Plea Terroir

Dizzied by all the material from today.  It was gathered around my stint in the Reserve Room.  Crystal, my blogging ally, sent me some amazing pictures of her winery’s vineyards flowering, then after work I was able to shoot some footage of my friend Sam’s little vineyard, at his house, and his impressively labor-intensive, extensive garden.  There are few projects I’ve ever seen someone put so much thought, energy, planning into.  And he’s so meticulously organized, with every lining, row, placement and planting of his garden.  Am I that passionate about Literature, about Fall semester?  I need to be.

Sipping some ’10 Meritage.  Started sipping it while writing a spec piece for Crystal’s blog.  Tonight, more poetry, if I can away stay.  Went for a nice run, after Jackie fell into his doubled dreams, where I’m sure he stresses over all he could do if he were conscious.  Need to make sure I have coffee for A.M.  And while in kitchen, another sip of this blend, which is pretty young, but still showing some song strands.

So relaxed, right before watching news.  Tomorrow night, last regular session, as I’ve told you I-don’t-know-how-many times.  This semester needs to be put to bed, so I can write the Fall.  And that’s how I plan on making it my most triumphant term.  I may lead off the 5 section with a Foucault line, or 2.  Then English 1, with something from Poe.  OR Plath.  I want both sections to be centered around the Authors we read, not my “lectures.” But I will prepare a book’s worth of notes, thoughts, offerings.  Back in professor mode, in a way I never have been.  It’s its own varietal.

She walks over to the rose bed, just looks at it–  Sorry.  Can’t get her away from my thought hall.  I’ll fall into my dream rapids with her hovering above my angst.  And that’s okay.  I don’t mind looking up at her.  I already do, in so many shapes, sculptings.

10:44pm.  Didn’t check if I had coffee, but I did take another vino sip.  Still tasting young, withheld, timid, tight.  Time, I know.  Wish I could sleep in, for morrow.  But wishing gives you more character insides, no?  Seems like all I do is wish.  But with today’s meeting, and possible future collaboration with my new blogging cohort, who knows what’ll happen.  Maybe someday soon all this infernal wishing’ll just stop, as I’ll be on the Road, in my office.  One thing keeping me on this keyboard– all the people I’ve met at the winery, what they’ve said to me, all their encouraging words, their sovereign projects, successes.  A new scene, just over that hill.

A collection of Hemingway shorts, for 1A, so my returning students can have more evidence on their once-studied scribbler.  Starting to feel the run– and I just saw that I have enough for a morning’s worth, in coffee-speak.  Ugh, so tired.  Just sent email to blogging friend.  Hope she likes my piece.  And if not, no harm.  My writing style isn’t for everyone.  Not for many, really.  It’s Literary, compositionally cubist, so no mainstream wine publication would adopt my crop.  Only 3 more minutes left to write.  Should really start editing.  Hate that part.  But isn’t that the biggest part of writing, the 90%, as I impress upon the students?  New atmosphere, for my proof’s task and steer.  Out–


5:01am.  Awake.  My character did this, I’m hunching.  Did a little workout just now, which isn’t common for the author at this hour.  Glad I held Self to only a glass and a half, night last.  Felt odd sipping wine, like I took a step backwards or something, not having sipped night before.  Still feeling yesterday’s run– there, the exhaustion cometh back.  But going back to sleep WOULD be a reverse roll.  Not happening.

When she wakes this early, for whatever cause, she doesn’t go back to sleep, as she rarely encounters this type of quiet, even as a Self-sufficient Artist.  She works.  Right now, she’s starting coffee, maybe turn on news– OR, maintain the unusual silence.  She couldn’t even hear cars outside.  Kelly couldn’t remember the last time she had a session like this, or was going to have one like this [coffee still not yet on].

She left the TV off.  The fridge halted in its discrete mechanical hum.  Now, it was frighteningly silent.  She still hadn’t turned on a light, which she liked.  She used only the small light on her phone to sketch.  It made her smile, that moment.  She’d sell whatever came from this sitting, as THIS had never happened before.  She went back to the floor.  Did a couple planks, sit-ups, mock pushups.  She hated pushups– reminded her of college, how her soccer coach, one of them, made them do pushes for the smallest infraction, or misplay.

Coffee ready.  And she, ready to work.  She didn’t want paint, standing canvas.  Not yet.  This was fine.  She turned the lamp on, right of the couch, not too bright.  Taking her first sip, she started with declining lines, down towards bottom-left of the blank in front of her.  She saw a waterfall.  Or a hill.  Or a tree, bent by wind.  She felt a little unsure of this progression, but she stayed with it.

Another sip.  Three.

Kelly looked at the clock.  5:13am.  She stopped, only a couple seconds, thought if she had any appointments today, any “clients.” She hated that word, but she didn’t know what else to call the handful of commissioned jobs she’d landed, like the gentleman and his wife, from San Anselmo.


Re-acclimating to present, 6:11am.  My coffee, in place.  First book, I’m again thinking, needs to be a chap project.  I need something to sell, and the way I see it, it’ll be like split bottling at a winery.  I need something to sell, I need something to market.. I need pages associated with ME, a writer.  The blogger tag, I’m more or less coming to peace with.  Mind you, though, I will them have a very firm, devout, fanatical Literary sector, disseminating only on pages.  My newest “marketing plan.”

This morning, it’s cold in castle.  Thinking of how to approach tonight, the final session, workshop.  The coffee helping, but I need to focus.  It just gives me energy.  If anything, it fragments me, scatters my scribbles.  But maybe that’s my vintage, varietal, or “genre.” Only have time for poetry, then.  Certainly the mind frame for.  Need to collect more short pieces, anyway.  With chap2, or the project after I mean, I’ll arrange poems, songs, verses.  More than with the first 57 page-book.

7:41a.  Uploading Crystal’s pictures, the ones she yesterday shot, of flowering blocks at her winery’s estate.  Still fueling Self caffeine.  Now, onto morning mocha.  No 3shotter this morning, as I’ve already had a couple cups of my home potion.  Went outside, just for a second, to get something from car.  Looks like it could rain, but I don’t see a legion of drops hitting the Yulupa pavement.

All blog posts in cue.  Just need to edit book.  Now a chap.  Will be nice having something to sell.  On currency’s note (pun quite pragmatically placed), I’m depositing the entire upstairs stash into bank, with new business ideas visioned.  Not anything drastically new, just some possible turns after yesterday’s talk with Ms. Crystal, in tasting Room, and Sam after work, driving him home, checking out his vineyard, overwhelmingly inspiring gardening operation.  He definitely motivated me to research more into my fields.. Lit, Lit Theory, winemaking.  Not looking to be an “expert.” Just well-rounded, approaching what I love from every possible angle.

Listening to a little Thievery Radio.  Feel like I’m on vacation this morning.  Need this spirit, really.  This semester has tried me like I never have been.  Partially from the student selection I have, but mostly from the workload itSelf.  This entire summer, dedicated to more chap books, selling, prepping for Fall.

Derrida, now on mind.  What I learned in Professor Fuchs’ class, my first semester in grad.  Different ways to consider existence, what we “should” get, or take away, from it.  See?  Thoughts with this loaded nature deserve pen, paper.  Not some simplistic keyboard.  Need more caffeine, suddenly.  Nearly to 1,000 words, but I feel unaccomplished this morning.  Why?  People calling themselves writers, or bloggers, that don’t create, or work, or do something everyday puzzle, and annoy, me.  Maybe that makes me delusional, an extremist.  I’d love to be seen so.

She walked away, needing a break.  She went to the bathroom sink, throwing water onto her face, pretending it was from a collected body, at waterfall’s end.  She wanted escape, not vacation.  But she’d have to sell a couple more pieces before she could do that.  She hoped the rain would come, soon.  She needed difference, if she were to be ever consistent.

Kelly wanted a nap.  She didn’t try to overthink it.  She crawled back into her sheet’s wing.  Before focusing on a final object before dreams, she thought about where she’d sell her work next.  The gallery approach bored her.  So what next, she thought.  Eyes, closing.  She curled her left arm around her abdomen, bringing the comforter over the same shoulder, nestling herSelf into a cozy inescapability.

She wished someone was there, with her, as well enveloped.

Sleep, not coming.  She went back to the couch.  Her coffee cold, but she didn’t care.  She looked at the clock.  9:08am.  A whole day ahead.  Maybe she’d go for a drive.  She could do that.  But she didn’t know what to do, what she SHOULD do.


I imagine her writing to me, my character, about everything from her Creative process, to her thoughts on world matters, to what it was like working at the restaurant, to her wine loves, to just hearing her talk, about anything.  I’d read these letters over, over, in shifts.  Don’t know if I’d use them in a book.  Why would I?  Maybe I’d keep them for me.  Why would I share them with readers?

Tired.  This caffeine isn’t doing a thing.  Trying to fool mySelf into thinking it’s magic, making me into the lively writer I usually am.. wait, I think it may be working.


her exsufflation, working

no resistance, idée fixe–

chained, freeing form,

assuming trouble since there’s

more Art in it, especially hers.