Journal Dawn

10:27pm.  Different Cab tonight.  2009, Sonoma County.  Not giving the winery any PR here.  Not in my pages.  Have one of Mr. Hemingway’s letter collections at right, just below the boldly full glass of red.  Sip1…  Nicely placed oak presence.  Imagine mySelf sipping on the streets.  At some café.  Somewhere in Paris.  Tomorrow, Monday.  My pseudo-Friday, as Mary and I alway joke.  When I leave condo tomorrow morning, I’ll simulate the next day, taking bag with me, leaving before 8am, getting little Kerouac to Lisa’s by 8:20, latest.

Need to write more letters.  What I wrote to Mr. Hemingway this morning, quite sincere, beginning a certain postal practice.  But to whom else should I write?  A former student, Amber, who always spoke of being a doctor.  Actually, she’s now in graduate school, dealing with Public Health, if I’m not mistaken.  I will.  I’ll write her a quick note tonight, no more than 250 words, to see how my former colleague’s doing.

The Cabernet, speaking to me.  But I won’t let it speak too loud.  Learned something tonight.  Something which I won’t write here.  Or anywhere.  Just know.. it’ll never happen to me.  And next Saturday, after outing with co-workers: coming back to my Literary block.  Write a bit, then bed.  That’s what I[!!!] want.  Not doing anyone else’s bidding.

Kind of surprised how tasty this Cab is, honestly.  I’ve never been a fan of this winery.  Ever.  In fact, I’ve always been under the impression they make monstrous sewer fluid.  I’m surprised, admittedly corrected.  And oh yes.. the writer definitely hears the wine tonight.  But I’ll write through it. Want all grading and prep to be done by 10:25am, Tuesday.  Rest of time, write.  In Narrative piece.  The campus, feeding my rolls to page, with what students do, with what I want, from a “career.”

Haven’t experienced anything as significant as Mr. Hemingway, I feel.  Or maybe I have.  Maybe this writer’s attitude’s the problem.  Today, from beginning: wrote letter to EH, went to work; set up bar, tasted Sam’s wines (both good, the Carignane my preferred), poured for a couple groups, had a glass of SB, then.. SB, then to Vineyard’s Inn to have a beer with Sam– our meeting, about the two of us doing a joint brew venture, from which I had to leave early to be at Mom and Dad’s for some news.  And here I am, after enjoying Roberto’s pasta, looking at Hemingway looking at me, from his book’s cover.  And I stare at what wine’s in glass.  What’s my budget for next year, for wine making?  How about $3,000?  And what’s my profit goal?  None.  Just want the hobby to pay for itself.  I don’t look to make money as a winemaker.  ‘Cause I’m not a bloody winemaker.  I’m a writer, who likes to make wine, or tries to make wine.  And if a couple sippers like what I bottle, then lovely.  Show me your appreciation with dollar submissions.

The TV, on.  Alice watching.  One of her reality shows.  I understand the entertainment “value.” But the voices of these characters just annoy me.  Look.. there go my rolling eyes.

Taking papers and Poe book to work tomorrow night.  Grading ten items, not mattering how bloody busy we are–  Oh, but I think I might be in the devil Reserve Room.  That’s fine.  Maybe it’ll be slow, and I can grade at that standing bar, look through Mr. Poe’s text, for passages to throw at students, challenge them on interpretation.

This pen, my appurtenance.  The night, mine.  Just poured night’s capping [11pm].  And where is the writer going?  Nowhere.  Won $5 from a bet today, on the 9ers/Saints game.  Much I love the 9ers, I placed mine on New Orleans.  Did so in moment, in boredom at work.  Not a gambler, as you know.  And I didn’t bring camera as I said I would, but I did pocket some nice sunset stills.  One of which, worthy of display, exhibit.

Was just remembering that one student I heard, saw, the other week, on main campus, saying he hated writing.  That says more than I have time here to examine.  But what an example of today’s youth.  The idleness, the surrender.  The nothingness.  What can we as educators do against something like that?

That last glass, done.  11:19pm.  Now, enjoying my pages, the film I’m watching.  (11/17/13)


11/18/13–  A day with tepid revolution; lazy, low, gray.  On lunch, took pictures in vineyard, did some writing– well, not some, nearly two pages worth.  Resisted Cafe Citti’s pull.  In Reserve Room, but only poured for two groups: a couple, then group of three, from Chicago.  Rain projected for this evening, but I’m not holding penning pulses.  But, I will say, the clouds looked encouraging, as we all left earlier than usual, just a couple minutes after 5p.

Was going to write in narrative, this evening.  But I’m not of even mind, after day-long periodic vino visits, coupled with the ’10 blend I’m now sipping.  Tomorrow, aiming for 3PAGES.  Anything additional, if any, just garnish.  Thinking of that thinly wooing cyclone in the rows, during mid-minutes of lunch.  At first, the dried shards, all aflutter; frenzied, wandering, tenacious.  Then dead; still, sleeping, cemented in that dirt.

And the lone cluster– an obvious symbol; for me, Art, how to put Self into world.


At table, clutter around, knowing I won’t be able to leave from Lisa’s tomorrow.  I’ll have to come back here to shower.  So rushed, this writer.  But I prefer it so.

Topping wines on Wednesday.  They’ve been sulfured, but they’re a bit low, the oenologist told me today, in the tank room.  Good…  I need to revisit them, anyway.  Can’t wait till they’re bottled, when I can sip them while I write.

Hemingway at right.. just took sip of the blend.  So distinguished tonight, in its song.  I’m just waiting for the rain.  This wine, perfect to pair with drops.  Almost feel like a decaf.  What would EH recommend?

Short stories.  Fiction furiously flashed, momentary, tied tight.  What could most certain be the eternal me.  Is this the wine writing?  I hope so.  Wanted to send the three poems out, from work, to some lit mag’s email, but was distracted.  Maybe I should from home, right now–  No.  Write freely.  That’s the mood, mode, you’re in.

Nearly in the mood for sleep.  If I go to bed early, I’ll rise early, giving Self a head start on day.  Was thinking just a second ago.. 102 pages, due 12/25/13.  That’d be my gift to Self: a finished MS.  Printed, ready to sell.  Done.  In motion.

May need a break here, in a second.  Watch another episode of my show.  Can’t get my vineyard walk from my thinking.. that “dust devil,” if that’s what they’re called, of multicolored leaves; watching the air die, lose speed entirely, leaves descending peacefully, eagerly, for observation; a writer’s capture.

Can’t hear any drops.  Want to check the weather forecast, but that wasn’t done in Poe’s day.  Simplicity, I keep telling Self.. easiness.  One step.  Two, three…

This other picture I took, the one I’m calling, for now, “the palate pic”: conveying what the season does to the cover of this season’s book; how the vineyards involve themselves in all our senses.  I remember OVERthinking, wondering if I’m doing my walk correctly, capturing what I can adequately.  Why would I even let such thoughts enter my head?  Why couldn’t I have just enjoyed, not thought at all; snapped what I could, write when I felt?  But that’s me, making a polluted ocean from a gorgeously colored puddle.

That vineyard row: an encouraging nothingness.  Much preferable to talking to someone about a certain nothing.  That’s where I needed to be, during those twenty-something minutes.  Just gentle atmospheres shoves, hearing leaves when I’d accidentally gallop over them in sole–  Now, the writer back on couch.  Blend’s glass, kitchen.  Waiting.  That rain.  Why is the writer, who loves writing to those sounds, continually lied to, by these grinning weather fools?


10pm.  That glass, over there by coffee machine, certainly the last, notably after all I’ve tasted today.  Sam’s and my beer, horizon’d.  Following his lead, please note.  The writer simply wants to learn, have another story, something for that narrative.  But when do we start?  Maybe Sunday, a week from today, after work.  That’d work, I hope.  Want to get started, just see what happens.  And if in the end I look the fribble, then so be.  I tried.  And I’ll capture the whole thing, commit it to composition, page.

Want to look at those pictures some more, but the camera’s on the nook table, far too far from where I’m now stationed; atop generous cushion, with folded blanket, silver, thick, against the writer’s right side, just under elbow.  But the rain just won’t show.  Coward clouds…

Thursday, my meeting in Ukiah, coming closer.  Know just how I’ll approach, but I won’t state it here to slate.  I’ll wait.  My focus now, definitely Poe.  Much I adore Mr. Hemingway, EAP’s controlled my attention as few other author’s have.  Even Ms. Plath.  Tomorrow, with 1A, I’ll be locking onto singular sentences, words, especially with “Eleonora.” Love, confusion, language, mania.. all in those pages for coherence’s sake.  How did he do that?  I’ll never be able to know.  And that’s why I keep reading, admiring.  Another sip, thinking of characters, characters…  Maybe my narrative should be a novel.  A narrative novel, questionably fiction/nonfiction.  I want readers to be confused, if what they’re reading is forthright or fabricated.

Interesting how today the system went down, at work.  Another reminder to me, not to rely on tech.  At all.  Like right now, I should be scribbling in the newJournal.  Not tapping these keys.  This should be what I do after a demanding run on actual page.

The Meritage, now showing lots of dark chocolate, espresso.  Nicely maintained minerality.

This evening, meant for collection.  And what am I collecting, a day’s lace.  A yielding of sequestered sonics, all in these sentences, idealistically.  Think there may be one more sip of wine in kitchen.  And that’s more than fine with me.  I’m done with grape trace for today.  I’m in a pleasurably poisoned pause, here on this couch, next to this blanket.  Still revolving, like that vineyard row cyclone.  Now, time for that final sip, or gulp.  Can’t remember how much more’s left.

How is it after 11 right now?  Time, dissecting me, actually.  With each day, the writer ages.  So tomorrow, some release–  No.  That’s the Bordeaux talking.  Where’s my last sip?