Rationing My Reason

[6/4/12]  Coffee, heated in house this morning.  Light rain, outside, if you’ll believe.  Kelly, still in thought.  Only goal for today, print pages in addition to “posting” to “blog.” Yes, you can tell by the quoted marks I’m not much blog-happy this A.M.  Why?  Because I want to write, not blog.  So, in Kelly’s spirit, that’s what I’m doing.  Or, WILL do.  Wonder what’s going on at AV this morning, how they did yesterday.  Won’t lie, I’ll miss those grounds, the wines, the people on my side of bar as well as opposing.

Kelly sips her coffee, just watches the rain.  She knows she should be painting, but would rather just live instead, for now.  Enjoy her morning.  The coffee, a little hotter than she likes.  But the Miles Davis track bouncing around her Room makes her forget the degrees.  She thinks about the other night, that wine industry Art show in Glen Ellen, just past the Wolf House; How she didn’t sell anything, and how her account  lowers in level, like Tahoe snow in late-Spring throws.  She feels more domesticated than she’d ever want to be, right now.  So she just paints.  Whatever comes to mind.  Shooting for the free.  Noting in tow, no appointments tying, anchored.  Painting her way through this damp delirium.  She thought about her upper division French classes, when she had chances to study abroad.  Not going, to stay where she was, with her going nowhere of nowhere boyfriend, his hope to be a superstar dirt biker.  She thought nothing foul of his sight of riding, if he tok it seriously.  Which he didn’t.  He wanted fame, flash.  Celebrity.  He anesthetized himself in his own dream, capsuled in a custom coma.  She did eventually go, after graduating, seeing all the New she could.  She only sketched while on roads, boats, the hopping plane rides traveling just over borders (some flights lasting just over 25 mins.  But she always wonders what it would have been like to STUDY there, in any of those countries.  In those streets, at those aromatic spots (the cheeses, warmed breads, wines, other baked finds), in those libraries, the museums.  Kelly hated wishing, as she was one easily annoyed hearing people around her, or even passing, voice their longings, focusing more on what they didn’t have; This probably stemming from him, whose name she could barely stomach in thought, much less herself verbally recount.  Should she just book a flight, use what money she does have?  She could see herSelf skipping down that rectangular hall to the plane’s doorstep.  She’d think about, seriously think about it.

The coffee’s starting to wear off.  Need a mocha.  More of that bitter, excessively audacious black French doesn’t appeal.  Where is my morning mocha, for this manuscript?  Just down the street.  I need it, to feed these travel fantasies.  New on the list, Croatia.  Want to see all beaches, villages, try all wines.  I wouldn’t mind simply staring at those century-old walls in Dubrovnik.  This may even take precedence over Austria.  The travel bug legion about my inner rivers multiplies, diversifies.  The roads, flights, waters…  Much closer.  They have to be.  Wouldn’t mind keeping a travel blog, but a pocket journal pairs better with notions and elements adventurous, spontaneous, expeditious.  Technology would only muddle experiences.  And how romantic is that, dragging a laptop with me on my stomps?

Researching Croatia…  Have to go.  Thinking about the pictures Dad showed me the other night, feeling impatient.  Don’t want to leave life without sipping distant unfamiliar sights.

 

Last Call, Then Another … 1More

Again, I’m taught the indiscriminately short nature of life.  A lifelong family friend just passed.  And of course, I start thinking about mySelf.  Is that wrong?  Shouldn’t I be thinking about him, his family?  Maybe it’s from the actuality of now having a little boy in my days, for whom I’m meant to provide, protect.  Then I start thinking of the blog, and how it does virtually [and I do mean “virtually,” as it’s nothing tangible, material, real; merely on web].  Then the wine industry, and how none of the stress, drama, elevations present in its demonic palms are worth any stress.  From this entry onward, I separate from all anxiety, especially from so much of what’s found in “the industry.” And, come to find, my old friend was an executive chef at a winery, working reportedly 7 days a week sometimes.  I’ll have a hard time being convinced that wasn’t part of my friend’s, Collin’s, concluding equation.

Maybe it’s Human to look at Self when something like this happens, to re-evaluate the element net in one’s days.  Soon as I came back from dropping off Jack & Alice at SFO, I flew to the keyboard.  Not the notebook.  Was that wrong?  Did I waste seconds of my life?  Like my sister said, I can’t second-guess Self.  And, given how temporary all this around me is, I just have to leap, act.  Move on.  Almost 1p, I realize, seeing 12:42pm on the laptop’s clock.  I do want to be outside, doing something.  Might do a little tasting in Russian River, as I earlier meditated.  Or, I could just go to Kenwood, Glen Ellen.  Or Sonoma’s square.  Either way, I just have to live.  And think of nothing but living, in my Art, what’s around me.  I still love wine, don’t confuse.  It’s the industry, even more so now, I’m targeting.  Preparing for collision…

Wanted to upload some past day’s writings, meant for the blog.  But haven’t uploaded the pics from my iphone, yet.  That’s what I’m talking about, with this blog…  I can’t just write.  There need be visuals, tags, categories, titles, URLs.  It’s not Art, I don’t think.  Not Artful like scribbling in a little notepad, while at work in a cubicle, doing so to keep sane, get through a hellish day.  There’s pain in that, the fundamentally elemental dependence of ink, paper piece.  There were no blogs in Capote’s day.  Hemingway’s, Kerouac’s, Shakespeare’s.  Going to break away from all I don’t need, like the Kosta Browne crew.  Maybe I should do a tasting there today, if I can.  Not sure they have a tasting Room.  Or even a place to taste.  I’ll call…  Found a way around my charging Flip Camera, in its USB port, to dock the iphone, retrieve pictures.  See?  How was that sentence valuable, informative, Literary?  If you’re to take anything from lines like that, it’s that I angrily scathe technology.  Social Media.

1:04pm.  Can’t “publish” this “post,” as I’m waiting for these pics to upload.  Enough.  I’m done.  And if people won’t read my material ‘cause I don’t have some florescent still in the session’s boundaries, the wonderful.  I don’t want that class of “reader” reading my work.  And those people, ones in wine’s industry, used to the glossy frames of Wine Spectator, or some other ridiculously conventional page collection meant for a magazine rack.  Done.  Now I need some wine.  Good wine.  Life is short, cursedly brief.  And I’m upset in that truth.

1:24pm.  Still uploading photos.  This is comical, honestly.  Moving on, just called KB, was given some valuable contact information.  I’ll email for an appointment, TASTING, later today.  Still reflecting on my friend’s transition, his mother’s voice over the phone.  I have to have my Art prepared at all times, just in case I go early.  Like 2Pac having several albums lined, I’ll quit with all that stalls my Craft; I’m just going to write.  Even as much as I’m seduced by photography, I’m passing.  Just penning.  That’s how I want to be remembered–  One who loved writing, his family.  Life, Wine.  But above all, his paroxysm for pen.

 

4:44pm.  In office.  Just posted again to bottledaux, then some Bud Break photos to 1Stop.  In a better mood, but still uneven from Collin.  How could that happen?  I feel only fear, now, realizing I need to keep writing.  Keep all Art stretches simple, unique.  Going to upgrade Pandora, finally, now that I have a couple free seconds.  Listening to Wine Bar beats, after my late lunch; the sandwich Alice packed yesterday.  Dinner tonight…  Not sure.  Something I want, crave.  Rosso Pizzeria?  Could be nice, that one new pizza I like.

Went to Russian River, stopped at a new winery.  New for me…  Woodenhead.  Did a Pinot flight, courtesy of the swift tasting Room being behind bar.  Her name, Melody.  “How appropriate,” I thought, with my revived connection with more musical writing, spoken word; reciting to Self on 101’s northness, River Road’s west-centricity.   Anyway, each Burgundy blew me away, and I was notably riveted by the Carignane, 2009 from Mendocino County.  Bought a bottle.  Don’t think I’ll be opening it tonight.  More than likely, I’ll pop one of the Hoot Owl Creek ’07 Cabs I bought yesterday, after tasting them at the AV gala Saturday night.

Typing with peculiar fury, speed.  Maybe I’m resurrected, in some way, by this new winery, its Pinots.  Could be.  Or, it could be this time I have2Self.  Just treated Self to more music.  And I’ll need it, as I plan on a page binge over the next few days.  Which reminds me, this is my last blog post for day.  Need to give more time, attention and Life to writing I can peddle.  Need the money, if you need know.  I want to click on the “Print” button.  Want to get another one of those ipod docks for my car.  Tired of listening to the same songs over, over.  Doesn’t help writing, believe me.  May be in a Pinot mood, after all.  Either way, going to carry Comp Book [of which I’m on the final page], and the new one, downstairs, playing video games while spitting poetic bursts, blurbs, bends & blends onto hopefully-hungry lines.

Yes, off in car, again…

(5/21/12, Monday)

 

2012, My Vintage, refocused into focus

5/11 — Went for photo shoot in Glen Ellen, then backtracked to Kenwood.  Didn’t go this morning, as I’d hoped, when my alarm slithered into my drums at 6:20am.  My alarm did wake me, and I remember thinking, “Okay, I’m awake, I can do this.” But didn’t.  Went back to sleep, and the next I know Alice enters holding Little London.  Haven’t reviewed the photos from today’s drive yet, but will momentarily.  Much coming into focus, with 2012 and these 2 blogs.  1Stop, I’m seeing, will be photography, with minimal copy.  bottledaux, my Literary roots in full unfettered practice.  More photography for tomorrow morning, after I write on 128’s side.  (1:09pm)

Off to visit Grandma.  She very much anticipates Kerouac’s visits.

10:37pm.  Once back, I went for a respectable walk/jog.  Useful thought during my randomly speeded dashes: submit to contests, lit mags, again.  Need to get a new issue of P&W, as I forgot to renew my subscription, and I can’t now since I’m at the end of the checking’s allowance.  On a topic completely separate, I’m furious with those using wine and its world as a light for self.  Some hosting TV shows, or webcasts, podcasts, website-related shows of whatever ridiculously comical shape, for sakes of popularity.  These stench wagons have no clue what wine really entails, and they have not even a microscopic clue as to what wine’s production entails.  They talk about terroir like its fashionable, and use varietals like they collectively constitue a flashily secret tongue.  Pathetic.  Wine deserves more respect.  And, I’ll say again, if you’re such a wine prophet, loving wine so dramatically, know what characteristics, what “nuances” make a master wine, then make your own.  Show us what you have in your trick purse.

 

11:59pm.  Clocking out.  Will give early rise another try tomorrow.  Pleasant eve, and Peace … Had Chardonnay tonight, by the way.  A 2011, if you can believe.  Nice, surprisingly full body, with no ML, and stainless.  Must be the careful care with which the winemaker cared for his fruit, juice.

Before 5

Writing to rain.  Need to go for a drive, one short.  Maybe to the bookstore, bring a notebook in case ideas precipitate as well.  Sipping some berry-flavored sparkling.  Water, that is.  No bubbles for a while, although they sound nice now, paired with some strawberries, dark chocolate…  More wishes.  Cleaned out my work bag, so again the writer’s desk is quite cluttered.  Enough to make me want to go for a walk, or drive.  Still raining, I think…  Yes, after checking out the window.  Again asking Self the question, “Where do these pages go?” As I reasoned earlier, only one place I can afford to put them, in this “blog.” Moving on, my character, Kelly, on thoughts.  More so, I think, as it’s raining.  Stay-inside weather.  For Art.  Craving a little wine…  To late to taste, as most Rooms close at 5p.  Except for Mayo, but I don’t want to bug them again.  Those Zins would be worth it, though.  Especially that ’09 I tasted.  Was surprised by the AC%.  Can’t remember exactly what it was, but it was up there.  Didn’t taste hot, though, which shows winemaking mastery on a number of levels.

At this age, I have to ask mySelf what I really want, with writing, what it delivers, invites.  Too much to get into now, as I’m capping Self at a certain word count, but that’s what’s on my mind.  Seems like that’s all I think about.  No mocha today.  Not that shocked.  More proud of Self than anything else.  “Travel light, as a writer,” just flashed in my inner screen.  No more carrying that obnoxiously corporate-looking bag, the laptop monster.  Just a notebook, phone, earphones, the coffee.  Oh, and pen.  Love the ink, the way scribbles look, especially when ultra-rushed.  Reminds me of brush strokes, color-littered canvases.  Kelly, my confining character.  More pages, for her.  Sooner.

2/7/12, Tuesday