Tag: Journalism

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Topped

A day of encompassing poetry.  No prose, as promised.  Only now can I let Self swim in sentence.  Back to work, come morrow, in Alexander Valley.  I was told we may visit some gifted library bottles, from another winery.  But we’ll see, and I’m entirely excited even at the prospect of palate contact with the bottle questioned.  Rain may be returning later in eve, which would be wonderful for finishing the spoken word song I started writing this morning; Think I only have 12 lines to go.  Wrote the chorus this afternoon.  Not posting this to blog.  It’s music, song.  Want it to be real writing, on a page, like wine in its bottle.  Tangible, not virtual.  May write more in bed, start a new poem project.  All day, had rhymes, meter floating in my vision.  Dominated by musical writing, words.  Not my day–it belonged to poetry.  I was steered by meter, verse.  Felt sensational, to be dominated by song, my songs, a song I’m writing.

Highlight of the day had to be when little Kerouac woke this morning.  Never seen him laugh and smile with such frequency, force.  Would have finished my song if I hadn’t heard him cooing, sounding for his father.  Little Jack controls all aspects of this author.  Thinking that when I do finally get whoso cellars airborne, I want to name a project after him, one I do year to year.  And speaking of winemaking dreams, realities: Mom, during her visit with grandma today (a Kerouac visit), told me that Professor Katie said to tell me to be patient with our project.  All we can do right now is wait, which is precisely the struggle with this instantaneous writer, when it comes to a winemaking life.  Wait?  How do I do that?  I want to taste, especially now that ML is done.

Tonight’s nightcap, completely rare for me.  A Snickers and a chilled glass of milk.  No wine tonight.  First, no bottles were open, wasn’t in the mood to pop anything from the small salvo I have.  And, I wasn’t of mood nor mind for wine.  And when I say “wine,” I mean beer as well.  I plan to be up late, even though I’m due at AV Winery’s estate in a morrow’s morrow.  Want to get a couple more standalone’s written.  They’ll be shorter, obviously, than the one I began this morning, which brings 3 verses and a short chorus.  Want to read to crowds.  Want to perform, sings, interact; hear cheers, screams.  Artistry, life for me…

About to read through the current issue of Rolling Stone.  Springsteen on cover.  Rockstar poet, me.  A wanna-be, I see.  But one day.  Want arenas overflowing…  Think I hear rain, drops in the drain, or gutter on the wall’s other side.  Approaching word limit.  Just fantasizing tonight.  Tour dates.  Onlookers singing along.  Soundchecks.  Wine in my hotel Room, writing in a rime log.  Much of such verse won’t be on any ridiculous blog.  Too artful for wine’s road.

[3/30/12, Friday]

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inoculated into

1:06am.  Still awake, writing.  Going for 2am.  Well, I’m justing letting anyone actually reading that I COULD write for another hour.  But, more than likely won’t.  And I shouldn’t, really.  Need to save some fluidity for the before-work-writing.  At the side of a coffee cup.  Made an ATM withdrawal today, put some into writing stash.  Wonder how much is in there, although it doesn’t really make a difference as I don’t plan on touching it anyway; not spending any money to have my art noticed; one reason I’m not funding/going forward with the chapbook, putting more blood into this “blog.”

Already nearing 1000 words.  How is that possible?  But, more crucially, 3 pieces.  For recital, reading, performance.  Can I perform prose?  If I want to.  If you’d listen.  Would you?  Could use another glass of that ’09 Cuvée I was sipping earlier.  It’d wake me up.  Or least tilt my mental, usefully, dutifully.  Sleep sounding tasty.

Hope I dream to Paris.  Or Belize, or somewhere else I’ve never.  I’ll let you know when back consciousness’ corner.

9:29am.  Wishing I would have tried for 2am.  Could that be qualified as “surrender?” Not letting my Self think that way.  Rocking little Jack’s bassinet with my right foot while typing.  Makes for an odd rhythm [finally spelled “rhythm” right for once on 1st try, there.]  In tasting Room in just over an hour, and I couldn’t be more ready to write absolutely every detail that greets me.  Notes, only.  Going to make an angry effort to avoid sentences.  Time, more than simply “precious” with my life’s current stage set.  Mr. Little Kerouac requires a daunting portion of my hours, so it’s difficult to write in extended sittings.  Which is fine, as I wanted to write shorter, more stream-of-consciousness adhering pieces anyway.  The standalone’s, saving me, getting me closer to the road.  Speaking of Kerouac and roads, travels, writings, intellectualism, poetry, much else, I’m going to bring Kerouac’s novel with me to work.  Not sure I’ll read any, have a chance to, but I’m making mySelf bring it.  Viewing the act of carrying it to the winery a victory.  Many warned that a child would disrupt my writing habits.  Constrict, cripple, confine them.  Not at all, trust me.  I’m more focused, strategic, confident with my pages.  I’m fine with not completing a novel anytime sure, with this poet/songwriter-like approach to my work; writing in the moment, riding the consciousness river, wherever it leads.  The not-knowing’s the boon for the material.  (9:45am)

6:02pm.  Back home from tasting Room.  Thick crowds, all ready for wine to keep them warm in rain’s return.  Outside, an swarm of police officers, helicopter combing skies overhead.  Makes me think of another genre.  But, don’t have time, now.  Maybe later, when I can afford the time.  Just called SRPD, they told me someone thieved a car, ran from squad cars.  Weak plot, can’t write that.  Want to write a murder mystery, something Basic Instinct-reminiscent.  Rain, still in swing.  So I write with little Kerouac being rocked in his little bed by my right foot again.

Tonight’s wine, the remainder of the ’09 Cuvée from last night.  And more spoken word.  More song, rhyme, cubist writing.  Should do something with the notes I took today in the wine Room, all the dialogue lines from guests, and a couple from mySelf–on I voiced about Cabernet Franc being the crotchety old man of Bordeaux varietals.  No profound, certainly.  But memorable, for me.  Time to revisit that ’09 cuvée.  Sips needed.

My days extended, in ways so blended; see strays ascended.

Precipitation in my station. [3/24/12]

3/26/12 – No typing on 3/25.  But, I did write yesterday, on the side of Chalk Hill Road, before AV shift.  Finally.  Had always wanted to do so, and in the painting-perfect AVA.  Wrote two short standalone’s in my car.  Will I post them here?  No plans, now.  And I hate that word, “post.” So digital, inartistic.  Looking in my phone, at all the pictures, makes me feel behind on writing, like I need to write following the captured stills.  And in the “blogosphere,” posts that don’t have at least 1 visual aid receive criticism quicker than entries bringing solely text.  But that’s not Literary, picture-depended writing, of any kind.  I don’t write for the photographs.  In fact, I want to reduce the presence to pictures in this “blog.”  I want more writing here, from me.  And there will be.  And if anyone thinks there’s too much, then stop reading.  I won’t be bothered, believe me.

Already over 500 words this morning, after writing a rec letter for one of my favorite students, Sarah H.  She, along with the Stanford Law student from Saturday, atop several other moments recently, have me redirecting towards the classRoom, studies, the Ph.D. notions.  Was thinking this morning, I really only want the doctorate for mySelf.  Not for “professional development,” really.  I don’t need it to teach.  Well, I do if I want to be at the University level.  But it doesn’t matter, all this entertainment, deconstruction.  I want to be a student again–reading, taking notes, studying.  Investigating a couple programs, including Stanford’s.  I know what you’re thinking, skeptic, “Mike, it’s very competitive, and very expensive.” Thank you, I know.  But that won’t stop me from thinking, applying, envisioning.  And who’s to say I won’t get in?  My writing, if anything, will get me in.  Revisiting all these ideas, the books on my desk, remembering my days at CSUEB (grad school), makes certain things seem so minor.  Notably, the wine industry’s inconsistencies, contradictions, laughable self-elevation.  Ending there.  Not worth characters on page.

In writing my letter for Sarah, I thought about all the interactions I had with her class, especially with 1984, Orwell’s message, predictions.  Want to return to that world.  That’s my true world–thought, writing, ideas exchange, nothing technology-centered.  Nothing chemically-woven, bottled.  All free.  This is me.

11:40am.  Wildly caffeinated, writing like the castle crumbles, listening to Amaru, struggling to emulate his pace, ethic.  Heard wind sneaking through a non-visible opening in the window’s encasing.  Want some air, atmosphere, characters.  Need to find my Lewis Carroll texts, for the writing sample.  Don’t want to rewrite my M.A. thesis.  Going to produce a new argument, but parallel to what I submitted before graduation.  Tired, probably from the wines tasted last night.  Mom made these delicatessen sliders, brought over an ’08 Syrah (can’t remember winery, but the AVA was Paso Robles) with Dad.  I brought some wines home for tasting, from Lancaster of course.  09 Merlot, 09 Pinot, 08 Blend, and an 08 Estate Cab.  Oh, and that 2010 S-Blanc.  This caffeine’s curing, partially.  Tonight, no grapes.

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Projects Re-Racked

12:10am.  Finally got around to buying “On the Road” by the actual Kerouac.  It’s right next to me, atop the comforter, next to the Comp Book, but I doubt I’ll skim even a single sliver of his ms.  Far too tired.  Posted some poetry tonight to bottledaux, then wrote a little more.  And only a little.  Now that I’m in the next day, March’s 24th, I’m aiming to gain premature launch.  Pouring tomorrow at St. Francis.  No barrel tasting weekend, but I’m sure I’ll have a share of characters.  Still thinking about my 2nd tour yesterday at Lancaster, that lady’s remarks on the wines tasted.  If anything, it’s a testament not only to the terroir in that corner of AV, but as well the winemaker’s handle of it.  His confidence with what’s before him, with what he has to perform.  So then, in all these wined whirlwinds, I think of the writing, my writing, my projects, these paginated vintages.  Stop wishing for what’s not on your in your toolset, and create with what’s now there.  Makes sense.  How else would Kelly have become so successful, so quickly?

Should probably put on some Wine Beats, low-volumed…  Much better.  Can barely hear the current track, but my typing responds to what’s audible.  Rain expected tomorrow.  Hopefully I’ll be sent home early.  Only I won’t go straight to base.  I’ll spend a couple hours at 12 & Mission, building material.  For the blog, yes, but also for me.  Only problem I see with this “blog,” is the ‘out of sight, out of mind’ element.  Not like I can tangibly turn pages to reference past thoughts.  I have access to the site; scroll, click, what have with what’s digitized.  Even if I simply jump into the word doc here on the little monster laptop, no page turning.  This stops tomorrow–I mean, today.  Going to print all entries, like Updike did his 3 daily pages.  And I’m not just saying I’m going to do this, I will. I have to.  Less virtual, more actual, appreciable.

Before reading this novel, I think of my road trips, those approaching.  Can’t wait to have crowds waiting for me, taking their questions at conferences, sipping that wine and writing in my hotel Room.  Sure, I’d probably be invited to some fete, somewhere, to discuss art, music, writing, wine, like those scenes in Capote where he’d be talking about his current project, or telling jokes.  But I’d stay in, as I couldn’t stomach wasting opportunity to capitalize Creatively on quiet.  Building my mss.  Just as Mr. Shakur locked himself in the studio after his release from prison, I’ll always use my liberties optimally, wisely, in sequestered Literary.  Imagine what travel diaries would do for me…

Rain, are you coming?  Kelly would be doing just what I am now.  Working.  Is she awake, though?  She may be asleep, as her projects have been moving her incredibly often.  I’ll admit, I’m a little adumbral in my notice of her fame.  But I can’t help but be smile with my character, right?  Topic next: Sleep, this book assignment; me, my responses as I read; tomorrow’s wines, my notes, new characters.  Prostrate in thought.  Clocking out, hoping for more pages to print.  Morning coffee’ll help.  Thanks, Cabernet.

(3/24/12, Sat)

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Trois Track — PennedPinot

Only Sonoma Coast/Sonoma County could, can, produce a Pinot with this type of  delightful disruption.  Imagining mySelf again in that hotel Room, looking over unfamiliar streets, an overnight for my writing.  Would it be a novel, the one I finally write about her?  Maybe.  Either way, wines like this send me places, to conscious dreams.  Intentional cognitive removal.  This state, incomparable.  Vintage, ’09.  Producer, what does it matter?  I want to get away, quite far, from labels in this moment.  Just want to write, sip, imagine travel.  Today, no rain.  The vineyards, probably used to steady stream, after last week.  Wonder if they’re perturbed by delay, like a writer frustrated with Self for propulsion drought.  All I ever have to recall, suddenly summon–her, my character.  I know, I vowed not to address her too much.  Just know, reader, she’s in sights, with me in sip, scribble.

My sister’s and my wine, still in barrel.  Need an update, as my patience, ever typical of Artist, barely straightly stands.  Another sip of this ’09, advised I should call winemaker Sis, and if she’s overcome with her projects present, take it upon Self.  But I don’t know what that means.  I can’t just march into St. Francis’ production facility and start thieving whichever barrel I believe to be mine.  Ours, rather.  Sorry.  Yes, I have no idea where it was moved.  And I certainly can’t thieve other barrels for topping purposes.  I need my professor sibling.  This, yet another needle with winemaking path for me.  Writing, I just sit, a session starts.  With wine, I need all that I don’t but do only through Katie have.  I’m dependent.  Not detrimentally, or defamatorily, but that is my affairs’ state with making wine.  But I’m not stopping.  I’ll express Self through terroir as I do through inked touches.

Speaking of Sonoma County, terroir, wine, I couldn’t help but stand outside my car before I left work, just snapping stills of what surrounded.  Thought about writing where I stood, but I had to get home, had to write, had to put something in the Comp Book.  Time, now, 9:23p.  Have to get to the spoken word tonight.  Don’t tell anyone, but I wrote a little at my desk today.  Had an interesting conversation with Drew today, after packing a few shipments, about different shipping laws in difference states, tax compliance, and how the size of a winery can influence allocations as it pertains to states’ laws.  Good to know, I thought, especially if I get whoso cellars off the ground.  No…WHEN I do so, have my own label.  Well, I do have the label, the philosophy, but what I intend to convey is ‘when I have my winery aerial’d.  Pinot, almost out of pulse.  Still letting my mind away fly.  What else can I do, being the varietal of writer I sit, stir.  Running out of time, words.  Another sip incurred.  Ink, blurred.  Another Sonoma Pinot.  Her, me. Breathe slow.  Settled, mettled.

(3/21/12, Wednesday)

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extended wine couplet

3/17/12 – 9:46am.  Barrel tasting, Sonoma Valley.  For sure this time.  Feeling tired from the wine I had last night.  Mom brought over some incredible Chicken Cacciatore-esque dish over.  [See?  I said “over” twice…  Too much bedazzling Sonoma County wine.]  Paired well with the Pinot they brought, but even better with the 2010 Sonoma County Chardonnay.

Glad the rain’s gone.  Wasn’t at all enjoyable driving to the offsite pouring in Fountaingrove with the drops screeching down on my windshield, vengefully.  Can’t remember the last time I saw it rain that hard.  Was nice pouring for those guests, though.  From all over the country.  Kansas, North Carolina, just up the freeway in Sacramento, Alaska, New Mexico…  And again, that’s what wine’s supposed to do, bring unfamiliar characters to the same stage.  Didn’t have time to write at the hotel, but I did scribble quite a bit of valuable notes into the mini-pages while at St. Francis.  Have  a new article for 1Stop, that I wrote between pours.  Speaking of which…  Think I have another new idea.  Need to write it down before I forget, before this slight hangover disrupts my attention’s reach, further.

Looking forward to the crowds today, and I will have my video camera on me, for capturing glass tilts, conversations, my co-workers in their roles.

11:14pm.  Now, just thinking about the day, the wines, the characters.  Kelly, consistently on thought.  Why don’t I just write her a novel?  My Creative attention span, maybe.  Can I change it?  Tonight’s Chardonnay, leftover from last night, calms me.  No hangover tomorrow, I’m sure, as I’ve stopped responsibly, enjoying the transference from early sips, the Burgundy brilliance.  Me, finally free.

3/18/12.  9:54am.  More barrel tasting frenzying.  Writing rushed.  Don’t like this time squeeze, but then I do, very much.  Last night’s Chardonnay, produced by Prof. Katie, has me, the writer, thinking of an article on Chards; what the styles are, those trending, pairing potentials.  Think that’s the first Chardonnay I’ve sipped here at home, and for night’s cap, in well over a year.

May buy another Comp Book, make a project out of it.  Just notes, scattered paragraphs, whatever the ink paints.  I have too much reliance on this little monster, my flashy, “pretty” laptop.  No one would need to borrow it, ever, no one could hack into it [speaking of the new Comp Book, if I lost you], it would be REAL writing, not a preponderance of types.  That’s what real writing is–PEN, PAPER, INK.  Just as graphic design is not real drawing, or painting, at least in my mind.  What if your computer crashed, then what would you do?  I know, back everything up on a stick or whatever, or an external hard-drive [is that hyphenated?].  But what if that fails at the same time, or shortly after?  What if you lose you memory card, or stick, or chip [have no idea what people use, think I may have one somewhere here in the desk’s innards].  Either way, I’ll stop by the drug store just a block from base, snag one on the way home.

Tried finding my memory piece, but can’t.  And I don’t want to throw away time on a frivolous excavation.  But do you see what I mean, about technological dependence as a writer?  Now I’m completely frazzled, with concentration severed…  Dug one more time into the overwhelming clutter of one of my cupboards,.  Found it.  Going to “back up” [right phrasing?] my writings.  I’ll be typing later, after the barreled stage.  Wonder what Kaz is pouring.  The Lenoir?  That ’07 Syrah?  Or will he break out the Tempranillos with the contrasting yeasts?  Excited to be surprised.  Still love his wines, his approach to winemaking, his views on wine life.  Profoundly and universally Artistic.

Sun, struggling to get through clouds, through the blinds in front of me.  Had a thought, but lost it.  About wine…  Kaz…  Tempranillo…  Can’t remember, have to move on, type on.

Now I remember.  No wine tonight.  Although it massages me into a spirit freer, it also excellerates my relaxation, intentionally or inadvertently blending it with the purest form of laziness and exhaustion I know.  I don’t take back the Chardonnay sips last night.  But, if I would have ahad one of my sparkling waters, or a Diet Cherry Coke instead, I wouldn’t be so behind on my writings.  Haven’t updated my word log in days.  Shame.  I criticize the box for all its ridiculous policies and Stalinist statutes, but They made sure our logs were done each day, no fail.  I’m further shamed typing “no writing logged” for a span of 3 days when I know I wrote.  Maybe that’ll be an effective motivating mechanism.

7:08pm.  Back from winery, tasting a few barrels.  Loved the wines, as did everybody else.  My Kaz crew and I even engaged in a little blind beer tasting, which was my first if you can believe.  Kazzy had a couple wines so new that even I had never even heard of them.  One of them being the 2011 Pinot/Sauv Blanc Rosé, which was amazing, like nothing I’d ever before sampled–EVER, anywhere.  Was hard to get past the intense cold, only made more fierce by the indignant wind’s chill.

Luke and I kept pouring, with me shooting footage, taking pictures, and tasting what he recommended.  One urgency he had was to blend the ’07 Syrah with the ’09 Petite Sirah.  Hypnotic, naughtily, and it’s wonderfully entertaining to play with the percentages.  Was in more of a Literary mode today that a journalistic one.  Met new friends from the Wine Truffle Boutique, and saw one of my favorite Sonoma Valley chefs, Mr. Steve Rose, owner of Vineyards Inn, just down the street.  I mentioned how much I love his calamari, and sure enough he only a few minutes later brought some by for us all to enjoy.  Never get tired of it.  Before the barrel event began, he had some paella prepared with some sauteed garlic clove internally-garnished bread, pairing magically with the ’06 Red Said Fred.

The wind kept with its vision of chilling us all to our skeletons, so Kaz called us all inside the tasting Room, where we poured the featured wines of the day plus others we usually put into guest glasses.  I spoke to a few guests about their favorites.  No surprise, all over board.  No consensus.  It was as though each of Kazzy’s wines had their own loyal militias, I remember thinking behind the bar, only minutes from 5p.  Then, thoughts of the writing, of my character, this new Comp Book, my wine in tis barrel, invaded my concentration.  What do I do with her in pages?  She’ll tell me, when she’s ready.

A tasting Room, of my own.  Thinking now only 2 varietals.  Sauv B and Cab.  Don’t know if I’m connected enough to Syrah to produce one.  In fact, many times I find Syrah an aggravating varietal.  Too loud, too wide on palate’s mid, and just too attention-seeking; Not much seduction, most of the time; little finesse, swagger.  Thinking the money I set aside for Self-publishing the chapbook may be put towards a purchase of fruit.  Is that what I should do?  Wine, controlling all my thoughts, all my writing.  I’m obsessed.  I don’t want to be an “expert,” as the learning’s intoxicating in a way the wine could never be.  I want to remain an invigorated novice, always on a mission to decode my adored bottles.  Right now, day’s end, sipping Racer 5.  “Wined out,” as some tourists’ll tell me.  Maybe tomorrow I’ll pop something, give mySelf a set of tasting equations to solve.  Like that ’09 Petite Sirah today.  From nose to its formulated formation of a finish, I’m a newly and freshly-motivated Me, like after reading a Joyce novel, or a Plath poem collection.  Tonight, in bed, going to write till I pass out.  Tomorrow, a day off.  So I’m in no rush to fall into sleep.  A joke, a waste, this whole sleep concept.  It’s a hole.  A close relative of death.  So why would I rush to it when I can write?  I’m thinking all pen2paper when with the pillows, sheets.  Clocking out, returning for a push to 3 pieces, 3000 words.  Nothing else more I want that to write.  Well, Mr. Jack’s well-being, total merriment tops any of my aims, facilely.

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Journal — 3/16/12, Saturday

A day of wine journalism ahead of me, with this new “storm,” landing in SoCo’s borders.  My day’s destination, St. Francis Winery.  At about 5pm, or a couple minutes prior, I’l be packing up for the Fountaingrove Inn, where I’ll be conducting my first offsite pouring for SFW.  Not sure which bottles are scheduled to be poured, but it really doesn’t hold that much impact, this case’s unknowns, as I’m more than familiar with everything they produce.  That, and their wines truly sell themselves.  The House of Big Reds, as its called, has a following so loyal, and a reputation so entrenched in the wine world and industry, that I’ll literally just be pouring.  And if I do talk, it’ll be nothing more than expected introductions, basic fundamentals on the wines.

Yesterday, hosted another tour at Lancaster, then to WineBizRadio for my appearance.  Always fun, and quite informative, spending time with those gentlemen.  One note still in my head from yesterday: the two verticals I poured on the tour.  Well, mini-verts.  ’07 and ’08 for both Cuvée and Estate Cabernet.  With the Cuvée, I prefer the ’07, with its 15% Merlot content, whereas with the Estate Cab I turn head to ’08, with its darker characteristics and endless echo of a finish.  So, this made me think about vintage variation, and how consumers (myself very much included) will speak in convenient generalities when it comes certain years, and then specific varietals in those years.  2007 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon, evidenced.  There’s no Napa Cab from ’07 that’s anything less than biblical, right?  No.  Each bottle, yesterday’s tasting reinforced, is its own presence.  Then, you have the discriminating palate, which we all have, atop that.  So, it’s entirely irrational for one to say they’ll always take one year over another in all circumstances.  The group for which I yesterday poured, pretty much split down the middle, when it came to which Cuvée and Cab were their preferred’s.

Can still taste those wines Christophe brought last night, to the show.  Something from Argentina with an encouraging nose but a decrepit palate presence, then an ’05 white, I think a Sémillon.  The latter bottle, like dusty formaldehyde.  Too old.  And I do remember a little discoloration.  He brought it in simply for educational purposes, and a bit of targeted humor, but it was an experience, all same.  Now, I’m cuing my equipment, charing my devices for the rainy day of wine pouring and blogging, JOURNALISM, ahead.  Wrote some article topics into the Comp Book yesterday at work.  Need to put them on a list as not be removed from sight, especially mind.  Each idea forgotten or wasted, is just that.  Which means, no pay.  Back to prep…  (8:50am)

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3/14/12, mikeslognoblog

Thursday.  Not sure I can get the day’s thousand in 50 minutes.  And I’m not even sure it’s important that I do.  Is that Literary, writing to write, to touch a word count?  No.  But if I want it to be, maybe.  Started writing a Kelly short this morning, before carriaging through devoted downpour to AV.  Only typed 50-60 words, but still, note that I was Creative before the expansive 8 of NO creativity.  Didn’t even have ample time to scribble in the Comp Book.  Not even the hurried verse sliver, rime.

 

Time, 11:14pm.  Have my nightcap to right, one of the sparkling orange waters.  Really haven’t been hankered for wine, lately.  Sipped a little ’10 SB before coming home, the long way through Alexander Valley’s aorta because of a downed power line on Chalk Hill Road South.  But that’s it.  Didn’t open that ’09 Merlot like I saw mySelf doing.  Could be the day’s exhaustion, and the interactions with little Kerouac I’d rather be having than lifting a glass, sipping something that would impede this very wind-down.  Looking over at my desk, still ruin.  How is that?  Just reorganized/rebuilt it surface, tried.  How is it that time continues to shovel clutter atop my stage atop all else it robs me of.  Just have to keep telling Self, “These short pieces, the surging heedfulness on paper, the verse, the spoken word–all the weaponry you need against the clock’s greed.

Just re-situated my pillows, put one on my pretzeled legs.  I’m set on 1k for this evening session.  Treating it like one of those Lit Lunches in downtown Napa.  Tomorrow, going in early, so I can depart at a time convenient for me in arriving timely for the radio appearance.  Not going to here address what I’ll recite, say about “the industry,” here.  Saving all venom for the mic…  Still a ways till word goal.  Not thinking about it.  While I had a free second, I did a little online “research,” if you could call it that, on the Victorian authors, some of which I studied in grad school.  Returned me to those class sessions, the studies.  All the papers I wrote last-minute, some of which were of the strongest standalone pieces I’ve ever written.  Read a little Martin Eden before hitting this keyboard, noticing some Victorian-like elements in his developments and character progressions; especially with his struggles as an artist, observer.  I then, at my office computer, went to Stanford’s site; then fantasized AGAIN about the Ph.D.  Brought back to present, real reality.  Idea —

 

11:35pm.  Back from Jack-centered intermission.  Well, not much of intermission.  But that’s what I’m getting at; I don’t have armadas of time surplus like I used to.  I don’t remember where the last sentence in the above paragraph was going, and I don’t have the time to expend on punishing mySelf with recollection attempts.  [Now I feel like some red, a jurassically barbaric blend.]  Nor do I have time to chase down a doctorate, spend 3 years writing a novel.  Going to again center Self on this reflective Niagara, paginate its river, falls.  Make that another writing destination.  Have only seen footage on Discover, or the History Channel, and pictures just near everywhere.  Feel clownish listing all these globe quarters I want to visit [mostly for writing].  But that’s all I can do, at this point.  The clock, just shelling me with its sequencing minutes.  But I’m writing faster than it unloads.  The battle between the clock and I, quite risible.  In this simulated, or mock Lit Lunch, I aim solely to aim.  For what?  Autonomy.  Again.  Maybe the wine I make this vintage will earn me some notice, or at least provide writing material to front me money for those plane tickets.  But I wouldn’t want to leave Mr. Little Kerouac…  Haven’t solved that equation yet.  Yes, it’d be for work, the writing “adventures,” as I’ve them tagged prior in this log, but I can’t envision being away from my tiny character for time extended.  So, that’ll take some planning, another battle plan against clock ticks.

Alarm, 6:20a.  “Box time,” I call it.  But, AV is not There.  There is no Them in AV.  No expansion, now, on that.  I’d be writing well past 12a.  Wait for the radio.  Was hoping to scribble some verse tonight, but looks like I’ll have to forfeit.  Does that mean time wins?  Not taking the chance.  Going to clock out early.  No surrender.  I don’t need a thousand words.  What would they do, anyway?  What does push me, or could, to 1k, would be the rain itself.  Where is it?  The weather idiots on channel X said there would be more tonight.  All I can hear are frogs, some passing cars.  The still.  Only tires me.  But, the views of rain, those hovering mists in AV this morning, afternoon…  Should’ve written something in that notebook.  Anything.  Even some notes for the Kelly piece I started before I left.  Wait…  You know, I think I may have…  Yes, I did, I find after taking a peek into the pages marked by folded corners.  But not enough.  Should have “channeled”–no, HATE that word.  Should have trajected those emboldening visual whispers–from the vineyards, hills, low gray ceiling–into that short fiction for my character, and not just another reflective set of syllabic blinks, collated spasms.  Kelly would have just drawn something.  Maybe the scene itself, maybe a picture of spilt wine, as she has many times.

Have to shut this effort, like the door of a car by a cheated lover.  I’m not a lover, but I have cheated, on so many of my writing projects, with other writing ideas. [THAT’S WHERE I WAS GOING with the last sentence in that paragraph!]  No more.  Each sitting has to be its own work.  If I later want to collect, fine.  But I can’t afford delays.  [Clock just shouted 12:00 AM.]  Time’s after me, my cognitive collectivity.  So, I’ll just write as fast as the ideas’ll let me.  Think Emerson, or one of my Victorians, said something to that effect.  No time to verify.  And I don’t need to.  I’m thinking it.  Just wrote it.  That sentence, its own standalone.  Thankful for these logs.  Just need more rain so they like impending buds can carry me to distance sips.

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autre

interest in creatively sovereign whims

This morning, rain, wind.  Time, 8:30a.  Me, with coffee, session’d.  Staying home from work, just to keep an eye on Mr. Kerouac.  He’s fine, no worry need.  Just want to be sure.  My heart, a bit wounded from the hold on project1 (chapbook), but I’ll keep writing.  I don’t think any of the “bloggers” that had their writing turned into books self-published anything, much less a chapbook, and they did fine, are doing…  But, that could be part of my “branding,” as it were, all the more justification for why I should go forward with it, even if the first run is 10 copies.  So what?  I did it.

Last night, started writing right when the rain began its knocks.  Now, its album is fully in play.  What do I want from this day off?  A healthy, happy Jack.  Then, writing.  3 standalone’s.  Kelly, with her decorated glasses, other art, doing more than well.  No sense trying to catch her.  And I shouldn’t think comparatively.  Ever.  Her audience is visual, where mine is dying.  People don’t read as they used to.  I could be fighting a losing “campaign” [hate that word, from the box].  Then I’ll stop fighting.  But I won’t stop writing.  If anything, I’ll write for me.  I’ll be my audience, I’ll read my work, be my devout bibliomaniac; a sturdy scholar of my own scribbles.  So what?

Need to renew my Poets&Writers subscription, just remembered.  Wonder if I can do that online…  On my desk, an issue of a magazine called “Fast Company.” Never bought this magazine before, but did about a month ago.  And I did because Martin Scorsese’s on the cover, with the heading “How to Lead a CREATIVE LIFE” imprinted over his presence.  In reading, I saw that Mr. Scorsese is often concerned about what his “bosses” will think of his work, and ideas.  This repulses me.  Why?  An artist of his magnitude, reputation, record, should have NO “bosses.” Ever.  If anyone’s earned autonomy, it’s him.  The article relays, “Will his bosses like what he’s doing? Will they give him another chance on another project? How much of his creative vision will get into this project? How much will the powers that be screw with his vision? When does he say ‘no’ to them? When does he say ‘yes’?…And how in the world is he going to get away with doing the work he loves for his whole life?” When I read these questions, I had to ask the same of Self.  Except, I refuse the existence of bosses, when it comes to anything, especially my Creativity.  I deny Them the right to speak, breath, step.  They are categorically, empirically, definitively voided.  So, I continue to create, WRITE.  My way.  I just read through the article again, really growing from Marty’s perspective on film, Art, and Creative subsistence.

Thinking this “blog,” its tie to wine, may have something I didn’t before see.  Won’t state what I’m realizing, but I’ll let it lead for a while, see what it may gift.  Me, this idea, on our own cavalcade.  To a street on Île Saint Louis.  To a café, with music like this [“Small Town” by Morcheeba].  So I can write more.

Back.  9:09am.  Wrote something quick for the other blog, the one I was set on assassinating.  So glad I didn’t, again.  Want to build it as my Wine Business.  Interactive, fun, educational.  Mom had a couple ideas for 1StopWineBlogShop that I’m definitely going to develop.  Have one customer in my database, a family friend, one of Mom’s closest’s, a lady who’s know me since the day of my reality landing.  Probably the single sweetest woman I know, aside from my mother.  Oh, and this database, not much of a database at all.  More like a single sheet of paper with the customer’s name on it.  Have to laugh.  And don’t most businesses start that way, anyway?  The whole “bare bones” appreciation…

Rain, still in stride.  Need more coffee.  My brain, more active than its been in days.  I would die if I stopped writing now.  I mean typing.  Wonder if the vineyards are as excited as I am with the arrival of this downpour.  The Wine Bar beats order me to relax.  Actually, they urge me to listen, type slower.  “Don’t try and keep pace with or catch up to your thinking, you’ll only counterproductively tire yourSelf,” I feel like it’s saying.

Going to buy that ink cartridge today.  Going to reprint the first twenty pages or so of the ms.  That’s where the fading begins to impede readability, from pg. 20-1, as it prints backwards.  Yes, forward with the chapbook, its anchoring piece, an untitled novella (17,000+ words).  Still unbelievably thankful for those Literary Lunches, how I isolated my Self from coworkers.  That’s what writers do.  Or, that’s why I do, did.

Recess.  Coffee pour, pours …

9:34am.  My fiction pieces, the Kelly writings…  Need to address some of those, maybe put them into a larger work, one continuous but not against my erratic moment-focused style.

And the music was right, I’ve tired mySelf.  With this off day, monitoring the mini-professor, I should try to fit in a movie.  Should I upgrade my Pandora, so there’s no commercials?  No, Mike.  Watch you overhead, PUBLISHER.  Need to have a fixed budget…  How about what I have in the stash right now?  Let’s count…  $170.  Have a 20 in my wallet.  Throwing that into the stash.  Done.  $190 to start a publishing/writing life.  Good luck, right?  That’s all I can afford.  Any lose change I can find, will be spent as necessary, not exactly thrown into this pot.  Putting the rubber band back around the folded notes.  Back into bag’s pocket.  Actually, I should throw it into one of those writing containers in the closet, the smaller thin one.  Done.  Need new biz card, a printing cartridge, to start.  Circles, scribbling, me…

The coffee’s really talking to me.  Should probably slow it down.  Jack’s mom offered to get me a mocha on her way back from errands, but I have to pass.  No more caffeine for the writer.  And I just noticed this writing’s become quite boring.  Sorry, readers (which includes my Self).  Breaking … But not before I cross 1,000.  So am I simply writing for the word count, when before I’ve decried such?  Yes.  Am I multidimensional, or just a bloody hypocrite?  Latter, obviously.  The rain, telling me to type faster, to match its decent.  I tell it, “I have no boss.  Answer to me, solely.  Go bark at someone else.” (9:40am)

Off to ink, paper, with this rain.  (3/13/12 — 10:47am)

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autre

entry – 3/10, 3/11

Even more evidence that Self-publishing’s the only way for me.  Today, at the AV Winery, met a gentleman while shadowing a tour, former math teacher, that had written a couple textbooks, had them published.  He said that he made less than 10k/year from his writing efforts, even though the publishers were essentially bullies with their deadlines.  “When the publisher gives you a deadline, I mean…that’s it, it’s a deadline,” he said.  Like the devilish publisher’s his boss.  Now, one could say to me, “Yeah, they are the writer’s boss.” And I agree, if a writer were to agree with such an arrangement.  Me, I’m done with “bosses,” “supervisors,” managers of any milieux.  Like Dad has always told me, “You work for You.”

After this entry, going to finish a poem I started today, meant to be short.  Had another fantasy today, while shadowing a coworker’s tour, of touring with my words, reciting to crowds.  That night in a hotel where I’m by mySelf, writing at a desk by an open sliding glass door, with a bottle of a found red near, just to right of my writing hand.  See it a pen2paper session…

Tried waking early this AM, but little Kerouac woke us at 5-something, so I needed the sleep.  Woke at 8:20-something.  Even my 3-shot mocha today from the corporate Joe temple couldn’t charge me.  Thought about winemaking while sipping, north on 101, then Chalk Hill.  Left a message for my sister, about this ’12 vintage.  Want my wine to have a character–that calm Cabernet cruise of a conscience.  But, she’s in her barrel.  And the never-patient writer’s pinned in wait.  Horrid.

Not sure where I’m going with this poem I started today.  Should just follow its orders, “go with it,” as Dad once said when I called him from a writing assignment’s destination.  I called him and said I found it overwhelming, that I didn’t know where to start.  He voiced the above line, urged that I ride the consciousness stream, take it ALL in, don’t feel confined to one focus.  See, a publisher would try and make a writer like me have a “direction,” one they found useful, marketable and profitable for them.  They would try to make me act “professionally.” They’re the enemy.  And another idea I asseverated today, was that being a Self-published writer shouldn’t be so hard, processed, to legitimize, warrant.  Painters and other artists, can be independent, people expect them to be; just paint, put it on display, exhibited in a gallery, or shop, or restaurant–out there somewhere for eyes.  Winemakers, filmmakers, musicians, other business owners.  Why not writers?  I always asked, hoping someone would answer for me, like I was fishing for acceptance, approval, someone to say, “go ahead.” So, I answered, I approved.  Today.

Tired.  Tomorrow, in Kaz’s Room.  Excited to see how the Lenoir’s tasting.  The ’08 Cab, too.  Need to get back in the groove of writing, and yes TYPING (as it need be, for a BOOK), 3 pieces a day.  Not going to finish the poem tonight, as I need sleep.  I remember one time, while I was living off Mission here in Santa Rosa, I wrote a 2 verse spoken word piece in a matter of 12 minutes.  I timed my Self, as to finish before a favorite program came on.  I later recorded it, put it to a CD I sold.  Those habits, need revival.  In some respects, I think I may have already.

 

3/11:  Forgot about daylight savings time.  How is it 9:04a, already?  Rain drops, marching down the tin gutter, or drain, on the other side of this wall.  Going to print a rough draft of the chapbook in less than an hour.  Will bring it to tasting Room, read it if not busy.  This weekend’s another one for barrel tasting, but not in Sonoma Valley.  Made that mistake last weekend.  Think Alexander Valley’s up this weekend.  And no, my AV Winery isn’t participating.  Good for them.  Anyway, the 52-page manuscript will certainly be edited, but I want it to appear raw, unfiltered.  Like AV Winery’s wines.  Truly representative of this independent writer’s moments.  Yes, grammar, spelling issues will be mended.  Punctuation…only if it’s really disruptive.  A traditional publisher, with its robotic behavior, would throw my pages into a Literary puke pile, I’m sure.  Which is why I’m independent.  I’m somewhat starting to think that the tag “self-publishing” or “self-publisher” is something I want to change.  Even “self-imprinting” sounds sterile, industrial.  Why not “independent writer,” like “independent filmmaker?”; Or, “independent contractor?” Why are they independent, ‘cause their craft isn’t up to a certain standard?  Are they not good at what they do?  No, I say in most cases.  They want to produce and perform at their own pace.  Writer.  INDEPENDENT.  And I don’t want those readers that think much of my writing’s angry or rage-wrapped to here see me as again incensed.  No!  I’m quite happy, peace’d actually, finally.  Secure in my scribe skin.  Need coffee now.

 

Downstairs, caffeine keys

for me, what I behave.

That doesn’t sound

right, says the printer.

 

Sure it does.

 

Me, a block, collide.  Just need a cup hot.  Mocha mix or no?  Just read a little more of 2012ChapBook1, I’m actually shocked at how much I like what I’m reading, how excited I am to print it this morning.  Feel amazing to be independent.  Independent Writer…  Sounds so much better than “self-published,” or “self-imprinted.” NewMike reminds everyone he’s on stage, and never going away.

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autre

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