Where did poetry go in my story. No where.

Bring it back.  Needed this.  My regular spot at S&H, wine on the way.  That Albarino….  No way am I finishing that novel this month.  A month extension warranted.  I always have been my favorite professor…..  This place, I could write about it over and over… the people, the umbrellas outside blown one side to the other by today’s sudden bluster.  Fall…. And the wind really wants me to see it.  She puts down water, the waitress, says “It’s not quite wine, but….”

“Aw goddamnit…” I say.

She laughs, I smile.  Back to writing.  So tempted to call class tonight, but I want to speak.  Not entirely please with my talk, this morning, on Sonic but really Narrative, and how narrative brought me to Sonic.  Which is more or less the truth.  It sounded good, to me, when I gave the speech or talk, or part of it in my head.  5:02, plenty of time here.  One poem, my aim before leaving.  First sip of wine, more texture, touch and flesh than I remember.  Keep thinking I’m 40 and how I’m 40, I’M FUCKING FORTY… is this where I should be?  No I’m not in some mood, or funk, or depressed.  Definitely not depressed.  I don’t think.–  AM I?  No… just wanting more.  What I told the director of Consumer Sales at Sonic when he asked what I wanted at the company.  I said, “I want the same thing as everyone else.  More.”

Even after the first sip, I feel more composed, more whole and vocal.  She’s leaving me to think about her while remaining here in the seat.  Thinking next I’ll get a Grenache, if they still have it.  Pretty sure they do.  Didn’t look like the menu changed.  I should finish a book here…. Start one first, then finish it.  OR, stop focusing so much on a fucking book.  Fuck a book.  Write… put it out into the collective people presence as soon as done.  That’s the beauty of a blog, right?  Maybe I’m exaggerating, maybe…

Couple sits next to me.  Were sitting right in front of me, square table, but I think a bigger party’s coming, or already here waiting to be seated.  Always wondered if I could wait tables.  A friend of mine used to work here, and in a more financially-tentacle-wrapped time for me, showed on social media how many tips she tallied one night, easily over $150.  I was tempted.  I did ask her about availability, and she responded with a contact name I believe but it went no where.  Glad I didn’t pursue, or push, but I still wonder what it’d be like.  I partially have a conception from being in the wine world and walking out to tables with pours, flights, to talk to guests tableside.  But it’s not the same thing.  Actually, I know I’d hate it. Especially now.  Fuck, really?  I’m 40.  I think about it, that’s it.  Story ideas.  That’s it.


Flight plan for day.  Be mobile.  Move around.  Go outside the usual print of the day.  Don’t have to start moving for a bit.  Physically moving, that is.  An ’09 Chardonnay last night utterly stunned me, how it was still alive and saying something, wanting itself known and heard, felt.  The post-it on my desk, reading “Circles Paths Questioning” so much in line and tune with last night’s screw-top Alexander Valley Burgundy.  The Chardonnay writes the day’s flight plan, where we’re to land, what our altitude will be.  Today, all music… all song.  Each scene and movement in this tech office is a track.  Walking back from leaving the lunch I brought in the fridge I cringed a bit thinking how today could be just another day, mirroring yesterday or others past.  Then I said no, no, I’m pronouncing my proclamation to have today be all music.

Latte starting to work, grip soul and structure of this day’s story.  Asking me, or making me ask self, “Would I produce a Chardonnay?” Not sure I would.  I’ve thought about it, and in these entries talked about it.  But serious consideration of Chardonnay production…. Not sure.

Was shown something that has me afire.  Now I vary and make more colorful my approach and productivity composition.  Not limiting self to one thing, one path or promise.  But multiple.  A myriad-esque approach to this, what I do as an AAE.  Interesting role, this is.  Putting me more and more in a vineyard in Bordeaux, or more than likely more immediately here in Sonoma or Anderson Valley.  The person showed me  not knowing what was in my head, where I was in the week’s story.  Which makes it all so much valuable more.

Sip latte, wondering if a run will happen today.  Think it will.  Right now still moving a bit slow and only wanting to explore this new idea I have… not writing it here but in the Kerouac journal.  Haven’t done so, yet.  This idea is so consuming and seductive that I may need to take a break, go for a walk and sit in breakroom, or outside in back of building as I did that one day.

Business cards all over desk.  Part of puzzle.  What is success, being successful… far as I can see it’s not stopping, and reaching some peak of total creative and functional autonomy.  Distracted by the idea itself, now.  It’s more than value, more than a monetary potential, but….. not sure what it is.  What species, what phylum, what form or category, sub-category.  It’s present and I hear it.  The IT to it all.

This is not just simple mobility, staying moving.  No. It’s…. why do I have to define it?  Why not just build from it.  I will. For my vineyard, small little wine story.  And yes, I’m thinking now, Chardonnay has to be in the rally.  Today, a Chardonnay, one like last night.  Seemingly past its presence and persuasive power but not at all.  Not thinking, just writing.


Left breakroom.  Too many voices, noises.  Common on Friday, pizza day.  No one’s fault but own if I was seeking to be in any kind of quiet.  Now at desk.  Finishing last piece.  Some combination or blend type but mostly veggie.  All I’ll eat till tonight’s run, then after may eat something light at home.  Marathon coming closer as a co-worker reminds me.  Just a sliver over 23 minutes left in lunch.  Sparking water, now.  Thoughts on what I’ll do for the rest of the day.  Thinking of working on language at the door, for the Reps.  How this company and what it does is spoken.  How YOU, are spoken.  Selling self, and far beyond simple and over-repeated concepts and ideals of “personal branding”.  Personal Legend, the legend you set before, for yourself.

Writing at the desk, my desk, is a more luminary trek that I estimated it’d be.  Leads messaging me from the field, me jealous a bit as they’re in San Francisco, so close to the ocean able to walk to it as I did yesterday on my 30-minute break.  In office today.  Accepted.  I deal with it.  More than “deal” with it but use everything in here for my paragraph roll.  Journal and phone, sparkling water bottle, other journal on computer terminal (one that can elevate, creating a standing working beat), books and magazines under my iPad which I need to put back in safe.  Voices out here as well, me feeling full.

Grabbed a couple pieces of gum from JP’s desk on the other side of my left wall.  Chewing, now feeling more heavy and slow from lunch.  How many pieces did I have?  4?  Fast the rest of the day.  Have ice cubes after run, or some fruit.  Eat light.  Want to be a marathoner as no one else is, and write every day of it.  I’ll admit, much of today I’ve had the “What do you write about?” voice in my goddamn head and I’ve gone back and forth in the singularity, exactly what I say.  Running…  RUNNING.  What I’m now hearing, and then saying back for confirmation’s coherence.

11 minutes.  Day more than half over.  Not much time.  Not as much as I’d like but what can I do.  May go outside for a walk but then realize I don’t have time, so I stay put here in chair.  Have to walk iPad back to back room where safe’s located.  No more of that expanded core feeling.  Recovered.  Coffee next.  Then back here, write ideas, more idea.  No more new word documents on this laptop.  I often talk consolidation but never act in exemplary acts to embody such.  In these last minutes, I forget about it, all.  The time and the worry, the excessive deconstruction and thinking, the back and forth in my head.  Thinking, current foe.  Too much thinking just sets me in toxic roundabout.  Mom messaged me the other day and said all I need for writing material and stories is right in front of me.  In the everyday day-to-day-ness of my day.  I’ve noted the same thought and perspective before.  This is something I’m already sharply aware of.  So why don’t I reflect that awareness.  Hearing Mom’s order and kind but candid instruction turns me in favor, my favor.



Downstairs after dinner and everyone in bed but me.  Long day, whole day in field and all I wanted was this.  Some Jazz, low-lit room, xmas tree providing most of my sight.  Walking up and down hills in SF makes me want there, the houses, I want just one of them… some impressive grander in my head bouncing forth and back and back to my senses which even I now question.  Outside, sky and air remind me of what time of year envelops my Now.

Music on me unexpectedly quits.  No mood to fight, quibble, scuffle.  So I leave it off.  Could turn it back on, with phone, but I’m composed in the composition of this room.  Could use another beer for session.  But I’ll wait a minute.  And the music comes back.  What is this devilish device doing to me?  To my writing.  Ignore it, I tell myself.  At lunch, which I told myself I wouldn’t do, dine out, I was in Harvey’s (think it was called) writing in the corner, before the omelet arrived and walked around Castro taking in everything— lights and cars, shops and the bars with their engaging names, street lights and the evidence of history.  Going back tomorrow, and making it more a point to write in “real time” as some say.  But I hate that utterance and word sequence.  “Real” “time”.  If you have to note that it’s “real”, or remind yourself or a reader or observer that it’s “real”, there’s an obvious incongruence.  To me, anyway.  So.. point, write in immediacy spree.  While people walk by, walking their dogs, as they answer the door to us knocking to tell them about what we’re doing for the community, put all to page.

Down here, in this room, family room while family upstairs swirls and swivels and swims in dream, I’m doing something, I think.  Missed class tonight, and I feel awful, but no choice was mine.  One of the sales leads out so I was the transporter man or whatever, taking team to and from between Noe Valley and Castro.  San Francisco, begging me for conversation the same way that Paris would let go of Hem.  I’m out there as a Field Sale Supervising, most presently and poignantly doing my job, but as well not letting the writing Me away gaze. 

This room, now, just what I need.  Tree luminous, piano notes and keys hit, and now me.  Thinking of how I want to be seen, read, this job I have at a tech company that’s making me more a writer than I ever would have forecasted.  Drive down with reps, talking about certain topics then re-focusing on what we were about to do with this new campaign, me the whole time thinking how with business if everything was this exciting, like in the wine world, businesses would more readily attain what they sought.  The room says more to me, like just enjoy the room, go get a beer and be Hemingway for a night.  Think about your city, SF, and how tomorrow will be definitively different than today.  This room, now, not so much what I need but what’s ME.  What I embody… composition, the page, me here on couch, in assembly.  Time, rather “real”.

Noting everything I learn in the tech scene,

world, language, behavior pattern and way.  I’m one with a little reluctance, but I’m using what I know how to do well, and from there amplify.  Guess that’s my new tone and talk, ‘amplify’, and amplification.  Think it’s safe to say I won’t learn how to code any time soon, nor design sights, install internet.  I speak, I write, I guess I sometimes entertain, I speak (already said that, sorry), and story-tell.  That’s what I do, what I know how to do.  13 minutes left in break and my eyes are still on that coffee drink.  But I’d have to use my debit card.  Don’t want to do that.  Just make yourself another cup of coffee and let it cool off, I say to self.  People play video games off to right, and again I take the energy here much more with a welcome write than how I felt at the winery in final days at Roth.  And I hate to say that and keep mentioning that in these entries because I love wine, I love even the industry, or at least what I knew the industry to be before I was devoured by it.  I swear, if I would’ve stayed…. I don’t want to think about it.  Wouldn’t have been healthy, or beneficial to me, and certainly not the writing.

I’m eager to speak to this new hire, and see what the girl I’m working very closely with to a blessing’s believability, T, says.  Questions, educating, me being educated while I’m more or less educating from the less than 12 full days of life here.  I’m going to teach from what I know.. sales, speaking, not just relating to customers but listening, seeing what they need and providing a certain narrative and depiction of what Sonic is.  Not sure why I call it “office new”, still.  Habit, or just being a funny, quirky, language tussling and fiddling pen bloke.  I don’t know.

Less than five minutes and I just made my coffee so I’m prep’d for the remaining hours in my day, here in tech’s step.  I shouldn’t say that, I think.  This office is much more than just a tech spot, place of business.  I see Sonic as a consumer advocacy group as I said to T a few days ago and earlier today, I think.  I’m learning how to do not just better business but more coherent business.  More creative, more life, more education… I don’t know where to start sometimes when it comes to this new office.  Sonic.. and me, the Lit and writing prof’, put into a new book and new storytelling  assemble and vocal.  Doing wha tI can in the breaths last, make them last, looking around the break room and feeding from everything from the video game sounds to the conversations right I listen to but don’t at all.  New job, new words and walls, chairs and tables, coffee and doors.  Everything a propellent, ascending action and atmosphere from one character to ‘nother.  The observations and written reactions and reflections, MY business.


Opened one of my favorite bottles from Roth, guess I had one more, had no idea.  The ’15 single-vineyard Cabernet, Alexander Valley.  So then of course I think of the wine industry and all the years I spent in it, all the people I met and the wines fro Roth.  Where I am now in my relationship with wine, now in tech, sipping wine just to sip it and occasionally write about it.  The bottle tonight speaking to me in a way it never has.  Tell me to find my freedom, shed any anxiety or suppression, oppression, any muffle or mute.  I’ll have another glass in a minute, but first I’m set on starting this sitting… getting my thoughts in some revolution, some momentum.  Technology, the internet, where I am.  With this bottle and the last glass celebrating my first couple days of this second week.  A wine guy in tech, teaching his last semest—  Different approach.  I need quiet, after today.  First day teaching after a long weekend.  I need stillness, peace, no sound.  Need me, these keys, an early rise if I can but more than likely won’t.  Today though, waking at 06:00 on the dot, after hearing son upstairs walking around, to and from our room, saying how he’s going to get dressed so the writer accepted the challenge and shot from under the sheets, got in the shower and made the day start itself.  I thought of what I’m to do right when I walk through the doors after scanning my badge.  What I’ll say, what I want accomplished, what I want from coworkers, what I want to say to them. This office new has me riled and antagonized in a way the wine industry was definitely unable to do.  So I don’t know if it’s irony or paradox that I’m celebrating with the Roth bottle, but I am.  I’m sipping to sip.  Not overanalyzing, seeing more in how I interact and intersect with wine, what she wants to say to me in this occasion and what I’m to do with the next glass poured when wife goes upstairs, finally.

Sorry.  Just need time to self.  No one around me.  The day took a toll.  Not one terminal, or damaging by any means, but I certainly seek solitude this nuit.  No one around me.  May put on some Coltrane.  Or not.  Maybe just write to the sound of the dryer upstairs.  Breathing, thinking about tomorrow in the office, already ideas quake and bubble like eager thought lava. I calm it.  Mediate and meditate in everything in my reality, 39, now.  What will I think in a few years.  What should I care.  I’m here now.  And I need to put more into this project, this blog, this story, the wine/literary/techie.  I’m a techie?  OR, a literary wine guy in the tech world.  Why do I need a title?  Why do I need anything but a page?  I don’t….  Wie upstairs, finally, time for another glass of the Meola.  She waits, that red, for my reaction and my reasoning in response to her tide and vibe.

Coltrane on.  Couldn’t resist.  As I wrote earlier the bottle shows more aggression than the last time I saw her.  Less restraint, a principle-driven grace to her setting and postmodern dialogue.  I let her sit a while, next to me in the stemless bowl.  I look at the color, more than depth-void, like an opaque rhythm and beat which I only associate with the unknowns in human consistencies. When you don’t know something, you should feel encouragement and intrigues. Push to explore and wander.  That’s what she does, tonight.  She has in past, but the Now contrasts.  With intensity and new rhythm.  Her voice is familiar but with a new bewitching beat.  I’m the one in the corner listening to her sing, wanting to write down some reaction, some emotion from what I see and taste, experience, but she’s away orbited. And I collapse in my speak-lapse.  I can’t write a thing, but only experience and not react or live or to page anything give. What I am is a sheet with only lines unoccupied, ashes, but then in next sip I’m new tint, new chromatic habit, sporadic, a her-fanatic.

Before getting too fustian in my sentences, of her, this wine, I think of the Roth tasting room.  Sitting there at that table, the long polished wood surface either intentionally or by-chance in California’s shape.  Never got an answer on that.  But how I’d show early, on weekends, to write, in the quiet of that room, the tasting room, doing more for me and my writing than the others did, for sure.  I wait for my next sip, think of literature, tech, wine, me, Sonoma County.  Not sure why, but here I am. There I am.  I’m everywhere in this ride of thinking, this paragraph to paragraph jab and meditative lab, here on the floor of my living room with wife and babies upstairs.  I’m closer to 40, when I’m to write a thorough, loud and ostensible self-assessment of where I am in this story, my story.  Where do I want to be?  Well, There.  My, THERE.  I know what that is, but anymore I’m fearful of paginating it. I wont.  I see it. You’ll see it, my There.  Readers all, will.  The wine, she massages the worry and any self-doubt from my cloud, my Now.

One shoe on the wood part of this floor, feet from where I situate. My daughter’s, the left.  I think about the last step she took in that shoe, what she thought while taking it, where I was when she stepped that step.  Don’t think she wore that pari today, so it must have been yesterday.  The Cabernet reminds, time, it doesn’t care.  I have to keep writing, wherever I am and whatever I’m doing, like when in the field the other day and sneaking a couple minutes to write some short poetic impressions.  One foot, literarily, in front of the other.  Situate, meditate, on the words and my Now fixate.  Wth wine’s loving shove.

On lunch, and I’ve been collection ideas all day,

random thoughts and measurements of my Now and where I’m next supposed to go.  Refusing to taste a single wine as to stay more than focused in and on where I am and what I’m doing.  One of the maintenance guys sharing with me the idea that work is corroding his mood and general character, attitude, turning him into a monster as he put it.  I then thought how I will never let that happen to me, especially where I’m going with new writing opportunities.  I remember something an old friend in college told me about you only are treated how you let yourself be treated.  Ate half the sandwich from yesterday, the one the Florida man didn’t eat while here with his wife.  Little more energized and invigorated.  What next… tour and tasting with two people.  Made some cheese plates, need to pour wines, and then more note taking.  Closing in on my There, finally.  Talk myself out of any mood with humor.  The wine industry is abundantly heaping in humor.  Won’t get too into that, but I’m into that.  You know what, I will taste a little when back in the tasting room.  Or, in cave whilst pouring the wines to be paired with the bites I put out on plate.  May stay here a little after everyone’s left, do some writing and planning, jotting of notes and sights of the next scene for me.  Institution attempting to lower me, recently, and I refusing.  I’m going further into these pages.  And there I am, just promising.  Now, to a story…. New piece on a winemaking character like my sister, or the one I wrote a couple weeks ago.  Writing has become more labor’d for me, more straining.  And I can’t figure out if it’s the wine industry, the tasting room, or some other parcel of my day.  But I refuse to not write.  I have to and I will.  Even now, I feel self slowing, asking “What do I write next?…What do I write about?” Hate when I hear myself say that, or worse when I write it.  Back in Paris, I’ll write everything… and here, in the winery’s walls, that tasting room, the same thing.  From what this new manager says to what my hilarious TR comrade says, to what I think about walking into the cave.  A winery day, another.  Then another after.  But soon, a stop to them.  There need be contrast, an away and an immediate.  The only way I can see the world, my story and consistencies— by way of polarity.  Tempter to email that lady, to follow up on potential assignment, again, but I focus on the Now, the moment, right here in this office and the wines I’ll taste through.  Lunch over in 8 minutes, so what I think and so what of the day and anything anyone could say.  I just do what my story’s character need.  People to be here about 30, ideas more, a positive monster me now.  Not promising anything, but conveying the Now, translating and re-translating.

Freewrite, 12/12/17 — 

Posted a couple articles, sipping my 4-shot mocha slow, and over 2 hours and ten minutes left on the timer, 3 hours given to self from self for some time to and for self.  Need this quiet, after the crazed morning with Jack and little Ms. Austen.  In the adjunct cell, “dead week”, but I refuse to be or act like I’m dead.  Mayor Ed Lee, dying of a heart attack I heard in a Safeway.  Just reminded me… you never know.  So while the writer’s here, I’m going to be here.  I’m going to be fully present, fuller than fully.

Mocha getting cold, but I’m increasing in overall climate.  Ready to meet with students… need remove my legal pad, take some notes, review notes in these other little notebooks I’ve accrued…. Work on writings I intend to sell.  And I do intend to sell, soon, get ahead with my finances and investments.  Want to be both teacher and business bloke, investor, maybe even VC but that I think could be too risky.  I know… one step at a time.  Met some people in the tasting room the other day that talked about wine they poured at their investor club meeting.  Thought of asking them to elaborate but then saw I didn’t need to.  I can understand it for myself and make it my own.  Be my own club.. invest securely, not too safely… but security’s my prime pillar.

Ideas for notes so I put them in the little collection I’ve been chipping away at, sort of, for the past few months.  Still over two hours… thinking of going for a walk, getting another coffee, but the cold has me in here.  I need stay in the chair like I tell students.  If I stay, I later get to play— with my wined notes or other crazy creative courses I choose to do.  This morning rewards me for my patience and diligence with the little beats.  Writing more freely than I ever have.  Not worried about coherence or any other of the principles I promote in class.  This could be an article, my third of the morning, or it could just be a freeing write, something much more than an article— more storm and story, thunder and bluster, value.

Jazz in my ears.  Need a break… study… read something.  Study my past masters.. Kerouac and his thesis of enjoying your life, every minute of it— all minutes.  The seconds… when they pass they pass, they’re gone and they don’t care how I’m impacted.  What I’m teaching is not teaching but a sharing of realizations as I have them.  I’m realizing that I only have so much time and I don’t know when it’s up.  So why not be crazy… why not be wild… why not be FREE?  I’m not even asking ‘why not’ seriously.  I’m just doing it— Went out to get a pen from office supplies, department’s, in the mailroom, or copyroom… what do they call that room?

inward jot – 12/6/17

This morning I keep thinking of what Kerouac said, about one day finding the right words and that they’d be simple.  And yesterday working with students on final paper directions and thesis statements, what they wanted to say with the final written work…. Do what you want.  Whatever’s in your head, be it a nay or a yelling yay, follow your own onus.  I asked them, “What do you want to say?” One said, “Plath is inspired by her own depression.” I smiled, ricocheted back, “Then say that.” But, going outside the classroom, and into our everyday-everyday, we have to take note of what we have in front of us, and that’s just the day, the moment we’re in.  And that moment is where we need be wild in our own onus.  Be wild, creative… too often with formal instruction I feel we’re focused on the instillment and inoculation of formalism and formality, profuse pattern and not enough endorsement of instinct investment.  Not saying any one way to teach is wrong… in fact I’m not even addressing teaching with this jot.  I’m citing life.  YOUR life.  The student’s life.  LIFE.  Keep all simple, singular… that simplicity, singularity?  Do. What. YOU. Want.

I know it’s been repeated with galactic exhaustiveness, I know.  I’m merely sharing what’s in my meditative climate this morning.  I don’t need positive reinforcement, or any remedy for negative quakes.  All I need is self-trust in that what I’m doing is the right thing.  And that is an idea I share with my “students”—  Before coming to me, have a talk with yourself, and try knowing that what your first impulse was could very well be the right direction.

This morning, tell yourself that you’re doing something right— No, something amazing.  Whatever you do… teaching, baking cakes, selling wine, cleaning hotel rooms, customer service, staying home and being a mom or dad…. What you’re doing is resplendent.  And people notice.  Keep your steps in creative containment.  Keep your strides simple… ‘cause in that apparent simplicity there is voluminous expansiveness.  You already have the right words, I’m telling myself this morning.  They may be simple, and they may not be.  Trying to keep them simple, but I’ve never been too excelled in that right.  Trying, though…. trying.  Trusting myself, more than I ever have.  Not looking for new directions, or some new approach.  What I’m doing is more than merely ‘fine’, and yes at times there may be warranted amendment, adjustment, slight fix, but for now I’m just sauntering at the line dividing my 12.

I think of other quotes I’ve used over my teaching years, like the virtual shake-me-by-the-shoulders of Malcom X— “If you have no critics, you’ll likely have no success.” No more fear.  Not at my age.  None of us should fear any of our impulses, or anyone’s reaction.  If they’re wrong, find out, learn, prove to yourself they’re “wrong”.  And even if they are, or one is, you learn from it, so tally it a success and not a sink.

Love morrows like this, and only wanted to dived and distribute my sentiments.  Apologies if it annoyed, or interrupted.  And if it did, then I learn.  The lesson is simple, but successful and multitudinous in gem.  We have our lives, stories, and always ought be in the anti-formalist student-seat.


Kitchen and coffee, dropping off Emma before Jack, which I thought would be brilliant but wound up making Jack late and had to go to office and get some pass to return to class as attendance had already been submitted… but I don’t let it slow me, on Friday’s eve, which means nothing to a writer who writes and notes and does something IMG_1480everyday.  Next cup of coffee, after drinking what I made last night from container, or thermos, or tumbler… what I normally drink coffee from.  Giving self an hour to write before hopping in shower and rushing to campus to rush through grading and get whatever I need done, done.  I’m more than merely motivated… I feel a galactic shove or urgency all about me.  Meditation in this kitchen, composition, but more a lightening bolt of boldness to what I want to do… get to my office, wherever it is.  Healdsburg, here in Santa Rosa.. wherever.  Auditing my notes, all writings, and using all, marketing all, selling all… while offering all for free.  And how can that be?  You’ll see, trust me.  Not ready to leave chair and walk the three or so feet to get coffee.  I don’t want to stop writing, ever feel that?  And if you don’t write then the inclination to stay in the chair, or just ‘put’?  That’s what’s me right now, in this immediacy, this containment of my creative character— nothing to do with wine, or at least at the moment but I think about all the sounds and activity around he winery now, after the fires and everyone’s wine country stories of the fires and how they interacted and intersected with whatever blaze was IMG_1259closest to them.  Keep saying I don’t want to talk about it, but I do and don’t.. odd contradiction but how the writer feels this morning, after rushing out the door to two learning places and back here.  Thought about getting coffee at the Hopper Starbucks, which just re-opened, but then decided to just come back here and have hot remedy, free.  Je souris.  (I’m smiling.). This morning tells me to listen to the music, now Miles Davis sharing his “Blue In Green” number with me.  Today, today… nearing end of month, but I don’t care.  Time is irrelevantly romantic, romance in its irrelevance… each moment is its own piece.  Photos of grapes and the winery, my son and his friend standing under a tree in Kenwood… life passing fast but I try like hell to outrun and out-stride it… notes and blazing paragraphs in my modular whim.  I just do what I do, write the moment.. beginning day, with just over 47 minutes to self, here at kitchen counter… what am I learning?  I don’t have two hours to write as I’d like, or even a full hour.  But I have what I have and that’s what I’ll use.  These pictures I shot help, more than “help”… they define my morning definition this morning, like Kerouac with his scroll I have not a single droplet of interest in stopping.  Now I walk to get the coffee…. Hot enough.  Hunger felt, but I make self refrain from consuming any food, at least for now.


Jazz with me, morning with me, wine with me even though I don’t it now sip.  Actually, especially since I don’t now it glass-tilt.  The grapes on the vines, just showing who they are— no makeup, no guise, disguise, falsity.  Just visual candor.  The vineyards.  Me, always there, always.  Write my life from a vineyard, just stay out there and look at leaves, hear the air and the notes it wants to share and how ever long its pieces, numbers, like this Cannonball Adderley track, “Autumn Leaves”, all I looked at yesterday on my lunch walk, the leaves and the colors and how they want to tell me what to now do, how to see the county and that Petit Verdot block overlooking that valley to the north (I think) of Roth Estate. The air in the blocks, now, in Autumn, is all jazz.  Each slight or significant gust is a varying short and sequence of notes, teaching me a wine writer to let go, be free, be wild, be YOU.  Of course, I said back to it yesterday, making reluctance progression back to the tasting room.  Wine for me is nothing to do with wine—  But, out there, in the rows, the cordons, the vines, the rocks around the roots.. the sounds made by a writer stepping, peering in with his camera like a paparazzo more than hungry for ‘that shot’.  I run through more of my vineyard shots, some I’ve already posted and shared with the world but I don’t care.  I “revisit” them for my purposes, to get closer to the music out there, the sounds, sensibilities of the visuals… memories of old wineries, some enjoyable experiences while the others are nothing fleeting of loathsome, horrid.  They all teach, they all had their stories, now part of my story, a wild and wandering wine freewriter— huh.  Thought of something.  But I don’t know if the ‘something’ is a marketable something.  Do I need it to be salable right away?  Maybe.  Or not.  Who knows.  Have more coffee.  I bring the quaint cannikin to my journalistic lips, encouraging more expressive blips—  What I say int he tasting room, how I present wines, everything from the Pinot Gris to the single-vineyard Cabernet that I could never get enough of even if I swore off wine entirely (and even if I did I would write about how much I miss her, and I do, even now…), new languages and poetries, performances for and on and in and all around a writer’s kinesthesia.  Le vin ne me laisse pas arrêter de penser à elle.  (Wine won’t let me stop thinking about her.). Et je ne veux pas.  (And I don’t want to.). She is my topic, my literary love, ever.  My time, my place, my work, my non-work, my play, my passion.. tell and rile, world, storm, Reflective Equilibrium—  In the vineyard standing in front of a vine, not sure of variety but I don’t care, I just recite to her, and she listens, or I have myself convinced she does.  Best reading I’ve ever offered.