The next morning, odd

vibes and vertices about the day’s development.  Just came from the crush pad where Glenn showed me the Syrah pressing, next to the Grenache and Mourvedre add, for their Rosé project.  The first press or “rain” as I thought of it of Syrah was darker than you or anyone would expect from a Rosé effort, nice thick strawberry and cherry, wild berry rile to its presence, while the second rain was IMG_8662lighter and with more wildness to its fruit quality, almost like a (though I hate the word) tartness.  Britt and I went to see what the brix was on the GR/MV co-ferment.  About 24.6, if I remember right.  Then they press that and add to tank, but it seems this vintage there is a concern with juice.. all the more to my winemaking momentum.

At the Starbuck on Hopper, which had the longest line I’d ever seen here, so far, since my consistency of visits, taking nearly 15 minutes to get my mocha and sit here for my morning words and expressions, musings or whatever you’d want them to be tagged– my visions and dreams wander sitting here thinking about the wines I’ll make and how I’ll write about them, what my sister and parents and everyone would think.  What Doug, my lunching friend from yesterday, would think.  And my other projects…  Would love the whole day to just STOP, focus, get done what I need.  But now I head to Arista where for sure there’s only more content.. more and more and more than I can handle but somehow I’ll find a way to press it out like this morning’s Syrah and have it settle in my barreled prognostications, measurements of a literary life and winemaking anchor-theme..  Like I always say, I’ll write everything for the day, everything and show my readers, you, what I see in this wine world, the conversations and what’s said, everything from a worker’s worry of what’s on the schedule, who they have coming in, do we have enough bottles open, to what time does the wedding start and when do we close (if we have a wedding).

The slow nature and character of this coffee hole continues, with people collecting and pocketing just in front of me, mostly with scowls about, wondering what the hell is taking so long and will they be late to whatever.  And many have the day to themselves today, normal people unlike me as it’s Saturday, and they frown and frown, and roll their eyes when name called.  I sit here and laugh below the moving characterization of surface, wondering how the rest of my day’s to go.

Now all these flies fly around me for torment or amusement, I’m not sure, but I’m annoyed and wonder what else the day plans on throwing at me–  Started with the sun in my eyes, so much I had to lean my head out, on San Miguel.  Then again on Hopper causing me to nearly miss the crush pad– 

And now someone sits next to me.  Leaving.

Stars Warring


In office.  Ditched rest of 2nd mocha, as the jitters set in.  Wasn’t much left.  Having a hard time determining which writings should go to book, and which should stay solely for blog stream.  Well, easy fix, or what I think of: ALL is for book, following books.  Again, this blog is nothing more than a Literary barrel, from which readers sample, taste future projects.

Prepared as I’ll be for classes.  Can’t wait to taste MKCS sample Katie dropped off at Mom & Dad’s.  Also looking forward to having a glass of the Cabernet my friend me gifted at yesterday’s end.  Tomorrow, topping barrels with MORE Merlot.  And I’m fine with that.  I CAP “Merlot” in the above line as I LOVE the varietal.  I don’t care what ANYONE says.  Too quiet in this office, this adjunct cell.  Music–

Spoken word to tempos set.  Makes me want to immediately detach from these formalist paragraph blocks.

Eyes heavy.  At the bay’s edge, dubbing this spot My Levy.

Keep scribbling, keeping Self at high ready.

The other verse spinners, only hurt, thinner, not

able to keep up, shred your page with only 3 cuts.

Competitive, in me no sedative.. dismiss loud slugs,

decide to let it live.  I stretch then give fibrillation to

project visitation.  Recite till I don’t see– work exceedingly.

Big Brother’s lenses, ubiquitous.  But I’m lewd, stick to my

scripts.  Immovable, stationed.  My Defiance, brazen.  More

Merlot.  Away the poet goes.  More polemic throws.

Deliberate for fate’s sake.  I’m in my song, stuck, 2

impatient to wait.  Stray before I stiffen like clay.

My mind, not computerized, or pre-prescribed.  Emersonian,

reach for sky.  Nothing impedes my fly.

5:02pm.  Class, closer.  Still quaking.  Curse that mocha, my addiction.  Frustrated.  Have to channel it.  Embrace it.  Well over 1,000 words for day.  And I’m going to keep going, revisiting older pages for book, with a Cab glass, FULL, at left.  Ready for the rest of my glass to be filled.  Only 20% to go.  And if I intensify my contributions, energies, efforts, I’ll get there even sooner.

9:48pm.  Cab glass, lovingly FULL.  Tasted MKCS.  Love the profile, but the texture, “mouthfeel,” seems a bit thin.  I’ll message my sister tomorrow, see what she recommends.  Saved a little to pour for my winemaker friends at winery, see what they think.  Sipping my buddy’s wife’s wine, the Cab from last night in lab.  Thinking of class, how my 100 section’s taking in ‘Gatsby’.  They’re so energetic, ready to share their opinions, perspectives, positions.  Tomorrow, I’m writing the whole day.  No media.  Only words.  And minimal “tagging.” Hate that reality to blogging.  IF you want it to be read, you have to tag it correctly, taking focus and emphasis away from prose and poetry, relying more on procedure, technicality.  Makes the writer sick.  My lines deserve more..

Reading the spoken word I feverishly typed in my “office.” Need more in my life, of this random rhyme.  Kelly wants me to be free in what I paginate, she told me.  She wants me to not worry.  She told me that, too.  She says I should just write, edit minimally, and just put it out there.  “Who cares what they think,” she said.  Not sure who “they” are.  IF “they” are the publishers, I agree.  If “they” are readers, then I might have to disagree.  She paints, so people merely ingest visually, most not at all critically.. they’ll purchase based on sightliness, where they could hang it in their home.  With writing, people invest, sit, spend time, read, connect in levels varied and many.  It’s harder for us.

Heavy eyes.  I did wake early with little Kerouac.  He’s so funny in the morning, how he screams “Da’ Da’!!!” Always a positive beginning.  Need more of the red.  Missed wine, even after one night without.  Wine is part of who I am.  As writer, Human.  Need more poem, song.  That’s what wine pairs most strollingly with.

Pleased in swings, convicted.

Sipping for hours to slow.

Exiting, pulpit behind.

River forks filling wagons

with orders, tally two.

Me, you. Skirmish,

constellation quarreling.

Had a vision of reading that short poem in Berkeley, as I did in graduate school.  Or in the city [SF}, or in Menlo Park, at Kepler’s.  OR New York, Paris.. anywhere.  On the road with collected writings.  A novel isn’t me.  It’ll be a collection, what I release.  And in that amalgamation, a story.  MY story.

Kepler’s Laws, not applying to writing.  And certainly not poetry.  The streets, here in Paris, telling me to ditch devices.  They don’t belong here, especially this intersection, so small, historic.  Need another glass.  I want to see what else this Cabernet has to say, the more oxygen it entertains.  “Have more wine,” my city orders.

I think it’s telling me to talk in more poetically evasive edges.  Cubist composition.. imitate Pablo, it’s okay, Kelly’d say.

believing little about

my sales pitch to self

the pages have to take over

they rise from floor, forming a

monster, ordering artist to

compose self

10:14pm.  Enjoying quiet.  Going to bring glass from kitchen to my station, needing it closer.  Thinking of Fitzgerald’s book, my students’ reactions.  I want to re-read the opening chapters [1-4].  I want to search for more of that social compactness, between social classes.  It’s interesting what money does to people, how it curves, convolutes their judgement.

News on, but I’m not interested in watching.  All this international bickering, police shootings, pollution cases across globe.. makes me a never-ending nihilist.  But this book, oscillating me in optimism.  Extending my deadline.  One month.  Actually a bit more.  May 1st.  NO, too long.  April 15th.  14th, Mom’s birthday.  Due date, done.

Sipped the last of glass.  Could use 1 more.  Used to consider mySelf a calm Cabernet.  There has to be an end to this blogging.  Just books.. BOOKS.  But what I do like about the blog, the immediate relay, communication with readers.  No mathematician, I just Create, catapult.  This scribble, a surrealist sentiment swirl.  My leveling spectrum, the following of immature curiosity.  But curiosity’s not immature, nor irresponsible.  IT’s HUMAN.



5/22/12.  Can’t compose anything composed.  Too much wine.  Mostly Cabernet.  Some topping wines.  Cab, Cab Franc, Petite Sirah…  Mom and Dad helped with the assessment of what Professor Katie and I should top our barrel with.  Now, at this irresponsibly late hour (11:41pm), sipping last night’s ’07.  I have to be a Cab producer, after tonight.  Want to taste some of that Petite Sirah sample that Mom and I liked so much.  Tomorrow, more tours than I had today, I for sure know.  Tired.  Wanting to 2sleep go.

But I can’t, the way I am.  A Writer.  12:14am, the next day.  Thinking of how my wine’ll be in the end.  Can’t write anymore.  And I shouldn’t.  Notes would be more advantageous.  In the moment.  More poetic.  Musical.  Punching, as I think I deserve to relax for night’s rest…

Shouldn’t even be trying to write, but I am.  Obsessive sludge.  Bed sounds lovely.  Not 2morrow’s tours.  Another sip of the night’s cap.  Lagunitas, IPA.  Tomorrow’s mocha, already calling.   People can’t understand my cupped compulsion, that’s ‘cause they’re not writers.

5/23/12.  Last night, tasting topping wines for MKCS11, with The Particular Palates.  Mom and Dad, case you forgot.  I almost did.  All still on mind, swirling in my imagination’s rivulets.  The Petite Sirah, obvious winner, it stood as the others couldn’t–  Confidence in its character; coherence, conviction…  The Cab Franc, new clone, came in 2nd.  Last pick, of the three, the Cabernet Sauvignon; I just didn’t get its voice, composition, what it was trying to say.  Brought little bottles home with me last night from Mom & Dad’s, and I hope to revisit all 3 tonight.  Extremely tired, as I sit, typing this entry.  Went to bed far too late, enjoyed wholly too much great wine.  Had some of Lancaster’s ’08 Nicoles, that I brought home from work’s day, opened a bottle of that 2007 Hoot Owl Creek Vineyards Cabernet Sauvignon.  When home, had a glass of that 2007 Sophia’s Hillside Cuvée, also from Lancaster.  Spit most of the sips taken from the sample bottle-ettes, but either way was in wine’s scene 24 hours ago.

Mom, representing MKCS…

After work tonight, went to a little mixer at Robert Young.  Never had their wines before, but I liked everything I tasted, even the Chardonnays.  Say that as I don’t really care for the Burgundy belle.  Now that I’m home, finally, I only want to write.  Not interested in straightening up the house as I wanted, or even looking for new music–  Well, now that I type that word, “music,” I’m pushed to turn off the TV, turn on some tracks.  While driving home from the mixer, after filling the XA [ can’t believe I made it to the gas station by Healdsburg’s Square, tell you the truth], I just thought, enjoyed thought, the driving and thinking, music through speaker on both my sides.  And I thought of that idea, that continues to haunt and help me; that sometimes I have to not write, as that can serve a more Literary and Artful purpose than Writing itself.  I rolled down the window, about shoulder level.  My mind skipped to fantasies of my wine, especially after meeting someone from the Kosta Browne crew, and meeting someone at Robert Young who makes his own wine, and from what I hear is soon to be bonded.  I also thought about how planning what I’m going to say in a sitting, put on a the page, is the least Literary act I could ever perpetuate.  So no more…  Onto AUTONOMY.

8:13pm.  Before getting back into the wine, I think I’ll treat Self to another Lagunitas.  Today’s tours, 2.  A couple from Chicago, incredibly familiar with Napa and Sonoma Wineries, wines in general.  The other, six people: 4 from Canada, two from Florida, all wine lovers.  We just talked about wine, wines they drink, wines I like, the wine world, and how beautiful, although annoyingly windy, it was in the wine world today.  Seeing the word “wine” so much in that last line makes me want to do some tasting, get into a sipNscribble.  But I’m holding, waiting for later.  Sipping slow, only scribbling speedily tonight.  Don’t want to feel tomorrow morning as I did today’s.  Sauvignon Blanc, 2010, in the fridge…  May saunter into that scope this evening.  The thought of anymore red, after last night, frightens this writer.  Today’s first group, the CHI couple, would stake burn me for such a statement, as they kept reminding me of their motto, “The redder the better.” Ignorant, I thought.  Not their motto, but how they bragged to me about how they scorned and scolded every winery they went to, when the behind-bar character asked if they wanted to try an SB, or Chard, or Viognier, Gewürztraminer…  That attitude doesn’t belong in the wine world, or at least I don’t see how it belongs here, with us loving what wine truly embodies.  Which is all positives.

Scribbled Serf

1 tour today.  3 girls from Hawaii.  Oahu, I think.  But I don’t want this entry to be like my others.  I want to focus on the symbolic significance and gravity of barrels, and bud break.  Both entail promise.  Found I have $300 in stash, with an extra $100 for petty cash.  Or, “pc” as I noted in Comp Book.  The barrels, housing the winemaker’s creativity, creations.  Eventually, it need be bottled.  Like with my countless notebooks, journals.  Their bottle, for being time–this log.  The blog.  Ox, finally to be bottled.  I have a couple extra dollars to self publish now.  But, I can’t release large mss.  And if I did aim for something heavier, I couldn’t have a large copy run.  So, all to blog.  This is the bottle.  The case.  An eventual library.  And the buds breaking off East Shiloh, in Windsor, telling me I need to break.  It’s time to produce fruit.  And that’s what I’m doing.  My timing, I believe, even after all the vacillation: enviable.  Perfect, practically.  This is ART, Literature, expression; wine-influenced cubist composition, continuously.

Now, sipping ’07 Estate Cab from a winery with which I’m rather familiar.  But before the wine, came one of my preferred brews, Pliny the Elder from Russian River Brewery.  Been stalking the Whole Foods down the street, for their next shipment.  Their Pliny palette arrived two days ago, and tonight I enjoyed my first ever Pliny here in the writer’s cave–  Their palette, showing for my palate, incredibly.  Lovely.  Not convinced I agree with its shape as much as a Racer 5, but it’s close.  Weather in AV, making me want to make up some excuse to leave before 5:30p, write on some road’s side in car, with Wine Bar tunes urging my progress, assuring I did the right thing.

Was picture-happy today, again, in caves.  Love the feel of that structure, built into the hill.  Today, I looked for a reason to stroll up there, into its palms.  Thought of something “productive” to do in there, so I could secure some stills for the blog.  Can’t get over the barrels, how they situate in those excavated walls.  I just took picture atop picture of the French Oak wood, their towering collective character over the ajar writer.  Thought the candles had some indicatory purport, but don’t see them with much awe.  They’re there for effect, an ambience additive.  Not much to do with me, the writing.  I suppose if I looker further, I could force my perception to unveil some token.  But I’m stopping with barrels, breaking buds.  Now is my Now.  May have stated that before–in fact I’m sure I have.  But this morning’s commute, today’s shift, confirmed.  This ’07, opened last night.  It’s throwing the same orders as the wood and Shiloh’s enlivening vines.  More even, in and with this sitting.  Telling me not to even halt for a nanobreath.

Listening to the Wine Bar station.  No, the $300 stash isn’t going toward any collateral.  This writer, never a slave to anyone, much less some demonic sludge plop of a bank.  My brand, ME.  Product: Art; the Writing.  How much overhead does that demand?  Kelly, as a painter, has far more consistent, substantial, expenses than this wandering scribbler.  Another sip…  Realizing, I have cameras, and I only use pics when I’m in the mood to do so.  No need to spend money on another one of those buttoned things.  A mere device.  I buy wholesale, build inventor from brain.  And it’s bottomless.

All, quite set.  Runway clear.  Takeoff.  Write more, with wine at side.  Typing till I touch Maui’s sands, the other islands’.

[4/5/12, Thursday]