Another installation to this mixtape, after a little break.  Earlier, wrote to sounds of starting cars, parking lot chat.  Now, Thievery Corporation, other Wine Bar arrangements.  Nearing 1,000 words.  Want to re-read my friend’s sharp interview.  His novel, again, as well.  Where did I put it? …  And of course, in the side shelf of this desk.  Shows you what my organization system entails.  Nothing.  Think that’s a consequence of my writing voice, form.

Speaking of form, going to play with it more in my sittings.  Whether verse of paragraph, essay.  Sometimes I may indent, others no.  And why are so many touchy when it comes to paragraph length?  One thing I don’t miss about teaching–I had a hard time instilling 5-to-7 sentence paragraph scripture to my students.  All that rule goop.  I preached, occasionally, ideas to which I didn’t at all subscribe.  Did it ‘cause the whole semester I was preparing them for some clownish departmental exam.

Topic next.  This music, all music, dancing in my pores, encouraging Creativity, Freedom, TRAVEL.  This 2nd coffee cup: 1/3 the earlier mix of dark roast and mocha mix; the rest, a recent pour of the scolding black.  Immeasurably pleasurable.  Perfect for the sitting.  So glad I came across that interview yesterday at my desk.  Now, at this desk, I relax, write, enjoy my morning of button pushes, verse, caffeine, ME.  This moment, universally artisanal.  No?

Think I may be writing a prose poem, and not prior notice.

No wine today, or tonight.  Want clear vision for the other standalone’s I pen.  They

need destination.  This song,

taking me away to Rome, a café on a

small but frenzied

street.  Just me,

a cappuccino,

notebook.  I hear voiced, but can’t appreciate my

puzzle.  So, a writer, I assign

dialogue, topics.

 

10:19am.  One of my favorite Thievery tracks, now in ears.  “The Time We Lost Our Way.” Feel like I’m on a plane, headed somewhere, staring down at clouds.  Speaking of flight, I want to watch that footage of the Paris trip, ’09.  All blocks, characters, something I again need.  Want to have another session like I did that one night I woke and couldn’t, for anything, return to sleep.  Staring down at a slightly-lit stage, recessed.  Paris, I miss you, sickeningly…

Now that I’m officially a Self-published Artist, I can make that part of my tour’s circuit, with one of my releases, when I really get going.  I’ll have to.  What I see happening: staying there for 10-15 days, writing a short novel, or memoir.  Or both, blended, sipping some Bordeaux I’d never otherwise taste.  Or Rhône.  Eating one of those devilishly enrapturing baguettes from a station.  Okay…  Where’s that camera…  I want to go back now.  If a picture’s worth 1000 words, then collected video footage must promise half a diarist’s project.  Taking off, runway clear.  I may never return.  Why would I?  I’d be in Paris.  My city.  My writing’s dramatically panoramic incubator.

Already over 1k.  Clock: 10:46 AM.  Why does my laptop put a space between the time & the “AM?” Only I would notice that, the geeky writer.

 

10:05pm.  Talked mySelf out of talking myself out of 3 efforts, today.  1) I mandated no beer or wine tonight.  Said, “You know what, you should have one of those Racers, especially ‘cause it’s so hot out.  It’ll taste amazing.” Stayed with program, for the writing, for tomorrow morning’s early rise, for writing, work in AV after.  2) Read through my chap, all 52 pages, quickly.  Felt disgusted.  Almost changed my mind entirely about it, surrendered.  Didn’t let mySelf.  I walked away, took a break from its sight, content.  I can’t afford to quit another project, not at my age, with all I have staked.  And, 3) Made Self go for a run, or walk-jog.  Almost talked mySelf out of this, with frightening ease.  But no, went for a short, slightly speeded saunter on Bethards & Summerfield.  Oh, and a 4th: no mocha, the whole day.  Almost bought one after my haircut, but realized that would interfere with my goal of returning to running routines.  So, the bean peddlers didn’t get a dime from this reborn author.  What else can I make my Self do?  Setting alarm for 6:20am, the same time I’d wake for my Napa commute.

And, another.  5) Refrained from my nightcap, which I set to be a Snickers bar in the fridge.  Had a sweet tooth, saw the attractive treat, walked the other way.  Clocking out, while ahead of impulse.  Want to write more in this log, but making Self stop, pepper some poem while it’s still this day.  Before morrow.  When the alarm sounds, only verse, poetry.  No prose.  I want the frenzied tangential in my Comp Book’s sheets.  Coffee, here from house, certainly.

3/9/12, Friday

Messaging, Weather Invoicing

Rain, holding to streets, lightly.  With a nightcap, an IPA from Oregon.  About to print tonight’s 3 pages for book.  Can’t get the first 3 from my head.  I see this book getting published.  Yes, it bothers me that I need someone to publish it, that I need permission to be a writer.  But, like Pac said, “…You have to work from one point to go to another…” I can be a sovereign scribe and still be subsidized.  How?  I won’t agree to anything that compromises the intended voice of my work.  If an editor makes adjustments, and I don’t agree, they don’t go to press.  And, I would never sign a contract surrendering a say in my work’s finalization, or the processes beforehand.

Watching Mr. Shakur right now, in “Resurrection.” He didn’t flinch, ever.  My character needs such.  That’s what these late PM drops order.  Tomorrow, no mocha.  If it’s caffeine I’m after when cubed, scribbling notes, I need the most furious of cups.  Blacker than black.  “My girlfriend, blacker than the darkest night…”

Managed to finish a verse at the end of my Lit Lunch.  No upload to 1Stop tonight.  Not in the mood, frankly.  It’s my wine business, as you may be aware, and if I’m not in the mood, and I’m not getting paid, I don’t have to touch a single key on this monster.  No writing for free; such thought, intensifying.  I have bills, obligations, as much as I’d love to disregard them at times.  They’re there, and life is more than sententious.  Not one simply writing; I’m writing to make a living.  One comfortable, relaxed.  See so many artists that know they should be getting paid for their Craft, who would never offer a single stroke gratis.  So now walketh I.  Those wanting me to freewrite for free: ungodly, devilishly wicked.  He would agree.  If he were here, he’d holler, ‘cause he’d hear me.  Sip, sip …

[1/19/12 – Th]

Thief Writing Sample

11p.  In bed, with the monster’s buttons.  No Lit Lunch today.  Was nice to have a bye in my practice, all to appreciate my regular writing hour, mid-shift.  Most significant event of day:  tasting Katie’s and my Cab with Mom and Dad.  Katie left a sample at their house, a conservative sample she pulled on the 16th.  Moved it around in glass quite a bit.  We all were surprised by the theatrically confident strut of the wine.  Color, gorgeous.  The wine can’t hide its youth in the nose, but even still there’s an attractive herbal tea ripple, coupled with dried berry and wild-ish fruit.  Nice palate display, soft tannin and finish.  Dad commented that the fruit was a bit excessive in the finish.  Not sure if I agree or not, but I can see how a consumer, a READER of my bottled character, would say that.  In my aim for producing a calm Cabernet, I think I’m well on my way.

Oftentimes I compare writing to wine.  Tonight, in my tasting, I thought just the antithesis.  Katie and I completed our work, or book.  Now, we need to edit.  Go through each chapter and adjust unevenness.  Perhaps wait a bit, then return.  The same needed for an actual book.  Just gather the pages, no matter how messy.  Actually, sometimes “messy” is marvelous, what many revere as Aesthetic, as I’ve said so many times in my journals.  In this revelation, unintended lesson, I printed two more pages tonight.  Glancing through them quickly, with the anxiety still circulating, I saw many waves that need confrontation.  If I don’t act, there’ll be no sips.  Wine IS Literature, as the Lit is vino.  This is always reiterated to me when I connect with Katie’s and my project.

Rain on the way.  No wine for me tonight.  Well, none after the tasting, but that didn’t count.  How can I say that?  Of course it “counted.” Going into the 19th of this year’s first month with 3 pages of a best-selling novel, more swagger (I think), and more assurance of what I want, how simple it is–wanting to write books.  Doing more writing, gathering of pages, than just wanting to do so.  Bonne nuit …

[1/18/12 – W]

Another Cab, 2005

Tonight’s pour, stronger than I expected.  It’s character, sophisticated, confident, commanding.  Don’t really want to write that much, as I did plenty today.  In the cube, at the café.  Still reflecting over yesterday’s slice into my shell.  Today, I was calm from rise, to commute, shift and Literary Lunch, to return home.  And now, in front of the keys.  Self-publishing, my FINAL resolution.  But, no such funding available.  So, all to these blogs.  Both, their own “brands.” As much as I malign that word, concept.  This is writing, wine.  I’m not a commercial clone.  Never will be.  As Dad once said, I have too much Creativity in me.  Another sip…  Surprised at its flex, this many years past its birth.  It is from Paso, though.  A place where Cabernets can startle you with their strengthened stride.

Even the stand-alone pieces, up on this blog, till I can gather funds to print pages, spread them like BB’s activity.  Miss teaching like I can’t even innumerate.  Lecturing on Orwell’s work, dissecting those pages with my Solano sections.  NVC, still not talking to me.  And that’s fine.  Obvious, within their structure, and spread agenda-smeared system, compiling insecurity.  Lovely, I’ve moved on.  Miss my students, though.  From Napa, Solano, SRJC, SSU.  Stanford, still radar’d.  Sipping to those images, fantasies.  Again.

Didn’t get to read much of my winemaking book today on my written lunch hour.  But, I kept mySelf in ink.  So many characters on that floor today.  Think I saw Jewel writing, which surprised me, as I didn’t know she wrote.  But can I be sure she was writing Creatively?  She must have been, the way she sat in the nook of the coffee house, on that bench, legs extended, looking out at 1st Street’s eastbound expand from that palm-print clouded window.

Want to print some pages.  But what would that do?  Can’t afford to copy them, a manuscript’s worth.  Frustrated.  I want a bloody book out, already.  You know what, I’m printing a page.  Just one.  1.  There.  Decreed.  That deserves a sip.  Spicy licorice, blackberry.  Tannins I’ve never experience before.  This bottle, an experience, honestly.  Would love to make a Cab like this, but Sonoma Valley can’t submit this character form to palates.  Don’t think the climate permits.  I could be wrong, though, mind you.  Should have Katie taste this, see if she agrees.  Maybe it’s this wine’s wise old age giving it such electricity.  Should probably get ready for bed, pound the rest of this pour.  Shame.  Should never rush wine, but time is time; A cruel devil.  10:20p.  Yes, need to get downstairs.  Wagering a lot, I just realized, giving all to these techno-dependent “blogs”.  Disgusted with Self, but I have to do it, given where I am in Life, what I want as a writer.  Oh, have to print my one–1(!!!)–page.

 

[1/11/12 – W]

Hurt, Learned

Sipping a formidable glass of 2008 AV Cab, as it’s warranted in a fashion of ways.  The cut on my finger today, during an other wise tranquil Literary Lunch.  Reaching into my bag for a cord to connect my iphone to the monster.  Technology, always.  But I can’t charge the gadgets.  I cite Self.  My dripping impatience, remedial anxiety, ever-present angst.  I recall reaching into that pocket like the bag was hiding the cord.  When I retreated my fist, the most sensitive sector of my left index finger was re-sculpted with an uncomfortably shaped, dimensional gash.  Blood took stage like it hadn’t been seen in years.  Gabby, one of my friends at Napa’s Roasting Co quickly came to the author’s aid, bandaging me, assuring I was fine.  Disgruntled that I couldn’t type, I forced ink to legal sheet lines.  Happenstance?  Punishment?  A blend?  It taught me to recognize composure’s boon.  To settle, embrace peace.  Wrote quite a bit after the learning wound.  Now, at home, with my deepest of Sonoma County Cabernets, I type.

Wine bar beats on.  Harmonious ending to tumultuous installment.  Thinking about Sunday at Kaz Winery, the fun group that came though the doors, on my first day back pouring in 2 weeks.  Felt wonderful to be behind the bar, seeing my brother, talking to people, taking pictures, writing in wine’s indubitable space.  Amongst bottles, dormant vines, characters tasting.  Always pleased to have positive people step to the bar.  That’s what motivates me to write wine-themed fiction, the spoken word, the journals.

This Cab, one I’ve had many times before.  Now, though, it displays compiled complexities.  More flocking fruit, more night-like.  A romance about its palate presence than I remember.  Making sure I sip slow with these typed scribbles.  Imagining mySelf in my Wine Bar, as I often to.  On travels.  Now, I think of New Orleans.  Have always wanted to walk those streets.  Listen to their beautifully interwoven Jazz numbers, experience the poetry in those gorgeous quarters.  Another sip, I’m defiant.  Thankful for this injury.  The bandaid, laughing at my situation in this chair, but only to encourage.  No more stress.  I’m done.  What stresses me is rather laughable.  The only thing I should be worried about, ever, is this writing.  If IT will sell.  I know I can more than impressively vend my own work.  As it’s what’ll change life for me, all I care for, with passels of peace.  Not just the money.  But pervading Equilibrium, tranquility.  Happiness, to be simply worded.

Thinking again about the group I met at Kaz, their carefree rhythms in the Room.  I remember wishing I wasn’t “industry,” that I didn’t know this life so well, so I could feel something like that.  But, it’s fine, honestly.  There’s plenty to discover, still.  Katie’s and my wine project, future collaborations.  And these pages, there in each step to capture my gnostic germination, continuation.  Wine, writing, writing with wine.  ALWAYZ.

Looking through pictures I took on Sunday, eager to get back, walk those blank rows.

[1/10/12 – T]

viciously vino; wine retaliation

1/1/12, Sun.  New Year, new project.  Cliché, and comforting.  Not bottled anymore, me.  Last night’s Cabernet, still talking to me.  Telling me to be productive, from day one.  Today.  Editing my book down tonight, hopefully.  The blogs are going to pay.  They better.  No free writing, not anymore.  Many in the wine industry will take whatever free labor they can get; free marketing, advertising, labor.  Don’t expect any such from this writer.

Posted the first offer to 1Stop today.  Was the first thing I did this morning, while sipping the morning mocha.  Just hoping it produces a couple sales.  Helps Kaz, me.  Aim: to have bottles sold through, generating more traffic to 1Stop, earning it more credibility.  All focus, on wine.  Always.  This new blog, just a journal.  Completely absent of chains, restraint.  This blog, written by this once-bottled ox, a way to convey, share what’s really on the thought plate.

Was thinking again where I’d like my office to be, for 1Stop.  Downtown Santa Rosa, suddenly a candidate.  But, I do love downtown Napa.  But the commute is costly.  1Stop needs to persist, subsist, on a shoestring budget, as to maximize future profits.  We’ll see.  Time, 4:38p.  This new year, already flying by, cruelly, monstrously.  Need to keep writing, keep selling wine; keep tasting, sampling, buying; all about wine, writing–no, writing and THEN wine; writing about wine.  Today, great strides towards my Autonomy, in both arenas, with my 2 blogs.  And, the book…  Not a bad start to the year.  Tonight, need to organize some ideas for 1Stop before I follow through with them, just a couple.  May post again, a review of wine I tasted last night.  Well, actually drank.  But only had 1 glass.  Think that warrants a revisit, re-familiarize Self with subject.  sipNscribble, certainly.

5:50p.  Getting organized with 1Stop.  Unprecedented, my focus with this effort.  Need to be consistent, though.  If I have a problem, it’d be with the follow-through.  Not anymore, as I can in no way afford not to succeed with 1Stop, MY business.  I’ve met so many people in wine’s industry, owning their own businesses, who are not just idiotic on the social level, but demonstrate hardly a pour of ownership perspicuity.  Business prowess, essentially none.  So, I’m beyond positive that if they can own and somehow survive as their own employers, have their own business, I’ll be aloft within a couple months, tops.  Like Dad has long told me, “If that jerk can do, so can I.”  Salut’, Dad …

1Stop is a response to my view of wine’s world.  “The industry,” as it’s called.  There is no elevation with 1Stop.  Just Humans that love wine.  I don’t believe in bottle price minimums, max’s.  Just drink what you like.  And that’s what I love about selling wine, connecting good people with the wine they love to drink.  How could that approach ever be objectionable? Leaving the keyboard for ink, Composition book.  The ’09 Cabernet, calling me.  About to move brush about shy canvas.  Forever a writer.