Bio, Graph-y

10/19/13– The other day, one of the interns, a guy who’s know the family for years, good friends with owner’s daughter, said “You’re the heart and soul of this place.” Made me feel accomplished, like my notes had been heard, perhaps re-sung.


10/20/13– So much else I should now be doing, but I’m with no energy after the day.  Again.  This morning’s harvest in Petaluma’s Gap.. visual, colorful, charismatic setting.  The Syrah, looking better than I expected, being picked this “late.” But I’m not looking to talk about wine that much for this entry, I haven’t the energy, honestly.  My teaching, for Tuesday, Thursday…  Need to grade my papers, plan lessons.  So let the writer start here…  First let me say that when I wake Tuesday, I want EVERYTHING done.  That means all lectures/lessons planned, all papers graded.  English 5:  Settling with Plath.  That means, having some appreciation, not understanding.  About what she did, not so much who she is.  [Just poured Self a mighty glass of the ’10 Cab I last night opened.]  This weekend’s reading assignment, for Eng5, showing more of her reactionary tendencies, in fiction.  Especially in “All the Dead Dears.” My writing, I’m thinking, should be split between teaching, my journals.  And that’s it.  Not sure where I was going with that thought, but that’s what I’m thinking.  Today at work, lost some dialogue that I should have written down, in restroom just after washing hands.. and I remember thinking to mySelf, “I better not forget this.” What a fool.  I very much did.

TV, off.  Thank the Craft.  Hate that devilish box.  Hate all things boxlike.  For reasons obvious.  Thinking of Kelly, how she never has to deal with anything box-ish, ever again.  This novel, and all novels–yes I said ‘novels’–for her.  In some way.  She’s too attentive, needing, deserving, warranting, crystalized attention.  She creates, avoids, rejoices.  Who can’t envy that?  Ms. Plath would certainly get where I’m going with these thoughts.  I apologize if you can’t, reader.  Blame me, it’s fine.  I’ve been up since 5-something.  Had two cups at work, after the 4shot mocha I gulped on way to Gap vineyard.

Hoping I wake at 5-something tomorrow morning.  Or in late 4’s.  Would love a Barleycorn session, where I write a solid three-page fiction piece, about Kelly, at one of her shows.  Mostly dialogue, curt stage direction.  Today’s Room atmosphere, at Estate, completely “curt.” Sippers so demanding, not interested in interaction, which doesn’t bother me.. but the lack of attention when I’m explaining the wines, briefly.  Can’t you listen for just ten seconds?  “Mostly stainless steel on this Sauvignon Blanc.. tropical, bright, crisp.. perfect for before-dinner sipping…” How long did that take?  When they turn around, to face their group, right after I pour…  I’m left lava’d.

But there I am, talking about bloody wine, “the industry.” Literature deserves my attention, not this commercial nonsense.  Plath, her handling of death, Life, Art, promise.. what truly deserves my effort.  Not recital of robotic pitches, surrounding consumable puddles.  Speaking of, I could use another pour…


Stopping.  Mid-sip, mid-paragraph.  His last chapter?  Not sure.  Another sip.

Thinking…  Stuck.  Blocked, no.  But certainly still.

Another trophy not.

He imagined himself back on all its streets, Paris, sipping some blend he’d never had.  Watching characters he’d never seen.  Just observing.  No deadlines.  Not today.  He just listened to what he couldn’t understand, devoured it like whatever breakfast pastry he was wrapped in.

“Are you wanting to order?” the waitress asked, leaning in, but not invasively.

Mike smiled, “No, I’m just.. enjoying my wine at the moment.  But thank you.”

“You’re from U.S.?” she asked.

“I am, yes.  California.”

“Oh!  Where?”

“Sonoma.  The wine country.”


“You’ve been?”

“Once.  We went to Napa.  Is that by where you live?”

“Uh, yes.  How long were you there?”

“Not long.” She smiled, looked around to see if there were any other tables to which she should be tending.  “I’m Kelly, sorry…” She offered her hand to hold, shake.  “Nice to meet you.  And you?”

“Mike.  Nice to meet you.”

“How long are you here in Paris,” she said, her inherent inflection more vocal.

“Only a couple more days.  I don’t want to go, though.”