7/8/12 — Again, hunched over, typing.  What if I just stayed home, wrote.  Or better, called in on the way to work, stopped at a coffee spot to work on mss [manuscripts, for all non-writers reading]?  My Friday, this Sunday, today.  Already past 8a.

10:42pm.  Proud of Self.  With the exception 2day’s above lines, wrote almost exclusively poetry, today, while at winery.  Finished a 16-line piece, wrote a couple additional rhymes when back home.  Retiring to rest early, aiming to wake at 5:15a, Barleycorn-like.  Again, only verse.  Tomorrow, only goal, 3 poems, printed.  Could be pieces I wrote a while ago.  Doesn’t matter.  From now on, 3 poems printed per day-pulse.  Now, rest.  Sipped a little more more of last night’s SB.  What a colorful display of a wine.  Need to buy a couple more bottles, when these chapbooks can fund such.  Bona sera, reader.  Thanks for being so patient with this ever-impatient Artist.

7/9/12, Monday.  However, Saturday, to me.  And so happens, back to poetry, almost exclusively.  Not so much experimenting with subject, meter, or rhyme as I am FORM.  Different length lines, stanza lengths, what have.  On my 3rd coffee cup this A.M.  Resisted compulsion to get the expected morning mocha from that coffee brothel.  My friend Lacey, however, did give me that 12-pack of assorted beers.  Excited to try some out, as I’m again tiring of wine.  That SB last night, however, has me more than eager to produce a bottle of mine own.. the one I WILL produce this harvest with Kaz.

So after these morning 500, I’m going to time mySelf on how quick I can scribble a verse.  Why?  Not sure, just something I want to try.  Another avenue to explore with verse, spoken word.  Overcast outside, but it won’t be ‘round long.  The news this morning promised temperatures in excess of 95, for week ahead.  Great for grapes, assuming canopies have been managed appropriately, but not so for the writer.  Want the rain to return.  Also saw on this morning’s reports that a baseball game in Texas was stopped due to lightening strike, loud thunder clap that made players scramble to their respective dugouts.  That would help me–those sounds, rushing drops–my paginated mood.  Never knew how to handle heat, as its relationship with my pages go, at least locally.  Now, when I’m on the road and temperatures elevate, and I’m by ocean, sea, lake, even river, I’ll know how to respond, as will the pen.  But this, here…  Need ideas.

Just had memory flash.. that guy in the St. Francis tasting Room I saw pour for himself.  This was in ’09, well after 4pm, and this character had definitely enjoyed impressively proportioned tastings till that point, we all knew [we all joked, guessed how many other Rooms he’d been to, prior].  I remember telling him he couldn’t do that, and that we both could get in trouble.  Then, went to the other end of the bar, well away from where he was by the entrance end, to pour for some other visitors.  Just as I returned, he did it once more.  I merely warned him again, brought the bottle behind the pouring bar to the back counter, which I should have done the first time he offended.  Not sure why this leaped into my Creative absorption, but I’m enjoying the image again.  What could I do with this, if anything?  Either way, you know, reader, what I’m thinking, seeing…

New music, low, in Room.  Jackie, asleep.  His new sounds indicate he’s trying hard to, getting closer to actual communication.  Or at least I think.  He already shows persistence as a character, determination, inspiring focus.  I credit him with my re-immersion into poetry’s cradle.  This first little album, or collection [anthology?], of verses should be done by Wednesday, when back behind bar.  Which again makes me wonder, how DO writers spend 3+ years on ONE project?  I’ll never get that, at least with how my thinking works, with my process, with my speed.

characters from yesterday: Canadians, telling me how they lived in Italy for five years with their children; how they loved Italian blends, varietals, especially when paired with authentic Tuscan dishes.  Made me think of what I would write, exposed to those elements, interactions, images, tastes, “pairings.” [9:46am]

1 ounce entry

Find mySelf battling technology again, trying to upload a video I shot on Sunday at Kaz.  Should be hanging out with Jack, to my right, listening to his reactions to my Wine Bar beats.  Tonight’s Wine, an exclusive Blend from a Sonoma County winery.  That’s all I’m going to say.  Enumerating the categorical situation of vintage, varietal, AVA, producer and all else considered “relevant,” holds nothing in tonight’s sips, analysis.  Actually, no “analysis.” Only appreciation for what comes from my side of the mountain.  So, the video finally uploaded.  Time for another beer, and to let this pervading Red wake, prepare itSelf for a palate take.

This blend, telling me to stop typing.  Just listen to playing tracks.

10:09pm.  Rain, upset with my progress.  Feel like a thunder growl only sits seconds from my seat, sitting.  Uploaded video to blog by way of Youtube.  And, I guess I don’t have to pay for that upgrade, as all I had to do was cut & paste a link.  Sounding more like a social media twit than an artist…  But anyway, saving money, less overhead.  I’m happy.  Speaking of “overhead,” I bought some pens this morning, before getting the morning mocha.  Only $1.09 out the door, for, I think, a dozen.  Wait…  No, eight.  This blend, so smooth, seductive.  Kelly, bottled.  That’s truthfully of whom this character reminds me.  Rain, on pause.  But my thoughts’ stream, everywhere.  Need the other blog to launch, like Instagram, make me some bloody revenue.  But more crucially, bring me Autonomy.  An office.  A schedule and whole Life of mine own.  That’s wine.  And more importantly, Writing, Art.  [4/10/12]

orchestra blend — 4/8/12

For the first time in weeks, I was back in the Kaz Kastle.  New wines being poured, behind bar and from barrel.  One of my preferred’s today, that ’09 Petite Sirah.  “Bullseye,” Kazzy calls it.  Also found out that he arranged a little blind flight, within which a guest could negotiate bottle price.  Before our shift officially started, Kaz and I walked through the vineyard, inspecting the buds, their progress in breaking and how the spurs and cordons were responding to the recent conditions.  Easter Sunday, surprising typhoon of consumers.  From everywhere–  Los Angeles, to Denver, Massachusetts to Florida, to just down the freeway, San Jose.  Another Kaz varietal interpretation today, that wouldn’t release my attention for even a short time, the 2010 “Stomp” Merlot.  Thought he sold out of this bottle.  “No, we found another barrel of it,” he said, still seeming surprised with the elevating find.  Tasted, around 2:45pm, found greatly vocal nose, followed by deep delivery in mouthfeel, taste summation.

The entire day was tireless, like my son’s speeded motions, surroundings deconstructions.  Kaz and I stayed behind the bar, pouring, discussing wine with people from each corner on the planet, it seemed.  For most of the day, we had Wine Bar beats playing.  And of course, I thought of my eventual tasting Room.  It’s closer than I think, I think.  Talked to Kaz a little about how he started his business, “from scratch,” as he said.  I’m also thinking, in the interest of collective time, that I may have my label revolve around 2 varietals, encompassingly.  Cab, Syrah.  [But I also want my own Sauvignon Blanc…  UGH!]  I also thought about how others interpret varietals, what they want to say vs. what terroir intends to send.

Now, home.  Sipping some ’07 Sonoma County Cab Franc.  This wine, spectral, turning my mentality into a spell bell.  Before this sitting, this nightcap, had pizza from Rosso Pizzeria & Wine Bar.  Ordered there, and while waiting enjoyed that 2010 Malbec that I always order.  A full day of wine, I remember thinking there at the bar, while talking to Rich, Rosso’s vino capo.  Returning to this CFranc, I’m rationally leveled.  Sipping slow, to make this last stemless pour last, stretch into my prose, if it hasn’t already.  Just realized I’m behind on the word log.  Find I’m stressed in this discovery.  Why do I continue with it?  What’s it doing for me?  Either I write, or I don’t.  The sovereign pieces themselves make their own log.  Not some list–with dates, numbers, parenthetical modifiers, subsections.  Closing that document, now…

Today’s played station in Kaz’s tasting Room, telling me that Autonomy in “the industry” is so easily attainable.  And with Kaz’s divulgence of his “starting from scratch,” I thought to mySelf: “Why do I let any of these people in ‘the industry’ get to me, ever?  It’s all too trifling.  These moments with such script-dependent bots, like jester squads, for my pages; Free material.  Looking out at those buds, those first signs of vintage Life, I thought of little Jack, his morning smiles, his unexpected coos, analytical gazes.  Today needed to happen, another day on Kaz grounds.  The industry needs more of such Humanness, especially if it hoped to stay afloat in jagged economic currents.

Taking my last sips, wrapping up night.  Jack, asleep, while my thoughts rush to some topic consistency dealing with wine, writing, writing about wine, characters (Kelly, Me), Self-excavation.  But to find what, in THIS vintage?  And, the 33RD VINTAGE, beginning May 29th?  Turning all devices off, for more lined sheets, ink.  Tonight’s vine, all rimed; A signed find.  Meditation now; Spoken Word, poetry, to Self.  Music, verse, my REAL Me.