8:40am.  Never have timed Self, with the WPM measure.  But writers don’t do that.  That’s for clerical folk.  The office jockeys.  Not much time to write–  Can’t wait to see if I get the Grenache or not.   OR Sangio’.  Which would prefer, between the two?  GR, of course.  Like Pinot, but not.  Can’t forget lunch today.  That’s part of what made yesterday so long, arduous, draining on the writer.  Early to bed tonight.. harvesting Syrah tomorrow, in that cool Petaluma Gap climate.  Oh, and I have to charge phones tonight.. don’t let the forgetful writer forget.

Going upstairs to print the 3rd page from Thursday, the narrative.  And today, will try to write when I can.  I’ll be cooking tonight, without help from a cookBOOK.  May have some general direction, from some recipe.  But minimal guidance overall.  More caffeine for me, PLEASE.  Only 1 cup so far, and it’s leaving system.  OFf for mocha.. 4shots.  Where’s my little notebook?

I’m a mess

this morning.

7:57pm.  Tomorrow, harvesting…  Today, more than busy in TR.  Frantic, rushed, impatient, eager, elevated.  Now, home, quiet.  Want to explore old entries, and old photos believe it or not.  This JC student I work with, ‘D’, prides in his photography, having an online gallery, or portfolio.  He took pictures of me during and after today’s Merlot punchdowns.  Had me thinking, about photography’s role in my Writing Life.

Thought I lost my two cameras, as I couldn’t find them in the top-right drawer, desk.  One of them, a cam Alice bought me for xmas ’09, was in that location.. the writer simply didn’t look hard enough.  And the other, a piece Mom and Dad bought for me a couple birthdays ago, was in a cupboard down here, in the red end-table.  Charging both tonight, well as the Flip video camera.

No word on the GR or SG, yet.  And that’s fine.. so much on mind, with this week’s lectures, introducing the Poe Project.  Also, I’ll begin final grade calculations, putting what I have so far onto a spreadsheet, xfer’d from gradebook [if you could call it so].  Need a beer, after such a wave of people barreling at the bar, all day.  Did capture some useful dialogue for a vignette idea that was born the other day– all the random chatter, statements, questions, braggings I hear in that Room, from both sides of the bar.  But the real beauty to the piece: the reader doesn’t know who’s talking, where it’s coming from, nor precise context.  That has to be assigned by the reader.  Earlier to bed tonight, so I have to get more pace from my Self, somehow.  Yes, a beer.

Oh…  Nearly forgot how much I adore craft beer.  The pieces in my 1st chapbook, the 41pg-er, may change, or rotate, meaning I save some for a future release.  But I haven’t decided.  Should probably dive into some of these old pictures, starting with phone first, see what I find, see what material waits.  Thought, while punching down Merlot, that I need to take more pictures, respond to them in writing.  IF a still’s worth 1k, words.. then I could write a short story collection, easily, in a day.  Or at least begin a compositional congregation’s blueprint.


Just plugged in phone, to laptop.  Should really be spending more time in lectures Comp Book, and GRADING…  But I’ll get to that tomorrow, or Monday, I promise.  Also, set to do Lawndale tomorrow, if I can, if I have enough light, and get out early enough.  But if tomorrow’s anything like this day, I’m doomed.  No running.  Not even when I get home.  Should I join the gym?  Whatever it takes to get a run.

These older pictures of Jack, then looking at some I took just two days ago.. starling– startling.  One Alice snapped today, while we were walking outside, to the new car to retrieve his stroller, for their morning walk/jog, him holding my hand, with the most carefree, joyous grimace I’ve ever on him seen.. melting whatever strength I can boast.  He rules me, this little character.  Dominates my mind, sense, projections, plannings.  He’s a cliff I’ll walk over repeatedly.


Cabernet now, the ’10 I opened a few nights ago.  This bottle, more posture, charm, music to its moments.  Back to the pictures.  Such the journal.  Need to take more, for sure.  At least three, everyday.  Three thousand word mark, that’s the diamond.  So…  One of barrels, one of the vineyards the other day (with fall patterns, character), another [1 of three] of fermenting Sangiovese in bin.  Gorgeous color, love sight of floating skins.  Like today, pushing them back into their parenting pool.  What winemaking is to me.  Now some more of the clusters, right after the fruit set.  Then all these videos.  I’ve documented, NARRATED, my whole life.  That’s my genre.

Batteries, for cameras, charging.  Time for night’s cap.  Have to wake at 5:45am.  Not sure where I’m going.  Should look at directions again, what do you think?

Okay, know where I’m going.  Pretty sure.


Hoping the Grenache finds its way to my hands, like today’s Merlot did, has a couple other past days.  MY wine.  Lovely idea.  Now I do need another glass, get Self into character.  That’s what Hemingway would do.. truth, truth…

Some say I should hold on my expressions, restrain.  But, at this age, I only adore the cacoethes.  It’s more than freeing.. it’s what I want to be.  Unhinged, mySELF– someone of which my little boy can be proud.  I call him ‘little Kerouac’.  So I need act like THE Kerouac.  Against order, expectation, what’s ‘to do’.  Literarily, Poetically.  Getting a little tired.  Not getting to anything else tonight.  This blog’s the only landing.

Night’s cap poured, little cleaning there was to be done, done.  A picture of wine, being spun in glass.. dancing for its soon-sipper; rhythmic, syncopated somehow; painted in glass for view; when I like what cameras do, when they capture something, a motion I can write.

Wine, about so much

for we, the penners.

Sip, put self back in


Have to get coffee tomorrow morning, non-negotiable.  Want to show up to cut clusters from vines, then snap stills needed.  Dormancy, only a month away, maybe less with their present pace.  So I need to capture everything I can.  And everyone.  For the fiction, my entries, stories.  This is all story.  All fiction.  IF I want it to be.


I do.


Mike sat at the table, on the patio, by the water.  Lunch.  Only 26 minutes left.  It took three minutes to run to 2nd floor– get sandwich from fridge, talk to coworker (Rafa), run back to 1st floor, out door, then the thirty yards (maybe more) to table, then he had to wipe it off a bit.  He couldn’t believe that only took four minutes.

He didn’t eat right away.  He just want to look out at vines, their October uniforms.  Breathe.  As a tourist.

He just sat.

Ten minutes left, not a bite.  What happened?  He looked out, counting the small gusts, till he was carried back to work, somehow motivated away from vacation.