Another Island

IMG_8805 Wine, today was all wine.  But as well, a return to running.  6.2 treadmill miles today, then home to shower before the crushpad, where the Cabernet, the last Sanglier lot as I understand was crushed.  Now the writer’s at home, battling several distractions but here in the homestudy writing about the day and how it only moreso convinced me I’m a writing/running winemaker.  Tomorrow morning, although I’m sure the wine will still be felt, I’ll be writing and journaling, inventorying all.  The run is starting to catch me, a bit, but not as much as I thought it would.  Must still be in a bit of shape.  After the 6.2 I took to the basketball court to shoot a few.  But not many.  I know Glenn would call any minute and ask me to come to the press and I did and he later messaged me to be at this house for the wine club/employee/grower event at his house.  Myself, didn’t sip much, but there at home I have surveyed both the La Rochelle Chardonnay and the Selby Merlot.  Not aiming for any level of effect but just to be in wine’s story– the write can only think of how many weeks are left in the semester and how much longer he has to wait to launch both the startup and the website for ‘mmc’.

Smelling the other fermenting wines in that room, one of the barrel rooms showed me what wine can IMG_8812do to senses and the story, how it’s perceived by a writer like me.  A writer– like me.  Down comes Alice, what haveth she to say– “Where’s my ipad?” Then up she goes, pointing out to the writer how big her stomach gets.  I remind her she’s pregnant which is unnecessary but I do to comfort her and she smiles airingly and I can’t help but imagine my little girl here in this house, crawling around like Jackie used to in the condo.  Wine is family, and a family business.  So I need to push harder with mmc and vvv.  There are universes and solar strokes nearing that I never before pictured.  So here it is, what the writer has always wanted and I can’t be slowed even for a minute– I should be drinking coffee right now no worry I will in the morning keeping my story going and all these short stories and narratives involving and revolving wine and winemaking and wine drinking, what the grape says to me, leaving behind the bloody adjunct de-signification, how they lower us and throw us where they need us and– no matter, this semester, F ’15, will be a bold forward in my wine label’s methodology and bottle titles.  Already have one thought of , the “Adjunct’s Succession Blend”.

IMG_8814Now, for cap, the write sips his Lagunitas bottle.  Then I need bed.  A fine rest for the writer and a sturdy state for the winery, Arista, come morrow, where I know I’ll taste more wines, Pinots, and a Zin– oh and that Chard, maybe two.  The writer’s exhaustion him catches but the book grows and I hope to be on the Road soon with my little pages and whatever pens I can steal from the plane and hotel– simplicity in my saunter and syncopation, my synapses rile in new realizations and thought so going back to Mendo someday soon and confronting that tight-greasy-faced pig that rejected my writing pulse, telling him something like “Oh I’m doing fine, I’m writing.. and what are you doing?  OH.. still teaching English at a community college?” And yes that sounds vindictive and petty, ‘cause it is. It’s warranted.

Then I calm down.  It’s the weekend, if I even get those.  Do I?  The downstairs of the Autumn Walk IMG_8824base, quiet, and me with this laptop on my lap and my family upstairs asleep except for possibly Alice who took a nap only a handful of hours ago.. provides the writer some pause, some collection, and another sip of this Lagunitas Sucks– was tempted to have more of that Selby Merlot, but the writer’s done with Merlot tonight, done with wine.  Beer’s what the character craves.  And another cruise through the day’s stills.  So I deep breathe, hear the back neighbors but ignore them, already fantasizing about the coffee– oh, I should make some now, and I would, but I know that would anger Alice. I should be upstairs now but I’m a writer with a flurry of character quirks.


Record the For

I have every aim to transfer today’s winery and wine notes to this blog, but I’m again tired and just want to write freely.  Finally posted the Pinot promotion, and may have the first case sale, or some sale, yes to friends but I’ll take it.  I don’t want to get too wrapped up in social media and sales, I want to remain grounded in the Art of this wine life and the writing and the stories, and the wine I might make.  Again making wine.. makes me research the stories of these other label, in Dry Creek and RRV, Sonoma Valley and wherever.  I want to be a Story, be read and sipped and in people’s homes, part of their conversation.

Tomorrow, my day off.  First target: gym.  At least a 90 minute workout, running and swimming or running and basketball, haven’t decided– oh, and maybe some weights.  Keep writing, don’t get distracted, Mike… by these social media apps and programs and tricks.. just stay a writer.  And I will.

Today, both Pinots on our main tasting had my attention, especially with the Mendo Ridge project, now showing more coherence and poetic principal, more narrative qualities disclosing whatever it thinks it’s meant to do.  It’s color hasn’t morphed much but the the texture and sensory enigmas had more volume, for some reason.  And I love that I don’t know the ‘reason’.  It assures what I’ve always known true, wine having its own life and vision and cognition.  And that’s why I re-attach myself to these vinoLit principles, and why I do this, this wine run, and I’ve finally settled just days, weeks really, before moving into this new home.. before staring the Story of New Mike.

I stopped typing but I won’t again– burdened by emails and other messages.. this goddamn phone, taking me away from the writing and the notes, the thoughts from the day, why do I let it do that?  I won’t, and stop dwelling I tell myself, think like Jack Kerouac and his days at Sur, when he walked those paths and stared at the ocean from that one spot and wrote his poem.. just keep simple, all simple, and the stories will land.

In Sunriver, I just think, what I’d be doing right now, if I were there alone and just writing and sipping wine and– think I just answered my own question, not much of a question, just the anxiety felt by an adjunct of my age struggling to settle and find settlement, having a family to support and wanting to build, build his Life writing, a career if that’s what you want to call it.  But I don’t think of these pages that way, not like it’s something I punch in and out for, no that would kill the joy of it all, minimizing it to patter– so tomorrow, some tasting, somewhere, possibly up the street to get SB for Mom & Dad (Matanzas Creek).  I may taste a little, or even have a glass by the lavender, write in the comp book (no device– oh, which reminds me I have to xfer that short piece I wrote in class the other day, with the 1A-ers)…

Plans and plans and plans.  Hope I keep one of them.  I deserve that much I think.


DAY 93: th 2/12/15

And on this 93rd day, an unusual one to be sure, I sit to coffee in the nook, not in class but having to leave for campus in 27 minutes exactly, “Launch at 730” I tell myself. Coffee ready and I have to walk over there, behind me and by fridge to retrieve but I don’t want to rise and ruin my run. Only bringing Comp Book as I said yesterday, and I’ll note everything, everything, and all things learned and other ideas the professors point out. I know people will notice me writing, and I hope they do! I hope they see me as one who not only teaches but does! Quiet in the condo now, with only the fridge and its hum, the sounds of the keys being committed to my vision, image and role, and the table rocking so slightly I almost have to stop typing to hear it, but then it doesn’t move, then no sound, it’s playing with me, obviously.
Coffee in possession and I sit thinking about how awful or awesome the coffee there at the meeting will be. Could be splendid. Could be shit. I notice myself fall into typo after typo this morning typing, how did Kerouac do it on an Underwood? Can’t think about that now and it’s not my bloody fault I have a laptop. The times.. the technology.. I didn’t decide it! And I use it how I want! In fact my poetess friend, Amber (whose word I still have to post to bottledaux) only writes on laptop, so it’s instantaneous.. and my dear friend Lila, refuses nearly to transfer her scribblings to laptop, as it’s “too much of a pain” as she once told me, basically then, for her, bringing nothing to fruition, and that’s a shame. So I’m here in nook, typing, Comp Book right, little pages left.. ready for day, to write everything, everything.. see who shows, try to find Michael right away.. and I have a thought for the Massamen novel– you know what, maybe I should bring my bag but only have the journals in them– no, bring Comp, then Massamen journal atop.. done. And his story, Mass’, starts where I did on the 28th, Jan, being let go to start new, and finally be in the position to fight the Adjunct War. And maybe “war” is too barbed a term for some but to us, my character and I and anyone who’s ever been an adjunct, it’s too light, perhaps. Either way, we’re both at work. And I’m xeriscaping my thoughts and writings, my novel coming, and I need give Self a timeline like with this project.. just looked at clock after taking call from Alice wishing me a well morning.. 7:15, the clock catches me but I’m grumbling in commitment to reach the bottom of the page, and to think of anything I forgot to mention yesterday in entry– OH! The skirmish and bad blood catalyzed by one of the tasting rooms in the Kenwood shopping center. Even slighting my friend Jeff, he’s the one who disclosed the whole story to me, day before yesterday, and again to Dwight and I yesterday with some added specifics. War in the wine world, and how some people are so oblivious to courtesies common and just general neighborlyisms. And then it starts; the stares, the snubbing, the rumors, the shootouts if any, and just that feeling that no one cites or points out but you know something’s off. And that happens on highway 12! It’s hard to believe! A place where much of the world frequents in their pursuit of wine and wineries and vineyards, to take pictures and experience what we all, or many of us, take for granted and just shine on, there can be conflict, foul attitude, negativity to this degree.
Battery low. See what I mean? Bloody tech.. anyway, I should prep myself for leave, and I’m just taking the Comp Book I decided. One project at a time, one binding at a time. Slow, like I tell Jackie when he eats; “Jackie, remember, we eat slooooooooooooow…” Same principle with writing, just not too slow, otherwise the project never finishes.


Entered a page in the new Comp Book.  And I’m tired, sipping the 7UP I bought at the store, just hours ago.  Overwhelmed already by all the work I have before me for the semester, but I’ll keep my life simplified, into one Composition Book.  This laptop, used less and less.  It has to be that way; simple, condensed, fluid, singular.  Feeling not at all pained by the 5 mile run, but more from Jackie’s 1st day of preschool.  How is it that my little Artist is here already?  He grows quicker than I can handle.  Need a cocktail, or something, a sip of this 7UP then one of the Stewart’s Root Beers I bought.  Tomorrow at lunch, going to the Warm Springs park for writing, collection.  And only bringing this Comp Book, layering myself in nothing I have to, but only want to.  tomorrow’s theme, or major subtext note: exploration, true boldly honest exploration.

As I read further into Kerouac’s journals, I find he had the same struggles with the Craft that I do.  Not sure if that has meaning or just something I’m looking for anyway seeing’s how much I love his work, but it’s something I’m here noting.  Becoming renascent in a way I’ve never been, at least in my stepping, what I see, feel.  Going to alter me tomorrow, in some way, and write it all in my little notebook– so I have that one, this new Comp Book, and “Front”, the notebook I took from campus, from the English Dept’s mailroom, me writing “FRONT” on what I believe to be the front side.  Not sure, that’s why I wrote it, so I’d always know how to open.  Somewhere in there’s the key to Road– well that and all the old blog entries.  I hate the blog but then I love it.  We’re richly and tastefully dysfunctional.  We’re to be admired.  Our mutual abuse is like thrown seduction, a loud tryst with unavoidable light and shape and beat.

Propeller Basket Leave

Tonight’s routine.. blog then book.  Did manage to sew a few notes before shift, sipping the 4shot mocha, looking out at a green field being assaulted by random September rain.  Tonight’s varietal, Pinot.  Wasn’t foreseeing, at any point, my picking of this bottle.  Vintage, 2011, Russian River.  Don’t feel like giving the winery a plug.  First sip.. surprisingly heavy.  Like my thinking.  May be tired from yesterday, blended with today.  Have decaf in cue, after glass.  Or ‘glasses’, if I have one more.  Had an idea today, actually 2: 1) start file of “New Standalones,” all prose pieces, and 2) start a short story hustle.. self-publishing collections while sending them out.. become a master of the short story.  Would rather be so, much more than a bloody “novelist.”

Had short discussion with Blair today, about the Merlot I’ll be making this vintage.  “Okay, but you’re doin’ this one all on your own,” he said.  Partially, I was spooked.  Then the other, much louder, excited.  After that, met a couple people sharing a kinship with my world, the Literary.  Much catharsis, needed.  And I haven’t started reading, or re-reading ‘Glass Castle’ by Jeannette Walls, yet.  If I wasn’t at the bloody winery 40+ hours a week, I’d be at a desk, weeks all, each hour.  Reading, writing/responding.. student again.

Just decided, I’m not starting another “doc” on this devil laptop.  I’ll write everything in newJournal.  The black & white Comp Book, retired.  Looking at little pages, only writing 1 line today, with sane reason.  Can’t share it here, much I’d like.  Sorry, reader.  Another Pinot glass.  Thinking of some remarks I heard today, about people wanting sweeter wines.  “It’s okay,” the lady said, spilling the Chard into the ceramic bucket, “but do you have sweeter wines?  I like my wine sweeter, ya ‘now?” I could tell she was from Texas, or Arkansas (to which we can’t ship), or Mississippi.  Somewhere South.

Going to load decaf, prep tomorrow morning’s coffee– oh, I don’t need to, as Alice bought me some new k-cups, medium roast, which doesn’t jolt me as roughly as darker roasts, like the French.  A calm fueling [preferable], rather that one rushes, panicked, leading to more panic.  Thank you, Ms. Alice.

Enterprising hoopla.  Maybe that’s my genre.  Just started another short.  Poured last Pinot glass.  I like the wine, but it’s not a Pinot, to me.  Too heavy, too thick.  Doesn’t bring the elegant nature that Pinot promises.  Typewriters–

Need one, for my new form.  Truly Literary.  Ms. Alice, in other Room, enjoying her show.  Me, I have to stay far from TV.  Disregard it.  Pretend I’m in Poe’s day.  Reading “Hysteria” by Eliot, for the first time since…  Done with Pinot.  Good.  Don’t want any more wine this eve.  In fact, that decaf would prove bright at moment current.  But I just sat, into this cushion, comfortable.  Why does the writer always have to move?  9:43pm.. not a lot of thinking time.

Hate typing on this


so removed from create.

Coffee, why me

wait?  Finish my story.

So easy.



siren cycle

IMG_0037No more new docs on laptop.  Quitting technology, internet, completely.  Well, almost.  Just won’t use it as much.  Today’s most meaningful event, the weather.  Antithetical to yester’.  Overcast, little drizzle, light rain on mountain according to friend at work.  We were all miffed.  This morning, thinking the MOD hadn’t yet arrived, I was in car, scribbling verse.  Wound up logging 20 lines.  On paper.  No chance of it being forgotten, unknowingly erased, lost in internet or CPU space.  It’s permanency revitalizes me.  She parked in the back/side lot, by the crush pad, so she’d been there the entire time.  No harm, was able to bleed that verse, which adds to day’s relished total, title.  Closing all windows on this laptop, preparing to close one dependency level.  Watching this scene in ‘Midnight’, when Wilson’s character, Gil, is talking to Hemingway.  No technology, no devices, no unnecessarily luminous screens, trinkets anywhere.  Just a Literary discussion.  Actual interaction.  And the Comp Book, right next to me–  Well, that’s not entirely true.  IT’s just over there, by the door, about six feet away, by that six-pack of wine I brought home from work the other day.

Planning on piecing together rhymes, lines, phrases, words.. randomly like one of my favorite Artists.  Like I stated recently, I want my writing to definitively reflect my moment, thought process, urge.  Then I suddenly slow, realizing I didn’t run today, and that Grandma’s gone.  Why is that so hard for the writer to accept?  Know it sounds incredibly immature, but I always thought Grandma would be here, like she was immortal, resistant to death.  Can’t get that image from head, of her on that bed.. sleeping in her permanent position– how cold her cheek was when I kissed it for time final.  Have to change subject b4 I’m derailed, sailing stale…

Looking at the recent cash stash.  Still haven’t deposited, put toward house/business Schwab 1 acct.  Will tomorrow, if I can.  Going to campus early, to deposit SRJC check, if it’s ready.  You never know, with time between Spring & Summer terms.  Things get turned inside-out, diagonalized, deformed, contorted, ill-supported.  Again thinking of Fall term, this new Literature/Reading/Teaching blog I want to build.  Should I?  Wouldn’t that just be perpetuating the habit, digging mySelf deeper into the habitual hole, abet my immediacy addiction?  Maybe I should have this first book, or one of them, be what I want to do with this new blog.  “Blog” … God I hate that word.  I really do.

Tomorrow, my Friday.  Why don’t I feel how I should, like it’s a Friday?  I need to make mySelf feel that way.  Sticking to this current Comp Book, till what I wrote on cover, “11/24/13.” I crossed out the old date, which I didn’t satisfy, one year previous to date [11/24/12].  No matter.  Trying to stay situated, consistent.  Think I may have a little more Viognier left in fridge.  Not sure I want any, really.  More in mood for coffee, or something sweet.. that sparkling water.  So guilty I’m feeling about not running tonight.  And I can’t tomorrow, with the scheduled dinner at Mom & Dad’s.  First since Grandma’s leaving us.  Not nervous at all.. it’ll be a reason to celebrate Zel’s Life.  How DO I want to play the rest of tonight?  Not feeling that affected from the 2 Sumpin’s.  I’ll take a glass of the Viognier, as cap.

Need to stop typing, get to Comp Bk scribblings.  Just what I’m doing, this scattered writer, embattled sighter.  […]  9:54pm, Viognier in glass, wrapping up sitting.  Can’t wait to listen to instrumentals, push Self into mode poem’d.  This laptop, only supplying distraction.. the net, “social” media, whatever else associated.

10pm.  Stopping, finally.  News on, but muted.  I’m not letting them talk, disseminate their fear-mongering.  This Viognier, more peach and apricot-driven than last night.  Should probably visit barrels tomorrow, top them before racking, no?  Or should I wait till I rack on Wednesday?  Either way, I’ll stop by lap, see if I can learn something quick.


untitled afternoon

6:26am.  Still very much feeling yesterday’s run with Carmen.  May do that again, on my own, to see how I do.  Loved the vineyards on all sides, to keep me pushed.  Was surprised, and I noticed this while running, how little I thought about writing.  Was pretty much with complete focus on the run.

Tired this morning.  Blaming the couple glasses I had last night, after nights of no wine at all.  Not sure I’m set on doing quite the extensive tasting I had planned for Self on Saturday night.  Maybe just open 1 bottle, sip slow, enjoy my scribbles, and/or types.

Back to sleep for about an hour, or so.  Then coffee.  Tonight, semester’s end.  Finally

8:37am.  Mood, venomous.  And not unexpectedly.  Has nothing to do with Jack, just to note.  Taking Life in the direction I want it to go.  No more settlement.  All desires, ambitions, visions, today annexed, captured.  Seizing control, with these pages, as if they’re my unusually aggressive militia.

First target:  the clock.  Time, ignored, attacked, concurrently.

Second:  Anything taking time from writing– social media, media, technology, useless social engagements; alcohol [beer, wine, for me], TV; even this laptop.  Right now, I should be penning my words, not bloody typing them.  Want to be more like my friend, who habitually vents, or “rants” as she says, in a journal.  Actual WRITING.

image: me, quiet room, sipping sparkling lime water, musically scribing in the Comp Book’s pages, filling many of them.  Only sound other than that point carving my thoughts onto lines? light Thievery Corporation

I’ll add other targets as I think of them.  Yes, this isn’t entirely, or at all really, “planned.” The whole point of this campaign is to acquire enveloping amaranthine, sweeping, freedom.  From everything.  Isn’t that what an Artist’s idealization is, or should be?  The unbridled, not far away.

“Logging off.” Hate that slimy, lazy phrase.

And I hate this laptop, even more.

Disposition repaired.  Morning mocha.  Only 2 shots, after all that coffee I had.  And, the writer sips slow.  Can’t wait to close semester tonight, start planning Fall, the semester to end all predictability.

1:01pm.  Back from bookstore run.  Debating which Poe text to use for Fall.  Not sure how to approach.  And if I should tackle him in 5, where he’d be 1 of 2 Authors of focus.  OR 1A, where he’d be 1 of 3.  Another target, just thought of, while driving back home: caffeine.  Going to attack my dependency.  There won’t be an utter eradication of my energy source, but definite temperament.

A little pain in right knee, on right side.  Good that I’m taking this day off, from running.  Thought about trying to fit a brief one in, before going to pickup papers tonight, but forcing Self to resist that urge.  Tired, wish I could nap.  Going to be odd, not having classes in eve, this summer.  But this is a positive.  More time to write, more time with little Kerouac.  Just remembered, need to upload some footage to winery’s site.. one minute–

Done.  Still haven’t taken Self from this cursed laptop.  Only letting Self have four lines in this paragraph.  No wine tonight, even though I have plenty reason to celebrate, with this term’s much-awaited death.  Hate how my body feels, now with this newly low tolerance, the next morning, even after having only a couple, 2 (!!!), glasses.  Devilish chemicals.  Would kill 4 a nap–

= magazine idea back again.. do i act on it?  wine, wine country, art, writing…



9:55pm.  Home.  Enjoying a beer, slowly mind you.  Mostly in celebration of these old writings I’m rediscovering for book’s sake.  After I close this laptop, I’ll return to the Comp Book as I did early.  Both writing as well as inventorying past scribbles; verses, poems.  My little Artist, upstairs asleep.  Still reacting to earlier happening of us both falling asleep, waking dazed.  Am I different after that nap, a little Rip Van Winkle syndrome?  Maybe.  But it was only 2 hours later.  Felt like 20 years…

Been writing all day.  Should stop.  Just be lazy.  Watch TV, have Comp Book at side in case something lands, and relax.  Just.  BE.  Lazy.  In tasting Room, tomorrow, and I’m only listing.  No prose.  Keeping notes simple.  Keeping them in form of NOTES.  Actually, I think I’m on the mountain tomorrow.  I’ll be up there, thinking I’m in Paris, drinking a beer street-side, as I saw so many locals do in ’09.  That trip, only months before my first blog, what started all this, was started.  Not much light in this Room.  Just the TV, lamp at left on end-table.  Perfect setting for a typewriter.  Still don’t have one.




Typing a bit before I leap over to ink, pages.  Need more condensed sense.  Tomorrow, probably no time to write, I’m guessing.  But I love that.  Want to not know what’s happening the next day.  Want to live in hotels, on Road.  Want to write verses on napkins, on resort stationary.  Cameras to my left, in their cases.. not sure why I told you that, but that’s what I’m staring at.  Well, back and forth, intermittently.

Thinking of “Life from a Comp Book.” Not sure what shape that’d take, but that too dominates my vision, fantasy, dream, pragmatism, what be.. what would.  This Friday, no goal.  Won’t let mySelf have one.  Don’t want to expect, disappoint.  Wanting nada.  Just hoping to sit in front a page, WRITE something.  A single sentence.  Yes, actually write, meaning ink to line.  Just one sentence.  A poem’d line.  That’s my only goal.  Oh, and to open 1 white, one RED.  Deconstruct, as winemaker.  Time for dinner, the quiche Alive prepared, paired with the other night’s Burgundian white.

Was going to have a night’s capping, but resolved against.

9/21/12 — Alone in home.  Sipping St. Francis Malbec.  Thought I’d be throwing into Cabernet.  But nay.  Every subtle shift suggests I ignore all me aggravating– those cruising with their shoulders obviously extended, acting as supervisors.  How can you supervise an Artist, especially one from realms Literary?  You know what– I’m just going to enjoy these sips, scribble, or type when wished.  IF anything, I’d rather to bed get early, so I can have another morning mocha manuscript.  Watching old Sopranos episodes, thinking they’re all old, as the series ended years ago.  No I feel old.  Need another Malbec glass.  I’m aging, like this wine.  Distractions, where art?  Only noting when I need, or feel concern, concerned.  Need to just enjoy wine, this night– the quiet.  that’s what she’d suggest, I’m sure.

Watching these reruns, thinking of my own business dreams.  Another glass…

Tired of writing with punctuating likeness.  Suddenly, the writer’s cranky, needing another writer movie showing, not this pseudo-artisanal “TV,” HBO.  I like the Sopranos, but seriously, how artful is this show?  How Literary does it fall?  Kelly, I can hear her, telling me to stop typing/writing.  What am I doing?  Is this good for “the business,” as Tony would say?  Need another sip.  Need more material.  Tired of character promising one thing, then perpetuating another cut.  Ridiculous, not worth documentation.

Feel guilty just sitting here, relaxing, enjoying my eve, watching shows.  That’s not what an Artist extremist does.  Right?  Only my character on mind, her processes, her sketches, her mind’s livings.  How does she live from her findings, expressions?

= Older woman, news reel this morning.. bodybuilding competitively, at late 60-something, waking at 3:30a.  My time, now, 11:14p.  Need fall into sleep, so I can wake for my morning mocha manuscript wag.

= 11:38pm, in a tornado of introspection.  I can’t not WRITE.  I’m into my Comp Book like a burglar in a fort’s stash.  Sipping this Malbec with my ink in a pot of fervor.  Taking a break, ‘cause I need it.  Independent penman, not needing 2B signed.  So, the chapbooks get shotgunned into spheres near, incredibly clear.  Me, in need of no permission, guidance, promotion..

= 9/22/12 , 12:33am.  —  After a random block walk, I’m ignoring page.  Spending night’s rest in simple enjoyment of night.  Wrong, not writing?  I hope so. That makes me evermore the writer I aim2stand.  The most Literary act I can blast is to not write a thing.  Done.  Out-clocking…

= 10:30pm.  Fleeing to paper after this notation.  Me, here sipping an IPA, counting day’s tips.  The wine club Room.. my worst enemy, most accommodating endorser.  How does that work?

Tonight, I’m not looking to complete anything, necessarily.  This morning, felt like a flat orchestra note.  Not sure how that happened, as I stayed home last night, didn’t sip that much.  Well, actually I just found that wasn’t case.  The Malbec bottle. two-thirds dead.  Staring at this cash stack, knowing I have to do something with it.. get this business aloft, FINALLY.  Won’t be able to put little Kerouac through college doing– singing–one song.  I need an ALBUM.  No, an ANTHOLOGY.  This laptop feels too official, to clinical, too expected.  Where is the Comp Book?

Suddenly, this device performs odd acts, only allows the oddest of spacings.  That’s what I hate about these buttons, these mechanized functions.  And I apologize, but I can’t get over this cash pile at left.  And I’m not bragging… I’m just showing–no, sharing–the fruits of this writer’s efforts.  Where’s it going?  To the company, to the office.  MY office.  Want to finish this entry so I can get into ink, actual lines.  The winemaking, ever on mind.. the Chardonnay I’ll produce with Katie, the Petite Sirah or Cab I’ll hopefully do with my brother Kaz.  The wine, only Art to me.  No status elevation, I don’t see that.  I’m about the Artist, the expression.  And the “social” media element, meaningless to the Artist.  Need music in this Room, should turn off the TV.  Why do I have that guttural screech box on?

Not sure what to write about, and that’s why I keep writing, as you know– to let writers, other writers, know that this happens.  The stalls, the lulls.  The wine industry, only material for so long.  In all honesty, it’s not as significant as people enveloped in its grips estimate.  It’s not.  Why, it’s commerce, involving a beverage.  Yes, I love wine, I even love “the industry,” but I will speak when I wish, even if it wishes I’d keep quiet.  Now, I move into a peaceful steeple.  Mike Madigan’s in an eased reprieve.  That’s what I need, at my age.  How is it I’ll be 34 next year.  Where did life leave me, how my light de-freed?  Getting a little tired, but the sight of this Self-company cash wakes me, over again.  And do I need another pour?  Of course..  Two guest today told me I need to enjoy the wine, more.  And you know what, as a winemaker, I agree.  That Malbec, I’m projecting, much more melodic tonight.  Tired, and I’m not surprised.  Can’t believe I made it through today, to be honest.  But here the writer be.. not at all distracted, focused in his sipNscribble.  Bowing out, for paper, colored traces.  Need certain thoughts to be heard, read.  Introspective edges, where I’m going.

And after the 1st Malbec sip, I’m convinced.. the winemaking, path performed.  Would love to go to bed right now, as I fantasized this morning, almost as soon as I touched down in the Room.  Now, the Artist getting truly sick of this device, its buttons.. this isn’t Art, not what I know it 2B.  Now, I have to proof this whole session.  Nonsense.  I should write this, then move on.  That’s Art, that’s Expression.  No editorial obsession.  Need another sip.. Malbec, where R U?  The lights seem lower in this Room.  Kelly would capitalize, not overanalyze.  Why can’t I do the same?  Think I may B overcomplicating.  Professor…

entry, next rest

About to upload a picture, maybe a couple actually, I took a couple the other morning during the Chardonnay pick.  Just had a recollection, for reasons unknown and entirely unexpected, of the older man from Tennessee telling me, after I offered him a pour of Chardonnay, “Well most men I know don’t drink white wine, so give me red, only red.” He was one of, if I remember right, 68 elders from around the country.  All were sweet, excited, interested, and relaxed.  Most were, this character being one of only three exceptions.  Today, had another like-instance, a man from Delaware [Delaware!], lecturing me on the merits of California wines, saying I shouldn’t be pouring an ’08 Zin before an ’08 Syrah.  But after I poured, he recognized our/MY merits, methodologies.  This annoying role, a lawyer for a huge corporation [which he retold at least three times], Harvard graduate.  He let me know that he knew everything about everything– from wine, to religion, to politics, to local government, to driving laws, to landscaping, to napkin etiquette at a bar.  Not sure what I can do with this tasting Room character, but there.. he’s been trapped.

Know I should be typing in my book fantasy, but I just want to write freely.  That’s one qualm I have with the whole notion of a “book.” There has to be a plan.  It’s a project.  I’m still going to write one, but as I sit here typing to this Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA, I think that may something holding me back from Self-publishing a work.  Again, I hear Kelly.  Telling me to just put it out there, see what happens.  Her blog, far more “followers” than mine.  She’s a true Artist, much more interesting, with all her travels, all the shows surrounding her suavely shaded wine glass, with their multicolored voices.  And her paintings, the sketches and random drawings, pulling eyes, lives, into their subtle soul scrapes.

The idea of finishing a book outside these logs, tonight me taunts.  Not going to brainstorm, as I suggest to my students.  Just going to write.. And yes, use much of the writing I’ve accumulated over years.  From that cursed plastic coffin upstairs in my closet, as well as from mikeslognoblog.. my notebooks, among places additional.  All those notes I rushed while in the box, in the devilish incubator, being indefinitely “trained” by one of the most brainless ditzes I’ve ever had the ill fortune of meeting.  Again, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that office.

It’s day is coming.

May be filming, shooting stills next week at 3:30am.  Well, that’s when I should arrive.  But I talked to the vineyard manager today, and he said it’d be fine if I show at 4am.  Have always wanted to witness a night pick.  Yes, I know that’s technically morning, but it’s night to most, as most are still in sleep deep.  Speaking of dormancy, I dreamt of reciting, last night, or early this morning.  I was in a jazz club, in Miami.. speaking words spoken to interested ears, eyes, minds.  Not sure what 2do with the echoing images.  But write.  2nite.  Posting, posting.. not writing.  That’s what this Comp Book’s for.  It’ll take me to my own office, to my travels.. to that hotel Room, that random bottle of red.


9/15/12 — Little Kerouac, 7 months old today.  And me, still chipping away at that novel, with this ’09 Cabernet in an annoyed glass.  Just wrote 300 words in a book, a NOVEL, idea.  Not calling it a project, ‘cause it’s not.  Wrote some lines while waiting for takeout from Mary’s.  Busier than busy today, with the whole “Crush Celebration.” Two big tours, which brought sales & wine clubs, and more importantly tips for my publishing fund.  Think I may be at $300.  Have to put that in an envelope.  Locking it away, disposing of key.  And me, only seeing poetry.. the stage, people reciting my words back to the writer.

10:54pm.  Need another sip of this Cab, see what it says.  My wines, those I’ll produce independently, will speak for themselves.  Not even sure I’ll fulfill the role of shepherd, but I’ll guide it, best I’m able, to its eventual bottle.  This Tuesday, when with the winemaking team, I’m hoping to just follow, take notes, pictures, observe in silence, gather material, become a maker of wine through others actions, influences.  Thinking I’m using commas incorrectly, altogether.  What kind of a writer/professor am I?  Definitely one who loves his wine, that’s been cemented in these “posts,” if anything.

11:01pm. Can’t get over this Cabernet– its voice, song, palate swiftness.  Need to touch base with a couple winemaking contacts, see what I can pick up.  Want to be the consummate consumer, like I tell guests, but I need to be one who truly knows wine– has a relationship with it.. MAKES IT.  Tomorrow, taking winemaking steps.  Calling Kaz, Katie, and maybe some other oeno-characters.  My wine needs to be made, just as I so immediately share my moments, repetitive rants on this “blog,” I need my varietal translations out there.  And I HAVE to write about it.  WINE, my relationship.. my LOVE AFFAIR with it.  While I sip.