wasting this freewrite on such pollutants.  Continuing in my free-witted prose.  What wine do I pull?  Love how THIS is the writer’s sole problem, in this eve’s brief streak.

Not sure if Kerouac’s asleep, yet.  He continues to grow, and time taunts the writer with reality that I won’t win.. he’ll no longer be my baby, soon.  Not to worry.  I’ve captured this moment, both in sentence and still photo.  So time’s already lost.  The rain, gone.  Made for supportive setting at winery, today, looking out at those stacked empty barrels on the crush pad.

Didn’t want to wake the little Artist, in his gentlest of sleeps.  So I confined Self to the downstairs mini-cellar.  Pulled an ’08 Syrah from Loxton, where my friend Luke’s one of the winemakers.  In the field of winemaking, such stretches.. an issue of WineMaker magazine arrived at the condo castle today.  And, I checked on my wines, today, with one of the winemakers at the estate.  He said to stay put, for now, that we’d taste them next week.  Really excited about ’13, the two barrels of Merlot I’m set to do.  This’ll be my 3rd vintage making wine.  That went fast.  Guess this would be yet another score for time, against the writer.  But as long as I’m writing about it, I won’t falter.

Sipping a Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial [IPA].  I won’t hide, I feel a little funny.  But that’ll help the session, all the fiction I’m to spew into book after this blog installation.  Looking at a photo of a French Chateau, wondering what the wines taste like there.. what goes through the winemaker[s]’[s] head[s] while in blending trials, or racking.  OR, especially, watching the full bins come in.  Need to work a harvest, FULLY.  Not just take pictures as I did this year.  I mean REALLY be part of the war.. be with that fruit from carousal to crush.

The quiet in this house, now.. its own chapter set.  I’m supposed to further consolidate, rack down.. take words from this barreling blog, bottle into book.  I need to taste through library, entries past.  Answers there wait.  For me, the writer.  BookMaker.  Vision!  Alas.

Now, for dinner.  As there was none planned.  What suits this progression?  Something with body, depth, persuasive push.  At loss.. Need thoughts.  Something to pair with that Syrah.  Think they make Burgers up the street, at that golf course restaurant.  Don’t they?

And from this separatist strand, especially in this 20th’s dive.. verse.  Poem.  Anything combatting formalism, institution.  Saving for Book, though.. something I can sell.  Haven’t had Loxton’s wines in some time.  But from what I remember, they’re nice.  Subtle, somewhat.  Went there on mission, I think, for 1st “wine blog.” Met Mr. Loxton, and was more than congenial, merely furnishing.  He explained each pour, which I liked.  Frankly, this wine deserves something needing note.  But what?  Monti’s?  No, maybe when the writer can afford.  Need some pairable plate.. deliberation.  Hate sommeliers, but I could use one right now–  Pause.  Go with gut, as Mrs. Barrett said in our 2010 interview.  Didn’t put in quotes, as she doesn’t need MLA formality.

And on the “professor” front: Hemingway vs. Fitzgerald.  Will have to see.  I’m siding with Ernest, obviously.  Tomorrow, dedicated to the lecture, my return to classRoom on Tuesday.  First note, offering: a poem by e.e. cummings, a poet I otherwise don’t care for.  Okay, time for the penner to pocket meal.  Be back–


10:03pm.  Into the ’08 Loxton.  Like the frankness of the note arrangement, the vocal aromatics.  Went with a mushroom-swiss burger, from Legends, up the street.  This wine stands as a certain serenade, in seductive stammer.  Left my glass in kitchen, as to space my sippings, make each glass longer last.  Tomorrow, grading everything, finishing lectures.  Already have my cummings poem chosen, which is interesting as I’ve always dismissed his work.  I remember one past student, Elyse, who loved his words.  She always used to remark on his efforts, style, and I always chose to convivially with her skirmish.  And now, he’s in one of my directives.  Interesting.  Changed the background picture on this laptop to an obscure Parisian scene, intersection.  Look at me, citing tech.. shame.  More than parted by this wine, its Dogfish predecessor.  But I’ll continue to write.  At 12 & Mission, tomorrow, at 3, latest.  Grading, writing, more writing.. digging into past page post.  On “blog,” more notably, crucially, off it.  I want to see what I’m able to excavate in documents completely forgotten, before days of these devilish blogs, or during.

Need a couple more sips.  But that kitchen, so far away for this comfortable, entrenched writer.  True, I’m not ACTUALLY at war like Mr. Hemingway.  But I feel so, mirrored; echoing stroll, precipitating progress, colliding with actuality’s terrain.  Bring that glass into this Room, author!  Writing like I need WINE.. especially bottles like this, by Mr. Loxton.

After another sip, I’ve decided to keep my glass by that sink, the paper-towel rack.

“I’m not sure I like this one,” she said.

“Why?  What don’t you like?”  I said.

“Are you making fun of me, like the people in your stories, that come into the tasting room?”

“I don’t–  No!  I just want to know what you don’t like.”