After a night of little sleep, and an interrupted nap, not going to classes, I’m in one of my writer moods.  And I feel entirely scattered.  Clearing this desk’s top, tonight, finally.  Opening a red to write about.. maybe the Cab I bought at Sbragia.

It’s my son and his sickness that gets to me.  I deplore seeing my little Beat this beat.  Just have to let it run a course, whatever course it intends taking.  Have to keep composed, for him while he battles this bug.

More friends of mine traveling.  Me with the same revolving, tape loop.

Picking Up

And I just stare…..

As a wine club member you have a nonpareil and very personal connection to a site, a winemaking practice, and there’s something about the story that strikes you and coerces you to buy, and replenish your cellar with those bottles.  Some wineries push wine club too heavily, turning the feel of the visit to something mirroring a used car lot, or timeshare marketing effort.  And we’re all different with wine clubs, and what we’re comfortable with.  But I’m one of the small, family producer.  I only belong to one club, Lancaster Estate’s, tucked away on Chalk Hill Road and cosmically ideal for consumers like me, that want to be a part of a winery story and enjoy wines that can only be made one way and at one concise location.

Extraction only Lancaster can attain…

On days you pick up it’s like xmas, or a birthday, or just a gift giving day all about you, about receiving a gift from you to you.  Today was one such day for me, finally getting out to Lancaster after a pusillanimous semester of IMG_9820-0four classes spread over three campuses.  I needed today and Lancaster was there for me, tasting through the flight beginning with the ’14 SB, then the ’12 Sophia’s, mostly a Cab-centered cuvée, then to two Cabs to the side of each other, the ’10 and the ’12.  I thought to myself, “I love picking up.” Some get their wines shipped to them as members, living out of state or in some far part of CA.  But for me, and any other Sonoma or Napa or Marin, or Mendo, member, they drive to the base, the chic unpretentious salon on Lancaster’s Estate to get their case or half case or what them awaits– for me, 9 bottles today, 3 SB, 3 Sophias, and 3 “LE’s” which is curt for ‘Lancaster Estate’ (connoting Cabernet).

IMG_9821The first pickup day for me in a while, so I took my time even though I had a car appointment in under two hours, I wanted to reconnect with the wines like a friend I hadn’t seen in too long.  This was a long time in cue, and the “wine club member” dimension and “privilege” to my visit skipped from my thoughts entirely.  Actually, never really there.  I was just at a family member’s house, visiting, tasting wine and taking in the story and remembering why I joined without focusing on the whole ‘I’m a wine club member’ disposition.  I don’t have that, I can firmly affirm.  They’ve made me that comfortable, feel welcome to such stratospheric level.  I’m a wine lover at a house whose wine I’m more than in love with.  And that’s why someone should join a club, stemming from conviction that your senses are more than in love with the wines.. that you’re doing more than just collecting the wines.. that you’ve been taught something by that winemaking and hospitality tone and characterization.

Now, I’m at that bloody car appointment, waiting for news of what’s goingIMG_9822 on with my wheels, and I can only think about what I dropped off at home in my cellar (more a closet close to the kitchen) before coming here.  I know I should age them, but I want to pop one tonight.  I nearly have to, from what I tasted and how it haunts me.  That’s when you know, that’s when you understand the connection with a winery, where you’re supposed to be a member; that’s how you can see you’ve been taught something, and not just with how a varietal’s interpreted and produced, but about your relationship with wine and why you’ve elected to be part of this barreled world and life, smattered with electric chapters.


And I have to say (no edits)

my day was very much defined by the visit to Williamson.  Stopped by one winery, earlier, close to 11AM, and the guy acted like he was too busy for me, social awkward and pressured, when I told him I was just stopping by to say hello, and maybe do a tasting.  His Room wasn’t open yet, so I understand, but there was no call for his disposition.  Then I went to Lancaster to pickup my shipment and taste a bit.  Walked into the cave with Amanda, a new employee to the estate.  Hadn’t been in there since I worked there.  She showed me all the corners of the cave and they all looked the same, but now they have a concrete egg, for fermentation (I’m guessing ML, but I could be wrong).  Then I went to WW.  Had me again thinking that I need to make whatever relationship I have with wine my own, whatever it is and whatever context it takes.  Didn’t go to HBG as I wanted to get home, quick as I could, and write the letter to Dawn Williamson, well as the reaction piece to my time there.  WAS tempted to go up the street to the golf course as I did my last day at the Sonoma Valley winery, have a beer, maybe a burger.  But no.  I came straight home.  Had lunch, then the meanest most energizing cup of medium roast I’ve had in months.  And here I am, writing the last entry for the day with the last of the cab I opened last night.  Travel, in the hotel room with a bottle of red, writing, night before I’m to speak the next afternoon, tomorrow, a lecture on Kerouac and his punctuation shunning and embrace (embracing how he shuns conventional punctuation)–  Tomorrow’s lectures to be short, as the students in both classes have to arrange their rough drafts, first of term, so after 1A I’ll come back to the condo and start writing my Gorgeous American Grim statement, 500 words at a time I’m thinking– shit, just remembered I needed to backup everything on this monster today, but I didn’t have time and I can say that honestly, I stayed busy, so I can’t be too whip-wavy with my actions, character.  I need to just relax, enjoy the connection, or reconnection I made with WW today, and the wines I brought home, that Merlot and Rosé.  When should I open them?  Maybe this weekend, or Valentine’s weekend.  I felt a resurrection in my Sonoma presence today, with wine and my relationship with it, and I realized it was never tarnished, not in the most minuscule of manners.  Only have a TR’s worth left in my glass.  Damnit, why did I sip it so fast, the St. Francis Lagomarsino Cab?  This red is one that forces me to reconsider my own senses and how I interact with wine.  And my conclusion, the “result”, if you might: slow down; enjoy; don’t asses, just experience and sip, think…  And I finally have time to do just that, now.  I can see that others see the New ME, after last Wednesday, how I love, love, love to be in love, with everything and everyone positive surrounding me; the forefront of reflection lies in a smile, or a collection of.  I swirl the last sip in the glass, more than likely just over an ounce, smell… chocolate, cherry, vanilla, light oak and damp soil.  The palate’s not important.  Olfactory’s what adheres most to memory, and that’s what matters to the writer.  I couldn’t care less what these winemakers that can barely write their own tasting notes and these sommeliers that can’t write at all would say.  I’m noting what shakes me senses and currency, currently.  That’s poetic, and to paginated.


Notes gathering in little pages, faster than I can inventory. One mountaintop tour, after helping Sam with his giant pumpkin, moving it from his house to winery, for the contest [of giant pumpkins].  No winemaking duties executed today.  No time, really.  More unionization with teachings, writing.  Completely prepared for tomorrow’s English 5 lecture, beginning the close of the Plath section.  Was going to grade ten papers tonight, for Eng5, following through with my ‘TTTT’ practice, with grading [Ten Today, Ten Tomorrow].  But, too tired.  And I want to value my writing time, this evening.  Dentist appt tomorrow morning, 9am.  And it’s already affecting my mood.

Took home ’10 Cab, again.  This bottle, opened yesterday.  I’m expecting more softness, perhaps a little oxidation, but not much.  Let me see…  No.  Nice on nose, palate, finish–  Which reminds me, one guy in the last group I helped–6 from Philadelphia, 2 couples–always commented on the “finish” of the wines.  Every time.  No fail.  And I find that to be the case with many talker-tasters, the ones who want to be heard, seen as knowledgable.  They’ll focus on the same part of the taste, obsess over it.  “This mid-palate’s a bit light…there’s not much mid-palate on this one…”, one guy last year was heard saying.  And not just by me.  Everyone.  We still joke about him till today, in fact.

But anyway.. to this wine.. quite nice.  Just what the writer needs.  What I need?  To post what I last night wrote.  The fiction, still very much in me breathing.  And the poetry, always there, in my stare, wear and where.

The longer this wine sits in glass, the more vocal it becomes.  It’s developing an ambrosial dialect.  In love.  Reminding me of Paris–  Finally returned to my French research today.  Si heureux!  When I’m back in my city, I’ll be one with the streets, crowds, cuisine, scenes.


To teaching–  Want students, in these weeks approaching the term’s close, to distance themselves from the academic/grade concept.  To make the topic their own for the sake of such.  Skimming the Poe collection for English 1A.  Locked in eddies of intrigue, I’ll admit.  And obsession, with his character, tone, views, form.  But I need stay focused.. not let Self fall into some admiring loop.

Anything else from today?  I swear to you, this little notepad gets heavier by the week.  Oh.. here…  Contradictions in Plath’s work.  Obviously.  That’s part of why she presents so irresistibly.  As her own genre.  More than sensible.  Tomorrow, testing Self, in both sections, to keep continuous in my vocalized composition.  All on, in, about, for the Author.


9:39pm.  On couch, relaxed, feeling Cabernet’s song.. syncopated tone, lowering lids, but encouraging key taps.  Its magic, odd.  Like the fog in Petaluma yesterday.. following me.  My book, telling me to sip more, enjoy evening.  The therapy of your own words constructs a certain tune dune, where my own Literary measures adhere to ordered repeat.  Welcomed heaven.


Which One

Wrote more poetry during my 7.5 hours of work today than I have in years, in that kind of timespan.  Thanks to Ms. Plath.  I’m immeasurably inspired.  Hoping to finally reconnect with running habits, tomorrow.  Going to start with five miles, then see how I feel after that.  Brought home some of that single-vineyard ’10 Cab that I like.  Tonight’s plan, more poetry.  Hopefully type some of what I wrote today, get started on the second chapbook.  Which I’m thinking will be all poetry, verse.  Have to see how I feel.  And right now, honestly.. I don’t feel like writing.  Is that Literary, that divulgence?  Need a beer…

8:10pm.  With that beer, and in better function.  Did two punchdown sets: early A.M. (or relatively early, just before 10am), then after work, separating from group as they all walked to their cars.  I notice the wine, the grapes in those open-top barrels, changing.

9:07pm.  Glass of Cab, ready to dive into verse.  Only allowing a few more words here with blog.  Need to find a spoken word reading, somewhere here in Sonoma County, but close, preferably Sebastopol, or Santa Rosa of course.. Windsor, maybe Healdsburg.  That’s just what I should do: take these lines, rhymes, to battle, before they’re bottled, booked.  But how should I start?  Don’t think about it, just write.  How many times do I have to go over this.  What would Plath suggest?  Judging by her character, what I’ve seen thus far, with the research I’ve done for English 5.. she’d just write.  Journal about it extensively, propel a couple poems.

I’m always wishing for the Road– maybe I should just take to the Road, starting with roads near by.  Poetry, the only vehicle for me, for such.  Motivated to the point of this Cab being unable to slow me even slightly.

More verse

more VERSE–

put pages in poem

purse, liquidate this misfit


This blog, NOW the journal of a poet, one writing for his life.  Leaving the blog’s header, containing ‘wine blog’.  Want readers to know where I started.  NOW, this is all for verse, the spoken sentiments.. the daring in ME.

Cabernet, opened yesterday, ordering word play.  Like its structure, flavored sentences.  Remembering what one of my former coworkers at AV Winery said, about me talking about the wines as I do: “The way you talk about the wines, it’s an experience.” Not patting Self, on back or anywhere, but it just made me smile, that my words were recognized.  And I don’t even seek “recognition.” I just ask for a little time.  Then do what you will, reader.. or listener.

Another memory: Years ago, at a winery party Mom and Dad hosted, Dad introducing me to one of their friends as “a poet.” Dad said, “…no, HE’S the poet…” Can’t remember the context, but to hear Dad say this only encouraged and reassured me.  He and Mom had, and have, always supported every Literary effort, endeavor.  I just remember this dialogue, from Dad, holding formidable form.  It still does.

Why am I having these realizations at this old age?  34.



newest journalist journalism

10/6/13–  Spicy pasta from Alice, tonight.  Tired from day.  Sipping last Ale, and the writer’s about finished.  Want to wake at Barleycorn time.  Not to run, but to write.  Still very much feel yesterday’s Lawndale jaunt.  Today, party of 42, handled by Ed, also a teacher, and mySelf.  All from Norway.  Interesting group.  Not many questions, but still.. considerable interest in our wines.  Opened a random 375 from downstairs stash, just a minute ago.  On cork, in permanent marker, “EP”.  I opened it, thinking it was ‘extra pours’ of Lancaster Nicole’s Blend.  But…  Extra Port, from a friend’s [Lauren’s] boyfriend, who works for, I think, Fritz, in Russian River.  At my age, I’m convinced, I can’t do hard alcohol, or Port, or anything Port-like.

Was finishing this last bowl of pasta, imagining mySelf eating it on an overnight in some hotel, east coast.

Visited my wines today.  But only to top them.  Didn’t taste.  Only tasted the topping wines– a Grenache, for NDC [New Dad Cuvée], then an incredibly dark, smokey Malbec for the Merlot [MMFM Merlot].  Have the winemaking bug, again.  Making wines as a writer, not winemaker, if that makes sense.  IT should, to writers.

Distracted, by old videos I shot around estate.  Would love to go for an early early morning run.  Maybe I’d see a mountain lion–  Oh!  Maybe I would.  Annadel, promising such interaction.  They wouldn’t hurt the writer, I’m sure.

So pleased to be in base.  Ready for bed, I feel, after today, that group Ed and I had.  This entry: 300, no more.  Words conserved.  Need days off.  Don’t I have some “professional development” day, soon?  Yeah…  I’ll develop professionally.. with these pages, nothing to do with that JC, the activities they have planned, on how I can be a better educator.

The umbrellas, at work.. labor symbol, excess.


10:04pm.  Sipping sparkling berry water, preparing for early rise, a Barleycorn session.  Need the Road, my Newness.. sick of waiting, already.  Little Kerouac, crying.  Think he may be excessively tired.  Turned off internet connect, reducing–or rather improving–this device to a typewriter.  Can’t wait for morrow’s morrow, the harshest hours.  Setting alarm for 5am.  Want at least 1,000 salable words before Kerouac wakes.  And his crying, stopped.  For now.

Quiet.  Not elevating the TV’s volume even a millimeter.  Oh, just, remembered.. out of cups for machine.  Will have to brew own cup.  Not a big deal.  Having trouble focusing on any details, as the exhaustion gifted from day’s more persistent that I can handle.

Finished water.

Watching advertisements, muted, screened.  So many colors, promises.  Interesting, to us thinking types.  The semester, nearing its halfway point.  Not fair.  Should I start composing the book, for the term, that’ll ‘do something for me’?  No.  Not yet.  Not rush.  Wait till morning, when head’s clearer.  No way I’m touching that ‘EP’, Extra Port.  That has to be what it stands for, right?  Doesn’t matter, ‘cause I’m not going near that poison.

What if I just stopped writing, for the night?  Should really be playing with words, rhymes, ‘stead of this run-on prose.  Decreed, then– in morrow, poetry, solely.  Caffeine, in doses mean.

Want another water, but I don’t want to wake the little Artist.  He seems especially sensitive this eve.


journal, 10/8/13

Jack, exhausted.  Still with cold.  Me, not so.  Second cup.  Larger than first.  [coffee]  Want to remain home, write.  Print.  Not as upset about losing long verse on phone.  Printing this morning.  Not losing anything else to devilish tech.  Annoyed by more systems.. not getting too specific, or at all so, but I’m in revolt against pattern.  Artists don’t engage with such.  And certainly not of my form– fiction, diarist, poem.


7:40pm.  No evening class.  Home, with sick mini-artist.  Red wine, Cab.  Tired, after 1,800+ words.  Still need to post to teaching blog, answer student emails.  When Thursday comes, I’ll be a dragon of diligence, direction.  They’ll never know what hit them.  No, I shouldn’t say it like that.. I’m just anxious for a better day.  In English 5, felt heavy, soaked surreally, with lower inner light, bent peddals.  Better now.  And after I read some Plath, I’ll be even higher, standing more straight.. more Literarily.

No social media distractions tonight, as I’m turning devil phone OFF.  Not giving to the chutzpah.  And no TV.  That’s just as bad– no, worse.  Thought I heard the Artist upstairs.  Poor little man, with his sniffles.  I’ll never get used to seeing him sick, or even slightly desensitized to it.

After these however-many words.. to newJournal.  Why don’t I have a bloody book out, already?  Honestly, with as much as I write.  This is truly laughable.  OR pathetic.  Or maybe both.  Can I have another glass now, of this fabulous Cab?

Getting annoyed with doors of other units I hear closing.  Don’t they know my little boy’s sick, trying to sleep?  Irritated, angry at Self for earlier weak state.  Should always have Self in militant, vicious Artist mode.

At home, all day with Jack tomorrow, taking care of him, making sure he defeats this system bug.  Have to get some reading, writing done.  The three boxes of k-cups I bought, little over an hour ago, maybe more, just behind this screen.  Should be set for month.  Maybe less, knowing me, how much I drink in morning.  Sure I’ll go through more than a few in morrow’s skatings.  So quiet down here.  Little Kerouac, finally getting some rest, poor bloke.  And his father, hoping to shift everything.  Won’t go on some wishing rant, but there will be reconfiguration.  No more nonsense.

More of the spicy pasta leftovers from Alice.  The writer needs a break from his page.  Some laziness.  We’re allowed to do that, right?  OR maybe I should lookup a Plath quote, post it to some social media site.. see if any of my “friends” respond, or “Like” it.  So contaminative, the whole thing.  That’s why I’m stopping.

Another glass, Professor MADigan?  Why yes, thank you.  I look at it, after a sip & .5, at my right, moving slightly, the purple puddle, as I type, slapping keys like a recommitted journalist (aren’t I?).  Want to watch a movie tonight, with a writing theme.  But what?  Ugh.. what was that Sylvia Plath movie, starring Gwyneth Paltrow…  Oh, “Sylvia.” Why didn’t I know that?  Anyway, hoping to watch it tonight.  Or some of it.

Keep writing, Mike.  Don’t stop.  Don’t let this devilish wine catch you.  Decaf is starting to sound good.  And I can’t get too diverted, as I want to be ready for Thursday’s class, by day’s end, tomorrow.  Thursday morning: running, the only priority.


And this moment, here at table.. just re-collection.  The wine, respecting my pace, my aims, what I want done tonight.  That I want to get poetry onto ACTUAL page, later.  Looking at this tower of coffee boxes behind laptop’s screen.  Find it funny, honestly.  I truly, and quite quietly, laugh to Self, as to not wake the little Artist.  The writer surely loves his coffee.  Why do I find this so comical?

Glass, empty.  Good.  Leave it that way, for a bit.  Need to fill the untouched Comp Book I recently bought, with notes on ‘Johnny Panic’.  What Ms. Plath is, where she’s going.  “When in doubt, put it back on the author,” I’ve always told students.  Time to practice while I bloody preach.  Drat!  Left her book in car.  No surprise, with this crazy day.  Tomorrow, off, but not.  Little Kerouac, his little sneezes, sniffles.  Would take it from him in a blink, nevermind a heartbeat.  Reading some of her poems online.. should bring these, or some of them into class.  “Blackberrying,” just read for first time.  Beautiful imagery, language, voice, temperament and tonality, stanza balance.  One of my students, making her journal a gallery, each entry with prose, painting.. showing the most vicious of ownerships.  Mimicking, starting tomorrow, with my reading journal, the new one I mean.  Putting Self in role of student, in own class.  But I’ll be with Kerouac, THE Kerouac, as well, for Thursday.  His form, style, voice, veritable page journey.. only massively applicable.  How can people not read him, admire each of his writings, typings?

Cutting Self off at 1,000 words.  I’ve already gone on FAR2long.  Kerouac.. what else can I find from him, online…  Only poetry.  Was hoping for some prose, or journal entries.  Maybe I can find them at bookstore, if I have a chance to go, tomorrow.  Probably not.  Should keep little Kerouac inside, with Papa.


24% on laptop.  Tired of this machine.  On couch now.  With this little buttoned monster charging.  Nightcap in kitchen.. ON kitchen counter, make it longer last.  Looking back at day, knowing I need not let Self get so frazzled, worried, stressed, depressed, what have.  There’ll be a day after, theoretically.  So calm, writer.. calm.  Peace.  And I’ll have true peace tomorrow with Jackie, sipping my coffee [one of the 3 types I bought tonight] while he zooms about this condo’s lowest floor.


umbrella tops, tickled by

polite fronts, pacific and

wherever.. picnic by houses on 19th–

oh the city, busy with its tempestuous

tizzies, lamp moths, fixate on

gas station drizzle, hoping to

square their dares.  hope they fly,

flee west.

entriez, 2days, orMORE

10/1/13–  Finding it more difficult, stinging, to get everything done I wish.  3:43pm.. budgeting till 4p, precisely, for this entry.  Done with lunch, sipping sparkling lime water from bookstore.  Surprised how warm it is, thinking back on this morning’s chill.  Students, proving even more inspiring than gambled.  More organized after visit to office supply store this morning, somewhat.  Just have to stay atop grading.. that’s the most important menu item.  Give mySelf more time to read, enjoy student perspective on assigned authors.

In morrow’s cruelly chilled, dark hour, I’ll run.  For 60 minutes, not a pulse more.  Then, to work.  Readers.. out for readers, new readers.  Need inject more newness to these pages, act more out of character– or at least do what’s newest to me, MY role in this story.  Speaking of fiction, didn’t touch the 500-word piece last night, shamefully.  Maybe I’ll make that my only aim tonight–  NO.  Stop doing that, promising what you’ll do.  Just do.

Or do not.

Not much to type form this adjunct coffin.  Other than I’m eager to explore ‘Johnny Panic’, the Plath piece I picked, with the English 5 group.  BUT, this semester’s main event, left to the 1A section, with Mr. Poe.

Too enclosed in here.  Need air, again.  And maybe a coffee, eventually.  Yes, the writer more than likely will.  As I’m tiring.  Maybe I should have it now.  No– wait for class, get it just before.  Going through more of Walls’ ‘Glass Castle’, after watching a movie clip I meant to show them last class.

Need that air, I think.  And that coffee.  It’s 3:58p.  Bringing some papers and laptop back to car, put in old bag, in trunk.  For what it’s worth, I have maintained admirable habit, day2day, this far this Fall term.


Found most of my students are night writers.  Think I’d benefit from more P.M. prose, poetry.. pages, whatever the shape.

4pm–  Depart.

10:12pm.  Set to rise at 5am for run.  Sipping decaf, which I probably shouldn’t be.  And some of the remaining peanut MnMs.  Which, also, I’d be better off without.  Posted twice to teaching blog, already thinking of first discussion on ‘Johnny Panic’ with English 5 section.  But I can’t go on, here, about how I’m going to approach Thursday’s sessions, or how I need to go through old entries for sakes of this first chapBOOK [and that’s how I’ll be writing that, from now on..].  Need to finish story, now, that 500 word piece.  This decaf, romantically sensory.  Glad I used that [descriptor] on coffee, not wine.

And please let it be noted, readers.. I’m not at odds with wine, its world.  I just reserve the right to reiterate that I’m a writer.  Above and before all else.  And that my artistic aim can only be sequenced in one arena, one quite distant from anything relating to wine, the ripples it leaves in those sipping.  Tonight, accented example: I’m sharp, awake, acute, astute.  Wine wouldn’t allow that.

Either way, bon nuit, my readers.  Off to my fiction…

10:55pm–  Done.  Mostly dialogue in this piece.  And limited to 1 page, only 458 words.  Fine by me.  And I like its rhythm.  Have to give it a read, obviously, but I’m enjoying being done with it.  Should get to bed, if I’m to do this run tomorrow, write about– have something to write about– any newness.

Going to watch a little of the news, then bed.  So glad I renounced wine this evening.  Would not have been able to walk anywhere near what I’ve written this evening.

Hoping I hear new sounds, feel new atmosphere.. only sip newness on tomorrow’s run.  I will.  No music.  Only bringing device with me to track/measure progress.

Prêt pour mon prochain jour…

10/2/13–  Finally did it, this morning.  My 5am run.  7.5 miles, 1 hour.  Couldn’t have been more pleased.  But I want to note, tonight, with this glass of ’09 Cab (the bottle I unexpectedly located in upstairs stash): those reading these exhaustive, “rabbit hole” entries– Alice, Cindy at work, one of my [easily stronger] students.. thank you for your eyes, your thoughts, reactions.  OF course I want the cash from these pieces.  However, what rewards me more, the cognitive confirmation.  So again: Alice, Cindy, —-…  Thank you.

Tomorrow, dropping off little Kerouac, then to Petaluma.  Running again Friday morning.  Not looking to outdo what I this morning feat’d.  Looking to duplicate.  My goal, when I woke this morning, at 4:46am, and after a long talk with Self, finally getting the writer out the door, into that dark, strange setting.. 1hour, set on device.  Glad I charged it last night.  So quiet this morning, as I expected.  But what I most loved, that I literally outran the sun, with dark surround upon departure AND return.  I remember being somewhat afraid, when I started.  But that faded, quickly.  Had just enough light, especially on the run back up Yulupa.

Not touching book tonight.  BUT, wrote quiet a bit of poetry, spoken word.  Haikus from home, from after Jack’s dream descent.  This sequence, still being scribbled.  And this Cab, starting to catch me.  But I type faster.  I won’t let this devilish wine catch me.  Looking forward to the 1st Plath discussion, tomorrow.  I find the introduction, written by Ted Hughes, quite interesting, how Plath struggled with prose, had somewhat of a life plan, Literarily, spanning fiction, non, and even journalism.  Just want to see what they see in her.  And what do I now see in her, as I’m now a student in my own class?  I see dedication.. a certain obsessiveness.

This Cab, taking on more boastful a stride, in the last five minutes.  So intriguing in fact, I’m without content in glass.  So, the only logical remedy.. one more splash.  How many papers do I have to grade in morrow…  Not many.  Did manage to make a respectable dent, past couple days, especially Tuesday.  I’m right on schedule, but I need to be 10 leaps, not steps, further, at 12 [o’clock, as in plane-speak], consistently.  So tomorrow, taking Kerouac to Lisa’s, coming home to shower, shave.. then instantly leave.. speed to PC [Petaluma Campus].  May pick up a mocha before, but I’ll have to get another one of the mochas made on campus while there, probably right before class as I did on Tuesday.  Better than the usual mochas I buy from that corporate coffee brothel.. this one, from campus, 2shot, small, with something sprinkled atop, possibly caramel.  So sensual in how it slid across senses.. back, forth.. teasing.

Just poured Self another glass, keeping in kitchen so I have to rise2sip, making the glass longer last.  Had another thought, while taking first sip of this final glass– starting my own wine business.. a wine shop, as I once dreamed.. but seriously investigating.  Beat “the industry” at its game– or not that, just be a serious player in their game.  I don’t hate wine, at all, or the industry.  I just hold certain qualms with its, wine’s, dimension.  But yes, I agree, I need to reshape my objection’s page approach.  Very well.. so what business do I build.  Or a better question.. what do I want it to be, look like to customers?  If that one clotpole in Sebastopol can run a business, wine shop/art gallery, for over 8 years now, then I can succeed with fractional seriousness in effort.

Going to research a “catalogue” from a Napa-based wine business.  Parent company to the box, actually.  Watching news, now.  Still can’t believe I finally did it, that I’ve been awake since 4:46am.  And I’ll do the same come Friday.  And you know what, reader…  I do want a better run.  Want to start my stomping before 5am.  And go past 8 miles.  Go into work, into MY day, with even MORE confidence than I today had.  Loved the feeling, this morning, walking through those 2 tall doors.  Never in my Life has the writer been more confident, healthy, quick, more LETHAL, a WRITER, than I am 2day.  Praise the Craft.. sip, sip…

Re-reading these older entries.  So pleased, and yes PROUD, I’ve written as much as I have–

10:59pm.  On a poetry binge.  Want people to want to hear me, see me, speak.  Prose, still on radar, on my manuscript menu.  But poetry, above elevated.  There more invitation for innovation.. with words, rhythm, speech.

Prison de Poésie

Survived Reserve Room today.  Not that there was much to ‘survive’.  Another calm Thursday.  Tonight, fit in 5 miles, over 40 minutes [almost exactly].  Another strong sprint, thankfully.  On run, thought of ideas for standalone short stories– which, by way, didn’t get a chance to edit yesterday’s finished piece.  No matter, will do tomorrow.  Didn’t get lunch today, so I wasn’t able to touch Comp Book, even once.  Made a couple notes for this semester’s lectures.  12 days till day1.  project R continuing, forever.

Sipping a glass of the blend I last night popped.  Was going to open the Central Oregon beer from Mom, finally taking it home tonight, right after work.  But, saving for tomorrow.. Friday, my TUESDAY.  Been thinking about boats, traveling on one.  Nothing too extreme, just getting away.  Or maybe I DO want to do something extreme, like sail around the world.  But wouldn’t that be dangerous?  How about sail up and down the west coast?  Up alongside Canada, land in Alaska where I could do some writing, staring at colossal ice chunks falling into frigid Pacific.  Would want to take Jack, Alice, on such a mission.  Don’t want to experience every adventure pushing pages onward alone.  That I know.  Some Road ventures, yes, I need to be the solitary scribe.  But not all.  Especially with my Literary Shape.  It requires characters, and who more motivating than little Kerouac?

On run, heard this one instrumental, managed to recite2Self a little on-spot verse-ing.  Can’t remember rhyme content, any of my words [most of which took place between Yulupa & Tacheva and Yulupa & Bethards, which is a couple blocks of inner poem..].  After this entry, to yellow sheets.  Goal: 1 verse.  No more.  How long will this eve’s verse be?  Depends on when I want to stop, I guess.  Has to be over 16 lines, though.  Setting realistic aim for night.


See what I produce.  How many standalone pieces/tracks.  I sign-in after this entry.  This’ll be good for me, I know.  Poetry always finds me, no matter where I am.  Short story ideas, journal urges, don’t stop me the way rhymes do, the pull to poem.  In these 7 days, I want a book of poems DONE.  My time “budget.”

Tonight, free, a free night to contribute to the project, get a head start on this dash.  What if I write something that’ll change me, my Life, put me INSTANTLY on the Road?  So, only think in poem.  Doesn’t always have 2B rhymed, but don’t dismiss words that for such a marriage.  Want Jack to see me as a successful writer, one with unique practice and gift.

AMENDMENT:  I’ll only write prose for blog, at day’s end, to report what I’ve done, what I’ve written; how many tracks I’ve finished for day.  Can just see Self, reciting to crowds in places I never thought I’d visit.

ALSO:  Everything handwritten.  Pen2Paper.  IF the focus is Poetry, you must live and practice the poet’s Life, minimizing if not abolishing technology.

28 lines, written.  Filling full legal pad page.  Bonne nuit!



8/9/13 — Day1, poetry prison.  Scattered rhyming today.  Busy at winery.  Finally opened the Central Oregon beer.  Quite the creeping presence, I must say.  Tired of the news I’m watching.  Think it’s time for night’s cap, then sleep.  Early up in morrow, to write, for my caffeinated verse compositions.  Haven’t done an inventory yet, for this ‘3[+]4 project’.  But I think I have somewhere between 2&4 standalones.  Before work tomorrow: 1 new track.  And with my rimed speeches, before this new semester begins, bolder in my statements, target addresses.  Just opened black&white Comp[book].. forgot I scribbled a couple lines before clocking.  This night’s cap [Little Sumpin’], only slowing me.  Need caffeine.  Can’t wait for morrow.

Topping my wines.. tomorrow, somehow.  After I scribe those incessant letters.

NEW PRISON LAW:  blog entries, no longer than 300 words.

Tired.  A writer just wanting to relax.  Lay on other timezones‘ beaches.  Not write, not think.  Just horizontal.  Sip coldest of ice-waters.  No alcohol.  Want to remember, be able to summon all this whenever I select.

Off device.  Returning tomorrow, to legal sheets, as I did this morning with blackest of beautiful coffees.


8/10/13 — Day2, poetry’d incarceration.  More scattered rhymes at work, but some I really like, actually.  Ran 4 miles after work, averaging just under 8min/mi.  Think I had 7:58/mi.. again, I think.  Before bed tonight, inventory of pieces so far finished in prison.  Had a former student, from this past semester [100 section], visit winery today, part of larger group.  One person in this 11-person crowd, the cellar master from AV Winery.  Made my day, honestly.  The former students girlfriend complemented me, saying what a profound influence, difference I had on this young man (Mr. W).  I didn’t know what to say, honestly.  Only knew what to say to Self, really, internally:  “This is what you were meant to do.. this matters.”

Five of these small square cookies, decaf cup at right.  Wasn’t in mood for wine, beer.  Need to be focused, finish projects, change what is.  Tomorrow morning: run w/Carmen.  Howarth Park, 6:30.. target, 5mi.  And I HAVE to top my wines tomorrow.  No fail, seriously.  Don’t know why I didn’t do it today, at lunch.  Not sure if it was laziness, or I forgot.  Or I was hungry.  The latter, I’m sure.  Tomorrow, singing differently.

Finding these evening sessions harder to get through.  Limited stimuli.  Why I need the Road, horribly.  On run, lowering sun, and while jogging down Woodview, saw the suns florescent magenta shape boasting as it lowered.  Was tempted to surrender mid-run, just watch it fall.  But no.  Stayed with mission.  Want to see lowering suns in other countries, in other world corners.  Tired of wishing, though.  Need to leave, force that change.  How?  Just going to keep writing till it happens.  Documenting everything on this log.

Think I might have around 4-5 standalone tracks since putting Self in this versed composition cell.  Have to transfer what I wrote today in the little pages, to the legal pad.  Those yellow pages are the launching station to this laptop.  Want to see everything written, first.  2LIVE as a POET.

That question, always thrown at me, “What do you write?” My new response to the idiotic probe: “LIFE.” Where are my little pages?  Ugh, here I go once more…  In bag, of course.  Thought of course theme for English 5, “Authorial Acquaintance.” Objective: to really know the Author we’re reading, meeting, engaging.

Tomorrow, my Thursday.  Lots 2do, with letters I have to write, topping wines, other tasks.. never enough time.  Think I want another cup.  Why not?  It’s Saturday night.  Wait, is it…  Yes.  Hate the days mismatch.  Run tomorrow.. what am I running for? Ideas, always.  This change in my character, never saw coming.  That is, what a devoted/obsessive runner I’ve become.  Should find another race, a 10k, to do by month’s end.  Only 6.2 miles.. could do that sleeping.  No, but I COULD do it unprepared, as I’m always in “training” mode, now, with these consistent dashes.

Making 2nd cup.  Need it.  Staying up as long as I can, to write.. fit in another track for this ‘3[+]4’ project.


8/11/13 — Day3.  As my own warden, I’m allowing mySelf a couple minutes of journal time this morning.  Time.. 6:47a.  No Lawndale, as piece didn’t align as I them needed this morrow.  No morrow, doing the long run after work.  Hoping for a short standalone before leaving home today.  Already sipping coffee.  Need to.  Kerouac was up just a couple ticks after 6.  Last night’s run, so short, don’t anymore feel it, like I did the 10miler I the other day feat’d.

Today:  Letters, barrels, 3 poems.  All while at Estate.  Have to draw from what’s there, the nearly 2,000 acres of material for this writer.  Last night’s inventory, after the 20-liner I rushed before 11pm: 5 standalones completed in this metered penitentiary.  Want 24-26 total.  This isn’t going to be a huge release, and it’s not supposed to be.  Want to deliver precisely how I think.. and I so do in bursts, moment-based reactionism.

8:37am.  The obsessiveness really bubbles this morning.  Quite tempted to leave early today.  And I still may.  Bringing legal sheets in case.  Already have some lines, rimes on page this A.M.  A little perturbed about not going this morning for the Howarth/Spring Lake sprint, but I have to let it go.  A whole day’s ahead of the writer.  A whole day of incessant questions on wine, what they’re “supposed to be tasting.” Getting a bit tired of it.  And the instance yesterday with Mr. W., still quite prevalent in head.  Know what I’m supposed to do.  Class starting in 9 days.  More than ready.  Almost unhealthily eager.  Patience, Mike, PATIENCE.

Off to estate.  Tired.  Need mocha.  4shots, probably, even after two cups brewed here in base.  Too much in sight.  Need to relax, embrace this angst, or stress [if that’s what you’d call it]– no, eagerness– rather than fight it.  OR struggle with it.  Writing in what little free time I have IS my “genre.”


9:20pm.  7.52mi on Lawndale run, in 58:15 [7:45/mi rate].  More than satisfied.  Last guests this day: 2 younger female characters from the city.  One, “A,” more than comely, quite encouraging as we shared ideas on ambition, entrepreneurship.  We both agreed that merely “going for it,” much I cringe with that verbage, is best for the Artist, characters set on having their own lucrative corner.  Knowing I’m still very much in poetry prison, I’ll be “posting” every poetic thought, rime, verse, line, metered arrangement to these screens.  One I thought of, before that infamous hill where I was last time–when I challenge Lawndale alone, only 2B–accosted by pesky bees:  ‘Cowardly Lawndale bees, if only they could read these seeds, pummeled by cacophonous breeze..’

Home, sipping an ’09 single-vineyard Cab.  Surprised by its grip, frankly.  Probably won’t be the writer’s only glass.  So relaxed, surveying Self with much higher pleasure.. not overthinking anything.  In fact, no thinking at all.  Just writing, as I told “A,” just after 5pm.  She confided a fear of writing, I told her to just write.  What I didn’t tell my ineffable new ambitious ally: the writer doesn’t always put into motion what he promotes.  But, if you’re reading, that changes this night.  With this writer’s ’09 glass.  Actually, it’s getting a bit low, in honesty.  Refilling soon.

Thinking of class, 9 days.  Almost completely at ready.  Would put Self around 80% “prepared” [hate that word, too].  This devil laptop, moving again slow.  Should be writing on legal sheets.  But I need this read, what I’m thinking.  Want you to see my pace.  I’m not thinking.  I’m writing.

‘Cause.  Writers.  WRITE.

Impasse, no.  Not now.  Not tonight.  And no, I didn’t top my barrels.  Maybe tomorrow morning.  But I did write 4 letters, however.  Hate writing those bloody things.  Moving a pen for anything other than MY pages SICKENZ me.

Today’s tips, to 2nd envelope.  Have near $1,000 in ‘startup’ tenders.  Holding onto them, though.  Actually, pretending they don’t exist.  I try, quite painfully, intently, to pretend they don’t exist.  Want to start my career as a “professional”– no, SELF-sufficient– writer with either $0 or coins from the German mug’s coins, upstairs in office.

Trying to sedate Self through sentence, but TV’s still on.  These shapes, death.  Even more so than overthinking, the inaction it begets.  In moments, 1 last Cab glass.  Poetry prison, even with prose.  Tired writer.  Lawndale’s ripples, being felt.  Should touch my syllabi, really quick.. hold on–  Editing 2B done.  Ugh.. with my thought stream, editing not needed, not in next “post.” Hate that word more than I want to confess.  How about, simply, ‘entry’?

10:18pm.  The writer, depleting.  Need that final ’09 pour.  And to turn this devilish chatterbox [ugh] off.  Final pour, finally poured.  Can’t get the new character’s positivism, fervor, endorsement from head.  Listening to Thievery, seeing office on Sonoma’s Square, or Napa’s downtown, so those devils would have to face the writer.  In definite poem mode.  Want readers, other writers, to know what I’m thinking, what words with which I toy, right up until I’m in departure.  So am I wasting time writing this prose, these long sentences, succeeding paragraphs?  No.  Just gambling.

Over 2,000 words to edit.  How did I let this happen?  Especially when I’m supposed to be in PoetryPRISON?  As always, 2morrow’s coffees already call me.  This wine, not liking my attention diverted.  Do I run tomorrow?

Kelly.. what happened to us?  I used to write you all days.  My fault.  Don’t see Self suited4Fiction.  You’re proof.  What are you doing?  Are you still painting in your studio, sketching in your hotel Rooms when touring, away on business trips?  Where was you last visit?  What songs are you listening to while you paint?  What wines have you opened lately?  Write when you can..

Why does Fiction have to be so hard for this verse-ist?  I’m overthinking.  Just fictionalize present, if you want done a novel, or short as you the other day did.  Almost forgot about that piece, curse me…