journal, quick

9:02pm.  To bed, quite early.  Woke this A.M. at 3-something with a bit of stomach unrest.  Fell asleep at 4-something to be woken by Kerouac at 6:05a.  Today, at winery, frenzy.  Stress.  Material difficult to gather as it was entirely scattered.  Unloaded 5 palettes this morning with coworkers, which I’m sure adds to this fatigue.  Current: I type in complete dark; encompassing visual void.  Only light provided by this device.

A lot of people from San Francisco, surprisingly.  Many of them working around my old neighborhood, on Peninsula.  After work, had 1 SB glass.  And that’s it.  Not in much mood for fermentation tonight.  Need to keep sipping this bubbly water, push this ‘whatever’ from my systems.

The walk I went on, at lunch, looking over the vineyards bordering 12, with slight overcast.. again making me think of travel, what I’ll see when on roads, especially those across oceans.  Wrote one poem today, while on walk actually, but haven’t “posted” it yet.  More than likely saving for book.  This is Poetry Month, so rhyme, random line, always breathing with this tired lion.  Was hoping for 300 words, but that seems so far from here, from this ending line.

Sunday, just hours away.  Should probably be quite busy, come morrow.  NEED to top both barrels with that Zin!  I’ll do that on lunch, hopefully.  Feel bad about not finish Mom’s dinner tonight, but honestly, I couldn’t.  This devilish mite has now truly aggravated the writer.  I feel sorry for it, frankly.  The book, not being ignored, just kept in place.  Like my wines in their barrels.  In that convincing cave.  Have to stop with my thoughts, wandering like this, about wines mine.  I’ll go far past marker.

Thought today about academic writings, how I need to throw that into its own motion; (1) Deconstruction, (2) page value to a reader, (3) trapping nature of journal…  All on plate.  Just a matter of days.  -9:15pm, 4/6/13


4/7/13.  Need a thousand words before Alice’s return from gym.  Jack, down for night.  “Night,” should have written, as light still itself shows. 7:09pm.. feel as I should– healthy, tempered, calm.  More reflective than normal, after this bout recent.  When health is compromised, different perspectives sprout.  Plan on introducing such to class come session next.  Today at winery, all frenzy.  One mountaintop tour.  While setting up, hours prior, took several photos, one short video.  As the buds break, new visions take.  2013, may finally be MY vintage.  And not just for wine.  Looking at vintage’s concept differently, now, this Poetry Month.  And on such note.. I’ve been scribbling a poem each day, for me, my manuscripts.. for Autonomy, oenobellion.

Been rather tempered with wine intake, of late.  Feels incredible, this new sight.  And with current silence in this Room, exception of just-ignited refrigerator hum, all more shaping, re-shaping.  Wine, not negative, in any respect.  But it does deliver heard steps.  So, I’m a bit more cautious following this last bug bout.  Still bothered from missing my Thursday classes, but I have to past move.  Adjustment, inevitable like a tax due.  Suddenly, I’m called by music, more poem.  Something delivering mood assistance.  My theme tonight, I hope, one of advance, resembling attack but not as affronting.  A stance, new conviction enlistment.

My two barrels, outside the caves, to boost ML’s pace.  Not sure I like seeing them out there, this morning, being drizzled on.  But what can I do?  I have NO idea how to operate one of those forklifts.

Dinner break.  Excuse me…  couple thin slices of pizza Alice prepared, and ONE [yes, only one] glass of Kunde’s 2010 Red Dirt Red, that I took home tonight.  Keep TV off, as I loath everything it represents.  This coming weekend, writer’s retreat.  First in some time.  Have dinner scheduled with Particular Palates on Friday, but I can come home and write after.. won’t make it a night late.  Saturday, have tentative plans to celebrate friend’s birthday downtown.  If I do, I’ll bring little pages, document everything, pretend I’m one of Hemingway’s characters in ‘Sun Also Rises’.  Everyone, and everything they say, will be trapped, possibly putting finishing touches on novel.  Bringing me that closer to Road.

Done with dinner.  Have 1 glass’ remainder at right.  Sitting on other couch.  Trying to remember any other moments worth recording, from day…  None at moment.  This morning’s mocha, though, strangely convincing.  Almost telling me to leave wine for coffee.  It’s pretty much what Kelly did.  She only has wine at some of her conferences and showings, and that’s it.  And yes, with me, occasionally.  But still, it’s entirely tempered.  I’ve learned from these past authors, how wine can push composition’s creator close to cliff.  But not me.  I need to keep in scribble’s swing.  For my little Kerouac.  Speaking of, I feel bad for the little Artist, as he too goes through a sniffle skirmish.. cough constant, rubbing eyes and face, visibly uncomfortable.  Wish I could take it away from him.

Honestly having trouble keeping up with all that I write.  Can I write about that, even though I all but promised I wouldn’t write about writing, anymore?  Well…  I need to finish this 206-page book, then instantly start collecting the next.  And then Next.  Next, next.  How else can I show I’m COMMITTED to page?  A blog, hardly page commitment.  Yes, the content can be Literary, but it’s not a page.  This morning, before clocking in, I scribbled in the Comp Book, some verse, rhyme.  That’s page.. that’s TRULY.  LITERARY.

That’s Art.  Artistic.  You study Art History, you don’t see web pages, internet channels.. you see artists in their studios, Picasso in his shorts, no shirt, arms folded, looking through his pieces.  Art entails simplicity.  IT doesn’t need layered tech ascension.  Feel like I should incorporate this in Tuesday’s lecture.  I want it, the “lecture,” to be nearly a comeback fight progression, delivery of Literary ideas.  Should open that doc, here on monster, start typing.  But then I again interrupt the drive at 1k.  OH well.  IT’ll be done before I fall asleep.  Promised.

The fridge again starts its hum.  I haven’t sipped in over 15 mins.  No need when I have this page–  I mean, screen.

9:24pm.  After screen, comes paper, ink for my sense of something serene.  Watching a writing movie.  Those knowing the writer know what my eyes enjoy.  Poured night’s cap of 2010 Red Dirt.  It’s in kitchen, as always, slowing my sips.  Then, sparkling water, lemon, like night last.  Quite looking forward to that clean consistency.  Almost want to chug the red to quicker get to my livelier water.  IS 1000 words a day an admirable artistic habit as a writer?  I more or less think so.  Why do I get so dumbed-down by definitions?  Society’s done that to me.  As has time.  Already need a break, I think.  Has to be the day, and yesterday.  Think 4/6 may have out-madness’d 4/7.  But today’s pace seemed more digestible.. more Literary, for me.

Riled in idle chatter, miles compile while

the isles lather..  chat with a mad hatter–

evade the clock, my ever-enemy, braced for

shock, raining fervor, my days are blocked…

Need to get on page quick, before these rhymes, odd lines, me leave.  Need to finish that glass.  Funny, I look at it as chore.  Think it may be raining outside…  Anyway, I almost don’t want to drink it, this red blend, what it me sends.  Don’t have palate for.  And I love this wine, strangely.  Must be the post-bug lull.

Kelly, sipping last of her espresso, 1:58am.  She looks at what she painted.  Not in like or dislike.  Not in anything slight, elevated, aflight.  She just stares, happy she did something with her evening.  She could have gone out with her friends from the restaurant, and she did, want to, but she knew she had to at least try to produce something she could sell.  Bluntly, she needed the money.  And she had to stop with the free-painting, just enjoying being a “successful painter,” self-employed, supposedly free.  She liked this piece.. grey clouds with blackish underbelly, contrasting potent green of budding vineyard blockettes.  She pushed the button again, for another shot.  More colors.  More creation.  More Art, her Art, to sell.  She’d re-sewn her hologram’d hand.



Tonight’s types– Chardonnay, Cabernet.  Not in a novel mood. Tonight’s one of those evenings where I just want to write freely, truly enjoy my truest of styles.  The chocolate accent’s more present tonight than 24 hours past.  Keep forgetting tomorrow’s my “day off.” Wish it truly were.  Teaching in eve.  Have papers to grade.  Behind, just like times old.  Keep stressing about writing this Kelly book.  Why?  How will that get it finished any quicker?  She wouldn’t want that, I know.  Compelled to take another sip, but resisting, holding in my types.  Looking at one of the pictures I took today, of the leaves, clusters.  Love this time, during vintage.  But they have to be picked.  Why is that tearing at sensors under shell?  Hard to tell.  Need music, but don’t want to wake little Kerouac.  Just the reason I need my own office, why I strive to one day one be obligated, EXPECTED, to write 8 hours a day.. not subscribe to clock spots, another’s druthers.  Now I’ll sip, celebratory, knowing certain curtains don’t dictate what’s the version certain.

A photograph I posted to the winery’s site received quite the response, today.  Photography, something I surely need pursue.  Like Kaz.  Speaking of my brother, sacrificed my lunch to pay his base a visit.  May not be making that SB with him.  May be a Cab, or Petite Sirah.  Not sure I want to produce a PS.  I’m not passionate about the varietal.  At all.  Has to be Cab.  And I’ll do the Chardonnay with Professor Kate, I hope.  Have to make wine where I can.  Maybe I can get a handful of leftover clusters from the winery, write a barrel or 2.  Has to be Syrah, that’s what I’d want from that estate.  Have touched my books in some time, only been tasting, toughening my palate, if you will.  Still don’t feel like it’s my Friday.  This Friday, in home by Self.  Not meeting coworkers anywhere.  Staying in castle, opening an SB, Chard, Syrah, Cab.. a mock-whoso tasting Room flight.  Can’t wait.  And food?  May simply have apps.. some cheese, crackers, veggies.. but I have to get writing done.  SIGNIFICANT progress.  I want some substantial cemented in 1 sitting.  Like all the artists I admire.. Poe, Pac, Plath.  Feeling reflective by this empty glass, wondering if I should add 1 more varietal to my lineup.  But is there another I enjoy to such a point?  What about a blend.. of Cab, Syrah?  I’ll do whatever I want, I’m thinking.  I know, I should be working on a book project, my novel.  But I needed a freewrite.  My former students would understand, especially those from that Fall ’09 1A section [peace, love].

Then, the night ends.  If I wake early tomorrow, like 5AM-something, I could have that session I did months ago.  The Barleycorn effort.  All for the novel.  That Self-published paragon manuscript.  Glad I’m done with glass, and that I filled that filtered water carafe in fridge.  Done typing, again.  Not natural.  Long 4 pen, ink.  What Plath grabbed.. what Pac stocked.

(9/16/12, Sunday)

This’ll be the only prose entry for the night.  In fact, I’m not letting my Self post past this.  All rhymes, lines into Comp Book.  That’s what real Literary figures do.  That’s what I urged my students do, and what I will, should I return to classRoom.  Not much to record from tasting Room, today.  One big group, 30+, at day’s beginning.  That’s it.  However, I do find mySelf liking Chardonnay more.  Kunde Estate’s shown me that it can be done with an impressive artful progression; a certain oenological refinement about its sip sequence.  Tonight, I’m MAKING mySelf take winemaking notes.  Bringing one text with me when I sit, yes, but I’m also going to jot any idea or fantasy that pops into this writer’s inner racking.

Distracted by little Kerouac’s calls.  He’s tired, and I can relate.  Going back to the ’11 Reserve Chard, tonight.  I’m expecting it to be even more musical than it was last night.  I can already taste my Chardonnay from the barrel.  It’s a fairytale interpretation of the varietal–not too oaky, nor tinny, metallic.  It’s dignified Burgundy voice.

11pm.  Tired.  Needing to just freewrite in my Comp Book.  I’l be honest, I’m getting sick of this laptop, its devilish keys.  And the social media element, wherever it lurks, anything but Literary.  Stopped sips a couple minutes ago.  Back on the berry sparkling, needing concentration.  project R, prominently on radar over my next 2 off days.  Staying focused on what project R embodies, what it could do for me, Little Jackie.  Another item on my aims list, get back into running.  On a level fervent [much I hate the word].  Did a couple sprints today at work, back forth from cave to tasting Room, to get pour buckets.  Felt amazing, but it was lived short.  So, in my mind, it’s not “running” at all.  And on note random: not at all pleased with the way AV Winery was portrayed, incorporated, represented in that “reality.” Frankly, I found it dehumanizing, disgusting, and altogether deplorable.  The Wine World, especially AV, deserves better than those media carnivore drones.  And with that, I’m done.  BRAVO, not worthy of my prose; certainly not even the most minuscule poetry pour.  vinoLit4LIFE …


sip secRet

[6/26]  Today, over 1000 words to projects, and LOADS of spoken word.  I feel.. more than simply Artistic.  I’m Alive.  Creative.  I feel ME.  Sipping the beer I bought last night.  IPA, of course.  Spent quite a bit of time today with little Kerouac, wrote at his side.  He helped today with everything, especially when he stared, smiled, suggesting, “Just play, Dad.  Stop worrying so much and just write!” No run yesterday or today, but I wrote, listened to music.  And more importantly, wrote my own music.  My file of poems, to see contribution 2nite.  Not sure when I’ll have recitals booked, but they’ll be there.  In that manilla, launch-ready.  Can’t believe how fast I’m typing right now.  Never felt this invincible on page before.  And yes, I intentionally used that word.  Invincible.

Pictures over the past couple days with which I haven’t done anything.. just enjoying.  Maybe that’s what they’re for; not for blog, of Facecrook.. just for ME.  Need a break, get snack downstairs.  Writers, we’re crazy to the point of writing in starvation.  In fact, many of us will write ESPECIALLY when starved, hypoglycemic, delirious, loopy.  Not me, however.  I’ll compose from espresso’s throws, and when a little buzzed (or further, especially with a courageous Cabernet, or Pinot), but not with empty core.

11:07pm.  Closing frames from today’s stray.  Somewhat surprised at how much verse I put into the little book.  I’ll transfer tomorrow, early morning before work.  Setting alarm for 5:15am.  Want 1000 before Jackie wakes.  Had thoughts today of tasting Room fiction, and I know just how I’d approach page with such guns loaded.  You walk in, always, not knowing what’ll walk through those front doors.  Something from that regard makes each day in the Room, behind that counter, an adventure unlike other professions.  Hoping tomorrow gives me more characters than I’m expecting to have to handle.  Need sleep.  Strolling path to night’s visions entertaining flight.  Navigating, like Dad.  Not a jet, per se, but some craft winged.  I’ll confine it to page, of course, as I’m much too afraid to do what he, Dad, does.  But, I’m building, deconstructing, blending, separating, then re-unionizing those images again…

Character takes flight to Indonesia, on a research assignment for travel company…

No, that won’t work.  “Travel company?” What’s that?  I’ll have to rest on this envisaged mess.  But travel, a necessity for me, my material.  Bona …

6/27/12.  Tired of beginning each entry with date.  Have to find a way, somehow, to Create around those numbers.  In main tasting Room for day’s most.  Went to “industry” “mixer” at Kaz tonight.  Was only there for an hour, but it felt incredible to be back.  Back with my other family.  And every time I’m around Kazzy, I’m more antagonized to be crazily Artistic.  Be true to my Self, as he once told me.  Had a couple new wines tonight that threw me into even more fantasy.  Being there, at my brother’s winery, almost more than I could handle in way of separatist Creative straights.  Questioned my spoken word efforts at one point, today, while pacing back and forth in Kunde’s Room.  Well, walking by that Kaz koy pond, sipping Valley of the Moon Sangiovese Rosé with two new Kunde confreres, ordered I continue.  In such passing, I’m on track 8 of 14 targeted.  Another thought streaming through my consciousness streams during shift: my Wine Bar.  Think what spawned such were the Wine Bar beats I heard while driving to shift.  Had to be.  All under nonaligned winds in wine’s tine.

Further into eve, can’t help but think about the impact of wine in my current current.  Like that new Tempranillo I discovered, only hours ago.  DO I want to produce one?  No.  And I didn’t think that way when sipping, I just enjoyed.  No way that can be wrong.  BUT, did think of the SB, Syrah, Cab that’ll one day be on the whoso cellars tasting sheet.  Just as my friend Ed is imminently launching his own label, so do I.  NEW PROJECT: $1/day, at least.  Will periodically let you know where I am in the gathering.  What are these enveloped bills for?  My wine label?  Self-publishing?  Both?  No idea, as always.  Maybe I should start having an idea.  Like that article I read, where chapbooks are often used to “fund tours,” maybe I should put these stray 1’s into envelopes for sakes of funding all wishes.  One of those wishes being.. my winery.  Sipping one of the double IPA’s with which I’ve been infatuated over the past few nights.  Probably from the elevated temperatures from today.  Was somewhat shocked how hot it actually stopped, on whatever gauge I was checking.

journal gust, 62512

9:51am.  Wrote quite a few spoken rimed lines this morning, while spending time with little Kerouac.  Just waiting for him to wake, so I can get a couple things done.  Have to fit that run in today, at some point.  Also want to take some pictures, Russian River area, or northern Santa Rosa.  Have a meeting up there later, with a fellow wine blogger.  Still thinking about last night’s SB.  Where I’d like to sip it, abroad, or whites like it, while writing…  Spain, Ibiza, Morocco, Dominican Republic, Miami.  Wherever it’s hot, and there’s water out at which I can just irresponsibly stare.  If time is just going to forward unconcerned with damage it inflicts, then I don’t want to be aware of it.  So I’ll stare at the waves.  Sip and scribble.

5:59pm.  Learned more than I was expecting from fellow wine nomad Ed, when I visited him at his office.  So many folds, dimensions, angles to wine’s business.  The licensing, though, what forces a balk from this Artist.  Do I want to spend the time getting however many I need?  I’m an Artist, my urge is to Create, be in moments‘ moments.  One of the things about Self I like most, and I don’t want it even minimally compromised.  Well, not something I need to entertain right now, as I haven’t the fees anyhow.  Need to generate immediate revenue.  Pages.  The chapbooks.  Musical angle.  I don’t need some ridiculous permit, a “seller’s permit,” to sell my own writing, MY Art, do I?  At my age, I need 2B true to Self.  So, first, following with the Writing, the photos on the other blog.  Then, we’ll see what.

No mocha this morning.  BUT, did have one in the last hour.  Bought Alice one of her “passion iced teas,” think that’s what they’re called.  And me, a mocha.  Took my sip first at 5:02pm.  Still feels its dark winds.  Love.  This post, the last for day.  Going to move fingers across keys for paragraphs that’ll pay.  Tonight, I’m thinking beer.  No wine.  Well, what’s left of last night’s SB, in fridge, I might “revisit.” Comp Book, right at my 12.. check.  Pens, over there [right side of desk].. check.  Time for song, time to write.. Time to Create, to be me.  No licensing fee.

Another thing that Ed showed me that I thought was quite enlightening, was where the labels were made, how as well.  Wine bottles’ labels have always sent me into thought.  Not every one that I see, but some.  Just something about that cover, like a book.  I want to taste, read with palate, what’s in its borders.  Need music.. Wine Bar beats.  Comp Book open.  Away go I, to fly.  Bye.

2012, My Vintage, refocused into focus

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

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

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


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

swirling track

Why do I love Sonoma Valley?  Places like the Vineyards Inn.  A wine location, a place to just get together with a good friend, and enjoy discussion, company.  Met with a friend of mine, Miguel, to talk about everything from wine, to writing and publishing, to Life in “wine country,” to Artistic integrity in the business world.  He had a Sauv Blanc, me a Cab.  I was romanced by the layout of VI, probably ‘cause I haven’t been in a while.  During today’s frequent, Miguel and I also talked about how difficult it is to make it in the writing world.  Finally someone who understands the scribe’s struggle.  And, while sipping my AV selection from their list, I thought of what wine does to those with appreciation for words written.  The bottled magic intensifies the adoration, speaking for Self.  Sure my brother Miguel would agree.  And the conversation, what novels, and books of other genres necessitate.

Back home, little Kerouac sings his newer songs to me.  Maybe he wants to collaborate.  It’s possible that this little character is his own varietal.  Everyone says he looks like me, but I have to disagree.  Surely, his own entity.  One singular, previously undiscovered.  And, this harmonizing son, Mr. Jackie, his own story, script.  Tonight, tasting another Cab, while furiously frolicking in these Comp Book’s sheets.  Didn’t get around to buying some Syrahs, as I’d conspired.  Am I familiar with tonight’s bottle?  A bit, yes.  And I’m leaving the AVA, producer and vintage away from this entry, intentionally.  I’m going to address the interpretation of this Sonoma Valley Cabernet; It’s voice, character.  First, it’s shy.  Well, either so, or intentionally withheld.  It wants me to follow the smoky berries to it maze finish.

A tad tired, as I’ve already session’d far past 1000 [words] for day.  But the Cab capsules me in colored courage.  Still need to print pages, but I’m comfortable.  May have conveyed such dilemma, predicament, before.  Topic next…  Work tomorrow.  Tours, tasting Room, possible library tasting.  Need more unfamiliar wines in this notebook.  Travel would bring that, but I have to exercise patience.  Life story, for this writer, anyway.  These barreled writings, ordering me to release them.  Bottle them into a book.  But after my talk with Miguel today, addressing everything from paper costs publication trends, I need tell the sentences to tightly sit; be patient with ME.  Sonoma Valley’s vines, budding–  Ready for eruption…  My books, equally.

9:48pm.  The wine, now, telling me to leave the page, walk away from session.  I don’t agree.  Is that bad?  Why would this be going through my head, now?  Especially after the discussion I had at Vineyards Inn, completely wrapped in writing.  Why would this wine advise something so awful?  Probably just in my head.  I’m translating the character wrong.  More sips…

Staying in chair.  This Cab, whose fruit itself houses just down the road, in valley’s heart, concedes it’s toying with me, testing me as a penner.  I’m just listing odd descriptors at this point, anyway.  Letting it win–  Oak’d smoke rope, black cherry ghost; illusionary flavor fog, tantalizing tannic tornado; cushioned night spice, rustic raspberry romance; alliteratively tangible taste illusion.  I’ll toy with her, returning.  Wine escape, for ink’s sake.

[4/6/12, Friday]


Not sure I’ll have enough time to write, as Mr. mini-Kerouac’s a bit testy.  But while I’m at the keys, I can’t help but write about wine, winemaking, Kelly.  I’m becoming usefully narrow with my topical aims.  Mr. Jack, asleep, alas.  Haven’t bought the Comp Book yet.  And, I don’t think I need to.  Need to limit all expenses.  One of the reasons I didn’t go forward with the chapbook, right away.  I’m saddened that I can’t print now, but also strangely relieved.  Don’t have to spend that money, don’t have to store the copies, stress about selling them.  Don’t misunderstand me, I want to print, bind my BOOKS.  I’m not forgoing the Literary substance for something virtual, totally technological.  I just can’t print now.  All I have to do is write louder on these “blogs,” or “wine blogs.” Just as when I make my wine, the palate presence will scream delectable defiance, beg for another bottle opened.

All writing for my character, remaining off-blog.  She need be protected.  No interest in sharing her with anyone, certainly no one in “the industry.” Only the Literary would get her passions, motivations, visions.  I’ll only log when I’ve been in her presence, when she’s been dancing on my pages.  Speaking of music-related essences, I was almost defeated by my distraction in these Wine Bar beats, buying one after another.  Again, yelling at Self, telling fortitude to forward fortified–watch the penny usages.  Funds, limited.  But, the cartridges, my new business cards, needed be bought.  Part of my brand building strategy.  Don’t think I have a “strategy,” or plan, really.  Just to keep writing and pushing the sites’ names.  That’s a start, right?  Why does this have to be so complicated?  Am I complicating it?  Kelly would say “Yes, Mike, I would say so.” That’s what I see her saying, anyway.  How do I simplify?  By just writing, she’s then going to say.  And, try more wines.  Different ones.  As many as I can find, and write about them, in whatever way I can think.

Just opened a Sonoma County Sauv Blanc I found in the wine captain (little fridge…I think that’s what it’s called; odd name though, “captain”).  Not too metallic, nice tropical fruit, a kiwi or melon personality singing with the bright mouthfeel.  Also getting a very soft stroke of shaved almond, if that makes sense, on the nose as well as mouth.  Gentle floral qualities add to its taste performance, expression.  This Sauv Blanc wants to be heard; It’s singing, I’m listening, dancing with her, the ideas she offers.  Speaking the way my character does.  Need now her write, so I can be right…

Sipping slow, as I’m on Jack alert.  He sits calm in his little nest, looking at the shade of his blanket.  He’s thinking about something.  But what?  What is that little mind entertaining?  Thinking he’s enamored with his not-even-5-week-old surroundings.  Is he making mental notes, keeping some sort of internal log?  I could just write his thoughts for him, but I would never…  Not with him.  He’s a character, one quite real, meant to be studied, cared for carefully, attentively, obsessively.

Cheers, my little, very vocal prompt.

I’m thinking of travel.  To parts of South America.  Not staying at some luxury resort.  Not doing any signings, nothing like that.  I want adventure.  A hike somewhere that I’m not capable of imagining.  Somewhere man’s not supposed to be.  Through the jungle like that one blogger I read about, and on which I saw documentary a couple years ago.  I want danger, I want to be on front lines.  Want to record wildlife, like the documentary I saw yesterday at little Kaz’s house.  Adventure, danger…  Can you imagine what kind of pages that would birth?  Drinking my final Racer 5, thinking of work tomorrow.  It’s work.  I know what to expect, what will proceed after arrival.  That’s why the fantasies are so instant, rich, right now, tonight.

Not sure what I want to say.  What I do want, is that hike, through a jungle, with an amazing bottle of Sauv Blanc, for the day.  And some St. Francis Merlot, for darker hours.  Taking a break, will write in fews shorter…

11:34pm.  Too tired to write.  But I think I may be too alive with visions for these writings to sleep.  What do I do?  Need rest for the morrow’s obligations.  “Obligations.” To whom?  Clock out, in fantasy.  1Stop, my Wine business, hatch-ready…


3/20/12.  Up, coffee downstairs.  Not much time to write, as I want to be in AV early.  And, I won’t lie, I want a mocha.  Trying some new “networking” strategies.  Let’s see if they pay off.  Don’t want to dive too deep into them, as I should be writing, not continuously, endlessly editing my “profile” on some “networking” site.  Love quote marks, and I don’t need to let you know that in parenthesis.  Time, 8:07am.  Going to rush downstairs for the coffee, then back up to write for–well, till, 8:30a.

Back.  With coffee.  Should probably just jump in the shower.  Can’t even tell you how much I wish all I had to do today was write, finish page projects.  Meet my own deadlines.  Feel my mood sinking, can’t go further with this thought stream, for writing’s sake.  Business cards, I was just remembering, should be ready in a couple–well, 5 to 7 “business days.” Never understood what that meant.  Does that mean Saturday but not Sunday is counted?  Or does it imply the “regular” work week of M-F?  Or does it involve Sunday, to some?  Anyway, they’ll call me.

If all I had to do was write, add to my logs, or “blogs,” I would set up at the Starbucks on 12 and Mission, the one at which I would session just before Mr. Jack was born.  Used thrive in my nouveau-Lit Lunches, which were as long or condensed as I decreed appropriate.  Wonder what my character is doing.  Not going to say her name any longer, in this log.  Saving all for a well-deserved page plot.  She, an Artist, better than a blog.  Ridiculous to ever see her in a “wine blog,” I say forcibly.  Speaking of Art, I still haven’t gone through the ’09 Paris footage.  Maybe if I have spare seconds, tonight.

Fantasizing, Self-employment.  Day at my pace.  Artistic Autonomy, like —–…

Rain, arrival jazzy.  It tells me to keep writing.  Not to fret the release of that chapbook.  Just write.  Poetry, needed.  The Pinot’s remainder, talking to me, instructing that I listen to the drops.  Wonder how the vineyards feel about this late rain.  Are they grateful, or bitter?  Only 8 minutes till 12a.  Need verse, and rest.  I’m testifying to this page, hoping for a lifelong direction.  Little Kerouac depends on it.  Finally, he sleeps.  All I can see, his eyes connecting with my uncertain vision while gripping him.  Makes me feel more fortified, thinking about this little character in my life now, and my days before his presence; while working at that office, thinking it so significant, consequential.  When really it was less than a fallen feather in a sewage brook.

If I could, I’d stay up this entire night, using the rain’s BPM for my spoken word.  Don’t want to apply anymore, and I shouldn’t have to; prove my Self to people I don’t even know, and probably wouldn’t like working with anyway.  Comfortable in this bed, thinking about how free I finally fly.

11:57pm.  Will I finish this entry before midnight?  Hardly know.  But one thing of which I’m ever convinced, I don’t need to care about “the industry’s” perception of my relationship with wine, my winemaking endeavors.  The wines I sip, and the bottles I’ll produce, all connect with my nucleus, provoke Life, Art.  That’s what keeps me Me.  This rain, applauding.  Telling me to leave this evil device, flee to paper.  [Sorry, monster.  Didn’t mean to call you evil.]   To actually write.  Freely.  “That’s your genre, you are the genre,” the notebook calls.

Wine.  Has to be the river of reiterating reflection I’ve always needed.  Someone could argue the bottle’s contents aren’t Art.  And, with some bottles, I’d agree.  But the ones I sip, those I’ll produce, all artful; promoting prose, poetry, voracious verse, prove musical.