Metric

10:15pm.  A 10.55 miles run.  Deep into Howarth Park, back.  On sprint back, I increased speed, as the writer’s mind sculpted plot’s lines for his own murder.  Jogging, or running, no one around, and with me exhausted, I’m the perfect writable target.  Sipping the ’11 Estate Cab, which at first I dismissed.  But now, much more charisma about its sensory storm.  Posted to both blogs.. my students, carrying my momentum.  Surprised how energetic I am, sitting here on this couch, after such a run, sipping Cabernet.. Making Self to bed go around 11:30.  Which gives me a good time block.  Or more like a mini-plot.

My student responses to these blog posts.. motivating me in ways I never estimated.  Almost unsure of how to react.  Have contain composure, sustain it.

And pour the writer more wine.

This last glass, night’s cap.  This Cab’s changed.  More grip, gravity, grace about it’s speech.  Not letting Self touch book tonight.  Why?  Want to write freely, here on these feeble “blogs.” My character, Kelly, experiencing a certain ‘rebirth’, much I hate that term.  So what else can I say?  […]  Her literary voraciousness has been re-emphasized.  By me, of course.  I’m her biggest abetter.

Short of night’s goal, with words.  Why do I always focus on that, so much.  Who taught me this?  This encompasses my pen strides.  Her story.  She walks, narrating to herSelf.  She’s not maniacal like me, feeling the need to write EVERYTHING down.  She carries the impact with her, delivers to canvas at her willing.  Not sure what to say about her.. other than she’s out there, and here.  On page.  For me, the readers, for herSelf.  Right now, 10:33pm.. I’m assured she’s sipping.  To quiet.  TV off, unlike her author.  Staring at her blank sheet.  She engages one motion at a time.  Never back-to-back colors.  Each stroke, rivaling shades.  She loves the concept of contrast, exposing beauty in difference.

Taking another sip of the obnoxious glass I poured Self, I’m re-reading what one of my stronger students just posted.  Feel like it’s something Kelly would say.  I’m consumed in her, my character.

 

Won’t disguise my struggle in this sitting.  My mental, combatting both my 10.5 mile dash, well as the ’11 Cab which is proving to be more poised than I originally mapped.  I’m easily distracted by the muted Weather Channel, by thoughts of the coming study of Poe for my 1A students.  A new chapter, one directional, beginning next week, with the submission of this 1st paper [both sections].  Am I excited or terrified?

Wrote that after minutes of mind wandering.  Curse my run, this bloody wine.  This is precisely why I’ve detracted on oenological connection.  And why I’ve become so vocal on this “industry.”

And back again from distraction.  Checking email.  At least I return, am still writing.  Can’t wait for coffee in A.M.  This morning, thought about coming back home, writing, taking a nap.  But I surpassed.  AND, I didn’t even get a lunch today, after VIP tour, then ResRoom.  But I triumphed.  And I

always

will.

 

New stories written.  Now.

Fiction.

But not.

(9/13/13)

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symbols…emblems

Busy, in Reserve Room. Still, with the wind. Sipping, quite slow, Sauv Blanc. The ’12. Did a little reading of Emerson’s “The Poet” at work, some associate criticisms. Thoroughly connect to his elevation of the Poet, how we’re seers, voices of crucial Nature. Having trouble concentrating, here at home. Tomorrow, while grading, in much better locale. All day, seeing my book as more of a collection that a novel. And what’s wrong with that? Emerson did same, collecting his essays, writings.

Can’t write in cluttered envelopes. “Clutter,” not what I wanted to say. Just the comfort, distractions of home. Not a negative, just reality. Bradbury had to leave his house, confine himSelf to a library basement to finish Fahrenheit 451. 9:39pm, need to get to my work soon, really soon. Just planning on freeness of writing. My night’s flavor, all for book. Plan for morrow, write as soon as I’m woken. Reminded today, partially with Boston explosion, that Life’s so short it’ll pass before you even have plans to plan its rest. And there’s no excuse not to write. Not for a writer. We should always be recording, studying past masters.

This ’12, motivating vivacity. Reading through The Poet, again, getting ideas for tomorrow’s session. Want to connect Emerson’s piece with our exploration of Art, what defines it, constitutes it. But when am I getting to the grading? The question I don’t want to force on Self, but know I have to. You know, reader.. think I’ll just enjoy my night, these thoughts, this re-read of Mr. Emerson’s work. Pairs nicely with the ’12 SB, honestly. This’ll be my last glass. Not in much mood for vino. Only Lit.

Emerson stresses the Poet’s importance, presence. Makes me think about everything I’ve written.. recently, long ago. It has to go somewhere, amount to something. Fruition is poetic, Artful. He urges persistence, in his essay. Can’t read it here. Too much distraction. And that’s okay. In the office.. that shared adjunct cell. Poetry, for night’s rest.. where do I start? Have to just begin, that’s it. The world for me waits. Collect, collect… Done with wine, onto sparkling berry water. Need to concentrate. No interest in anymore Gatsby missions. Completing tracks, pinnacle of priority.

Taxes, today. Mine, done weeks ago. Wonder where that money goes. And I mean, where it REALLY goes. Not sure why I’m thinking about that now.. have writing to do, poems to finish– SONGS to soon print.

Running into more avenues; accidental

panaceas the Poet had to choose.

Stalls, cause by litigious brick walls.

Across the sprawl.. but I’m to stubborn 2fall.

Like a dazed doll, with chilling stare.. but why would

these devils care? Floating on their cash clouds.

They’re like, “Why does he talk that loud?”

Thin destiny, new recipe.. vended me–

There, put Self in poetry mode. Had to. It’s the only way I can live. Musically. I know just where ALL these pages go. When I’m gone, it’ll all be out, flying in readers’ minds. And what’s not, well-organized in vault, on reaction’s conveyor belt. So I’m just writing till it’s all done, all these books. To sleep now, structurally sound. Splendid spirit shape.

(4/15/13)

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isochronal oeno-canticle

8/5/12 — Friday night.  Well, mine.  Thinking only of verse.  But more so, in moment instant, enveloped in this blend.  Its contents, hardly mattering.  Vintage, unimportant.  I’m just enjoying being a writer tonight.  Didn’t set my alarm, this A.M., as I planned.  But tomorrow, 6am.  Yes.  Doing so, this time.  Véraison, spreading throughout the estate, the valley.  I’m being elementally antagonized.  Love it.  The Bottled Ox, may escape his confines.  And if that DOES happen, as I feel it soon will, this “blog” dissolves.  Another pour…

Writing verse with pen, after this stint.  This last glass, with even more of a woo than the previous, the one before that.  Making the writer sleepy.  Lusting for stage, for my words to interact with ears, human vessels.  That’s the musician in ME; the performing poet.  But it’s not so much performing as it is simply READING.  And vice versa.  But all my verses put themselves in tight vices.  Then, I have a new vice: a volumed frame of verse; one meant to be heard.  This has to be my “style,” I’m thinking, since I’m doing so so old.  33, me.  How could that ever be?  Well, it is.  And ditch the expected rhyme, writer…  Another one of my moods.  No patience; can’t wait months for an “album” to be “mixed down.” Now, my Matterhorn.  If I don’t keep Self in climb, I fall.  To creative quietus.  Was just thinking of how many songs I recorded when living in San Ramon.  Know I have those words somewhere, upstairs in Room.  The actual recordings, I’m sure lost.  And I don’t care, as long as the pages can B located.

And the wine, more herbal, more strawberry, raspberry.. some kind of red berry-centered than last night.  Love when wines taste better on night next.  Better for page.  Especially when I’m inked, not typed.  Ox, nevermore bottled.  I’m wild.  Streamed, mild.  Needing an actual page.  This screen, bugging me, a bit.  Log off, with my jot knots.  I’m ripening.  Finally…  -10:53pm.

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My Friday night, sipping an ’08 Cabernet.  Not sure what to say.  Today, many lines from visitors.  Ready for bed.  Looking over the notes on the little pages; not wasting them here, on “blog.” The first chapbook, ready for release into readership wild.  Need another glass.  Maybe I’ll type another verse.  That’s all I could think of today, on my 1 tour to the mountain’s top.  Tomorrow morning, setting alarm for 5:15am.  Need be awake earlier than us’[ual].  3 songs a day, starting tomorrow.  Don’t want to be on that stage, for a reading, or concert, having material dry spells.

So, this Cabernet…  Somewhat what I envision in my future’d style.  But, I need a little more electricity.  This one, seems a bit sedated.  Oh, speaking of winemaking.. Kaz told me last night that we are 100% on for making our SB this vintage.  He told me at the end of his daughter’s wedding reception, after I approached him.  At such occasion, of course, I drank mostly beer.  But either way, I have 1 winemaking project LOCKED-in for this vintage.  Need to meet with the sis professor, see what we’ll be doing, if anything.  Why do I want to keep making wine?  To BE with wine, the varietals I love.  Not merely represent them, sell them [like those slimy swamp infections at the box].  I want to always be on the Artist’s side of this borderline.

In this last glass, I’m like a commuter with a FasTrak.  Scurry to the next day, with my morning mocha at my ink cannon’s right.  Still haven’t had my glass..  Just took my first sip, in a couple minutes.  Seems to be losing a bit of its spunk.  Need to visit St. Francis, either tomorrow or day next.  That Malbec, that Meritage.. calling.  But can’t spend money.  Not now.  Need my business in business flight patterns.  I would rather not be, than be one of those social fleas speaking of what they WOULD do if they’d done something prior, or embellishing in what they do; or just bolding lying.  I’ll soon be in my office, either on the Embarcadero or nearer by.  Writing way to seat with view.  Dismissing all critical you’s.

(7/29/12)

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Why I want to make wine?  I want my wine presence to sway symphonically with my writing ways.  IT annoys me when people merely talk about wine as if they’re more knowledgable that any walking around the blocks with them.  Just because you’ve been collecting “for years” doesn’t make you an expert on wine.  And if you know so deeply what makes a masterful bottle, then why don’t you produce one?  Not going to make it through this entry’s end, as thoughts of these people, this type, just anger and exhaust me.  Wish I had one of those beers that Beth brought to work, today.  The acid of this wine, telling me I should have had it with the burrito.  Maybe I need to switch to that Carignane.  OR one of my Cabs.  No, this bottle’s contents are starting to even, develop a delectable [much I hate that word] grip about it.  Pouring another glass for Self.

Why do I want to make wine–No, why DO I make wine?  Because I want to participate in wine’s process, not merely represent it.  And then devilishly sell it.  Like he said a couple days ago, it’s a choice.  I’ve made mine.  Artistry 4ever.  Like my little big sister/Winemaking professor.  Think I might need to clock out early.  Went to sleep last night quite late.  I’ll finish this last glass, see what chords from it I’m able to pull.

Still awake, 11:11p.  Feels though the clock should display something later.  More  forwarded numbers.  Have the compulsion to watch a scary movie.  Hate that phrasing.  A “phantasmagoric horror” film.  The new gig, at SV Winery, starting soon.  I’ll be 33 in 4 days.  Time passing faster.  Feel like it’s winning the war.  Need to keep writing.  Might need another glass of the Franc.

Think I have an idea, after watching a news segment on an artist.  Her approach is to expose EVERYTHING in her existence.  Like a maximum marketing advance, by way of her Craft.  Returns me to the thought/approach of me being the brand.  Think I finally solved the Equation.  Would have another glass of the C-Franc, but I’m getting more depleted as minutes maneuver past perception.

But then I realize wine only carries so much melody.  Only page holds potential to tell what’s in my circulatory, mental.  Only minutes from sleep, those dreams.  When I wake, writing…  To my script, no one else’s.  Especially no pig winery exec’s.  vinoLit, Literary till stilled… [5/25/12]

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fate, a wined warrant [act 2]

10:22pm.  Want to be done with night writing by 11p.  Is that wrong, that I eventually want to stop writing, just relax?  Have the Comp Book next to author, in case the urge surfaces.  Wine 2 for night, another Cab, more eased, transitional, scenic than pour 1.  Need another glass, now I’m in thought.  But what would that do?  What would Kelly say?  I have to work in morrow’s early marrow.  So, when in doubt…  Another pour of the ’07.  Whoops, wasn’t supposed to disclose.  Reading over this morning’s verses.  Inspired to be on stage.  Collecting pieces for Self, my new mission.  Not for a publisher, not for a book-length project.  Just for me.  My Self.  I AM the material, the manuscript.  Don’t have to spend the biz stash on a chapbook of poems.  I walk in rhyme, I find…  Have always.

Tiring, I won’t lie.  Need that last glass of wine, here at 10:29[pm].  Still incensed by the character, poking at Artists.  How is someone like Mike Madigan just supposed to sit still, stay silent?  I can’t.  That’s not how I was raised.  I know the wine industry would love for my to stretch invisible mind tape over my chatterbox.  But, Dad always told me, “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you…others are dying to think for you.” Others want to talk about others, how they write…  I just want to write.  Why are some so hungry to judge?  Do their lives lack so palpably?  Shameful.  When I’m his age, I hope I’m either beyond, or comfortably fluid in self-publication.

Just poured the final glass.  Clocking out at 11p, definitively.  This 2nd Cab, evolving into a ballet-like stretch.  What does it want me to think?  Again I think, what is my first vintage doing, right now, in the St. Francis Winery production area?  You know what sounds good now?  A beer.  Racer 5, in fridge…  No.  Need to settle.  And to be frank, I need this page poised.  The Comp Book, at side.  Will make sure my songs continue in revolution.  Want another sip, just like Hemingway, London, Poe, Plath in her  atmospherically ambrosial disclosures, journaled.  What do I do, but pour another glass, adore my druthers’ mast.  My character, waiting on a mezzanine, somewhere in verve.  But where?  Getting my next glass…  From bottle 3.  Feel like I haven’t been taught as much as I’d hoped in this tasting.  True, I’m not at all familiar with chemical intricacies as others, but like Dad told me, I have a palate.  Actually, he said, when I revealed my insecurity of not having the background Katie did, DOES, “You have THE palate.” This should, I hope, be read by those slighting Artists, what we do.  We’re more than merely valid…  Perhaps more so than YOU.

11pm.  Late submission.  Good thing I’m Self-employed with blog, answering only to Self; Dependent upon no corporation, its evil lean, suited troops.  Find distraction so appealing.  This means I need to clock out, now [at 11:04pm].

 

Memory:  In 1997, I think, I was let go early on my last day at a job, for challenging a “supervisor.” She said, “Is this your last day?” I told, confirmed, affirmed, it was.  She threw, “You can go, then.  You’re done.” So funny, I thought.  And I still do, in this “industry.” Wine’s robots, just jesters, for writer amusement.

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