Not stressing as much about not-writing, moments I can’t keyboard, or Carpe-journal.  Remember what you do, record later.  Class tomorrow, and I think I’ll begin with this—  morning’s proving not as irksome with this sleep dep’.. coffee, quite effective, efficient, effulgent, ways I don’t remember it being.

Wine friend of mine on Road pouring in Boston, now NYC.  Already cooking ideas for article, ‘breaking the story’ as the journalists say with Literary intent as I do.  Quelling any Weltschmerz, opening eyes.. that label, that Pinot I tasted, their story.  Following her Road’d narrative like a meal-stripped Kodiak.

For the Sp16 Students—

Freewriting, may just be for the sake of doing so or it may quake to some tremendous composition.  And think of the work more closely, the provinces of the idea, to free-write.  Yes I write it as one word only because I cringe at ever separating the concepts of ‘free’ and ‘write’, even if it’s proper, or some kind of standardized something.  But don’t discount yourself when scribbling erratically in your Composition Books— it could lead to something, it could lead to some remedy…..  It could lead to a sterling stretch of Self-Education (what I believe to be the most truthful form of educating).  Be your own force, in your writing, what ideas you bring to class and share with your colleagues.  Be what YOU know you have to be…

When you write, hope to be out of breath.


1,000 words — barrel 1

Starting with yesterday now, Friday, as I had no time to type yesterday except for in the adjunct hole– immediately after class heading to car but when to wrong lot.  Parked in the spaces opposite side of Solano’s campus.. too much here to explain and far too boring to recount for me so I move.  Move on–  All day yesterday thinking of myself as a wine grape, and vine, and winemaker, budgeting time in my head as I couldn’t scribble while driving, and smelling ferm’ the whole way on 12, nearly.. nearing 3PM I had to decide what to eat, and I didn’t want to ingest any poison from the corporate fastfood dragons as I’ve shamefully done a couple times in weeks recent.. so I stopped at the Safeway on 4th, ordered a turkey&cheddar on soft roll– they didn’t have soft rolls, so then sourdough rolls.  No– “Do you have sliced sourdough?” She grumpily slugged to the other side of the counter, in back by a small fridge, she found some atop, held them, the bagged slices, up saying nothing.  “Great,” I said.  Got to my parked car in shade and devoured it– didn’t get a Coke as I thought of doing but rather a water, holding myself to the recent declaration and affirmation of getting back into running shape.  Finished sandwich, wondering what else the day’s story would tell me as a winemaker, grape or vine– time budget but not too planned, stay poetic and artful and whimsical, let no outside plans or forces fragment your fortitude.  Wanted so bad to call the 200 Mendo class, but no, I stayed on 101 North and again in Geyserville smelled the fermentation but this time with some exponent to it, it was speaking directly to my receptors, telling me to drive on deeper into the wine world and don’t stop, don’t change your vision or direction, to intensify my momentum and don’t secondguess yourself or you’ll never make wine, or write, like my sister said..the day now evermore speaks to me, yesterday the 15th, the Ides of October, it’s midpoint where I gather and inventory and see jazz in the bare vines where so many see desolation and the grapes’ absences, I see promise and new chapters, a finished novel, or memoir, a capture or literary leaps from the soil and the winemakers that translate.  And in class, once finally on campus I exploded with offerings and ideas from Plath’s Jar’d pages, her character Esther in all her emotions and struggles and emotional struggles, I realized that I onward trot in my reflective vineyard Literary lots– memoirs, short fiction novels poetry essay sketch or vignette, it’s all there for me to write.  And driving home, that cruel and challenging Mendocino dark, 101 South, I pretended I was Dad, flying over the North Atlantic after fueling the Passat and rewarding myself and my performance in class with a Dr. Pepper.  And the drive, not as bad as I remember, as it has been I should say the past few times with the nervousness and the closecalls and the lights blinding me and me steering in guess, hoping I stay on the bloody road.  And once in Cloverdale, I could relax (and after a traffic buildup from a flagger, result of a repaving construction project which I get but nonetheless a pain for the Beat adjunct who just wants to get home), sip the Road soda and enjoy my flight.  All yesterday, interesting with the grading in the adjunct hole, the run-in with that staring Math “professor”, the walk in the vineyard before I even really started the Solano drive, and all the meditation on my drives–  I know Plath felt this at so many points in her life, if she were going the right way, at the right speed, and when would the fruit come.  Winemakers are all Plathian in their professional movement, not so much secondguessing Selves but still wrapped in their calculations, and wonderings, wanderings through barrels and which chapters, or lots, best together blend.  But they stay tireless and keep with their aims and visions of the chapters, all the elements accosting them romantically and mythologically, the kalology of that palatable manuscript, vocality for a year and speaking for and to their reactions to conditions.  I want to be one of them and I will–  I already am, seeing each of my classes as a barrel, and this semester a blend, and which barrels do what to the pervasion of the story and the point being made by my typed efforts– all written and all meditated, thought over and under and diagonally with intensity I’ve never felt since now I see and feel the deadline, my daughter here in 59 days.

At the Hopper coffee spot, I sip from a 4 shot bomb and I need it, get these words on yesterday to the screen as it’s been stressing or at the very least perplexing me as to why I can’t detach from the scenes from yesterday glued to the walls of my cogitation.  Some weird writer syndrome I guess.  Tonight I’m planning on opening something but I’m not sure what.  Maybe I should go by bottle barn or– no, save money for writing projects.. but I need material!  NO, save money.  Wine writers can never have enough wine, one mentality, while the other, this current ME, says “there’s gottabe something in the cellar, something you haven’t tried before, something new, something for this YOU.  Save you money for Self-publishing, the business, the expansion.” Later today we have family pictures taken at St. Francis, one of their vineyards, as we did last year, and I know I’ll want to take pictures, or even write but won’t be able to like the drive yesterday but if it sticks as yesterday did, does, then it’s meant to be in prose.

This new character I’m thinking of…  How to carve, craft– compose.  She doesn’t drink wine.  In fact, she doesn’t drink anything, but rather paints, sells her work.  Similar to an old character I used to write, but different.  I need wine to think outside this box I’m now in, I’m thinking as freely as I should be I know even with these four shots of espresso but I’m trying, trying, she walks into her studio and looks at all her materials, all the blank canvases and knows she has to fill them, but how and with what.  That Artist question–  And her name her name what.


7/24/15– notes

Meeting with client, then what.  Writing, whole day to self.  May do short run, but the writer needs time to meditate think in the context of the novel.  6:54AM, and not much in a mood for writing.  So then what.  What am I doing?  Why force?  ‘Cause I can’t sit still.  Not with the words and the streamings of what’s synaptically snapping in my head.  the novel the novel the novel, just like when I was in grad school; go to the fiction seminar then come home to write, all jazzed up but then do nothing with the pages in fact I have now no idea where they are, were, or are, in the garage?  victims of the Autumn Walk move?  Who knows.  But I’m older, much, now, and with a family, with real deadlines.  Used to hate deadlines but I now I clear conceptualize their value and grow from that, the old Chinese wisdom, Lao Tzu, of calm overcoming heat.  The connection not sure but I know there is one and one that will establish the day’s mentality and attitude, my mood which has of late proven to be volatile somewhat.  Symptomatic of writers and their ways, my ways.. the one holding the pen and collecting the pages– if I’m to be a novelist all has to be simple and all has to be contained, have borders.. so…..

On the Road I’ll have–

Hours later, i resume with whatever I thought I had, after meeting and so many wine thoughts and sips I’m confused and convinced that the wine story will show me where to go, exactly and not.  I’m not editing this entry even a little, but writing freely, so freely I’m lawless and chaotic, and defying what there is in way of law.. two Chardonnays I tasted on Healdsburg’s square before my meeting with Glenn, where again I was prompted to futher submerege in the text and subtext of wine’s clefs and frets– but then what, the entanglement of my consciousness becomes even more oceanic in its momentum–  I’m cornering myself for reason;s sake and stabilization, the anchoring of wine’s candid thesis and direction, the papers and novels it wants me to write– so now I sip more of the Sanglier Blanc, a blend of every white varietal under a Sonoma County variable sky– my beat complete and replete with a street’s beat.  And me, the novelist under deadlines always just sipping the new wine that greets him, thinking he can be a winemaker and novelist and journal everything he can– he said, “One fast move, or I’m gone…” And so I feel the same way and drink more, listen to the music of the quiet on the bottom floor of this Autumn Walk spot– distractions that’s it, Emerosn would be mad at me and he should be, and so should Dad, as he once told me that distractions are “death to a goal”.  Those were his precisely realized words, the specified direness of everything, and as a writer it vocals even more, me with my students and my novel just haunts me and makes me drink more of this white blend of 53 varietals– I just use sarcasm as a way to cope, and with what, who knows, this narrative is directionless, and I am on my Road, in these studies and always jealous of the students and those that get to travel for work, you know the ones that say “Oh I just got back from a trip to North Carolina for a week, and then Florida after that…” Just heard someone say that to me, so placidly, and I was angered or envious I don’t know I just saw the Road for me and become hellish in my realization of accepted regularity–  staring at the wall, the wainscoting, the patterns have me distracted– nothing in this room wants me to write.  So I fight, for my sanctum, and my sanity, and the stabilized penning of my Now, the Newness and the Road’s varying light, what happened?  but I’m calm, not at all overheated, or understated, but what am I truly, that’s the novel’s goal determining that so I’m destined to be flat and failed– my beat piles on a cold floor.  This white blend, telling me to go further into wine’s heave, but for what I ask, what if I stopped–  I need sleep now, the adjunct, the tremens, that’s a career right? 

another note

Home.. told myself I wouldn’t write and that I’d just relax but I can’t, too much on mind with this bottledaux for the Bottled Ox–  Full from dinner, the Orange Chicken Alice fixed.. sleeping downstairs as Jack has already occupied our bed, too hot in his little quarters.. need A/C for the A-Walk fort, and soon, as warmer temps are suggested for the coming days.  Putting everything into the bottle, this Literary Ox, AND logging everything that concerns wine, and food, my Lit approach to wine MUST entail food as well, I’m finding, which means I need to teach myself to cook, and fast, find my own moveable feasting of sorts…

10:12.. going to sleep earlier than I usually do, and I need to, more sleep for the writer and more of a Literary discipline, with waking and writing and having a certain wordcount before I walk out the door.  Thinking about it, everything, me a blogger and now a more vocal one– but, I don’t know, taking things, Life, in a different way.  Toward TOTAL Wellness…..


Too tired for the novel

and, or, its journal. Now wine tonight, not a drop, so I’ll sleep well I’m imagining and I’ll wake gorgeously early to type away on the Massamen novel. Will it be done by the 14th? Well… it has to be. I keep thinking “It has to be 200 pages, or 300, or something paramounting…” But I write what I write in that time, that’s when its due, and that’s it. So there will be a printed MS by 6/14. I have to teach myself better project management.
Back at the winery tomorrow and I’m looking to write at the Yulupa coffee spot after taking little Kerouac to school. Oh.. and I won’t give up short standalones, fictive and or non. The novel is my grand project, I think of it like these actors that work on sitcoms but work on a movie in whatever spare time they pin. In fact, a piece of flash, or rather micro fiction before bed, after this entry. Time now’s 10:02, and I can’t wait for bed as I’m sure I’ll early wake for some writing and some thinking, reading some of those Kerouac dreams– and print pages soon– and officially kill the other blog, the teaching blog, and then go further into wine’s story.

This thought of wine and how finally I have control over its story and thematic makeup, and how to place it in my story and it has nothing to do with the act of sipping, tasting or drinking, but just observation, how so many walk into the room with this blank canvas or palette, and with that I see and I hear and my senses are elevated as they are now– empowered isn’t the word, but more of a voluminous story compounded somewhat cubist-like.. not sure it rings any bells for any of the readers, but I’m getting somewhere I know with my story, with the shorts (my TV show, if you would), then the novel, my movie.. This can be done this will be done it is done.

3 days till 26.
I mean 36.


living in syn

6/20/12.  Thought of ending blog at year’s close, writing with a definitively universal organic approach, meaning only pen, paper..  has to be done.  Think the blogging may be hurting me more with each “post.” Reason I’m going to write for bottledaux till 2013’s doorstep, so I can have a year’s cellar-worth of material for books’ purpose.  Don’t want to be blogging, especially “wine blogging,” in my mid/late-30s.  I’m an Artist, and want to create, breath only for Art.  Picasso didn’t have a blog, so why should I have one?  I’ve said this I-don’t-know-how-many times prior to this sitting…  No author I follow, have studied [in books, not on conveniently mindless websites] had a blog, or website.  And yes, I hope to one day be in their league.  Was funny today, some of the lines from guests I put into my little book.  They won’t ever be found on this “wine blog.” Only in a later printed project.  And that’s another reason I find this web journal, or log, or whatever “title” you’d it award, so harmful to me: it’s much too convenient, far too immediate.  And honestly, the thought’s not even worth a “post.” Topic next …

Tonight’s wine, an ’08 Cab from SV Winery.  Haven’t had a first glass yet.  But I’m excited to see what’s waiting in that bottle.  Was opened yesterday, in the tasting Room.  Couldn’t believe how hot it was today.  And the vines, it seems, can’t get enough of the sun’s scenes.  Katie leaves day after morrow’s, for France.  So I won’t have a chance to meet with her on 11MKCS.  No matter.  And yes, I realize I used to write “MKCS11.” First sip of tonight’s CS, rich wild berry, coupled with chocolate, maple, vanilla and white pepper.  Almost feminine jazz singer-like tannins.  The nose, enough to coerce another kiss.  Its chroma: deep, evasively magnetic; enigmatic; dark purplish violet angles, edges; mystic, cryptic.

6/21/12.  And finally, most of the symptoms have fled.  Can’t remember the last time I had food poisoning.  Had to call into SV Winery.  Luckily, my tasting Room manager’s a nice guy, and there was no friction or suspicion like with Dry Creek Winery.  Now, I’m at keys, sipping water and Diet Coke.  Most of the day, been in bed.  You never value life like when your health is challenged.  But either way, I’m in session.  The Self-publishing, has to wait.  Simply, I can’t afford it.  So, like I reasoned on one of my Napa Literary Lunches: “all2blogz.” It’s all I can do, momentarily.  And I am writing, somewhat “publishing.” And this log will forever be more Literary than wine-wound.

But just my energy re-ferments, I tire.  May lay down, just for a bit.  No way I’m missing another day of work tomorrow.  Definitely no wine tonight, and maybe for a short while.  This little spell has me thinking about my habits on and off page.  Taking a break, for some of the Jello Mom brought over.  What all this means, since waking incredibly ill and uncomfortable this morning, for a writer: re-evaluation.  No morning mocha, either, in morning.  My new habit; expressed discipline.  These Wine Bar beats on the Thievery Corporation station urge me to clock out, go downstairs, relax.  But, carry the little notepad with.  Would much rather be at work, analyzing all characters, entertaining ways I can use them in this newest of book ideas…  More than anything: BOOKS.  Not blogs.  But the blog, all this independent penman can muster from budget.  IDEA! .. Watch a writing movie…  Pulling “Crashing” from cabinet here in desk.  Want to see how the main character, Richard, put his project together, living with those two girls.  And when he was done, he left.  Thinking the same will be true with me, the wine industry.

6/22/12.  Friday.  “Or maybe not,” I realize in response to my concluding line above.  The wine industry, much too fun, as I’m making it my own–that lifelong learning leap.  So glad the food poisoning’s force has left.  But, I’M left exhausted.  When I arrived at the winery this morning, I didn’t think I’d make it through the shift’s stretch, to be honest.  But, here I am, after the 8 hours.  No wine tonight, and obviously none last.  Hoping I’ll have the wherewithal, tenacious strike to rise 5.5 hours after laying down, like Mr. Barleycorn.  I need to finish this project, otherwise I’ll never be heard, I’m feeling in my reflective repose.

Was in such a struggled and strained stride today, after yesterday’s depleting constituent skirmish, I didn’t scribble a single scratch in the little book’s pages, today.  It’s fine, I’m at the keys now.  The spoken word pieces, still being scribbled.  Makes me think of Plath’s entries again [my spoken word projects], how they never seem to stop.  Till they actually do.  Almost all I thought of yesterday, confined to mattress…  What if my entries were suddenly stopped?  Hate thinking like this, but as a WRITER & ARTIST [not wine blogger] I have to.  If yesterday’s episode would have been more than just a simple food-centered toxic interlude, how would my pages be seen?  Makes me realize I need to get more serious than ever concerning organization, consolidation.  And, most importantly, RELEASE/dissemination.  Page sales.  Again, reader, sorry to broach this discussion plain, but yesterday showed me that my scribed saunter is subject to uneven Equilibrium.  So, now, more writing.  Only solution.

Today’s weather, beyond odd.  Last night’s “exiting chills,” as I called them in the little book just a skip over 24 hours ago, only a blink or 2 before sleep, seemed to return this morning, walking out into teasing rain.  Felt like the soft needled drops were telling me to stay home, write.  “I can’t,” I remember telling the them, in the safety of sovereign secluded thought.  So, the whole day, my cognition was knotted.  Pleasantly perplexing.  Now, I’m able-bodied to the point of penning prose.  But not too much.  Need more sleep.  Hoping tomorrow holds a bit more sun for those rows at the winery.  Just thinking about those forming clusters, the wines I pour in the tasting Room, the reactions from guests…  “The industry” will never be rid of the writer.  Picasso persona..  Bona sera …  [9:59pm]

habitual anchor

Wrote a sovereign piece today.  3 pages, 1000+ words.  To book project.  Or, “idea,” really.  No wine this night.  As tired as I sit here, I’m planning on a late session, and early rise session.  J. Barelycorn’s ways, still very much on mind.  So thankful for the cooled atmosphere on Sonoma’s side.  The vines are too, I’d imagine.  Finishing a verse in Comp, and plan on more verse–mostly verse, actually–tonight, while under sheets.  Want to dive deeper into fictitious frames, though…

Thinking of tasting Rooms, the different shapes they take.  Not entirely sure what to do with these thoughts, so I think of characters I’ve met in different Rooms; the different shapes they take; attitudes, habits, pet peeves.  The different appearances a counter, or bar, can present to a visitor.  I love the symbol of a bar, what both sides represent, how wine’s present in different forms on those two sides.  “Wine education,” just find that humorous.  Not sure why.  Sounds so self-elevating, indulgent, to me.  The tasting Room, theoretically, entails openness, exploration, a certain innocence.  Why is it elementally and atmospherically re-blended in so many cases?  Not what wine should be.  BUT, it offers much needed material for this penner.

8:19pm.  Not a bad day for writing.  Glad I printed the day’s 3 pages.  Finally.  Hope to stay in that habit.  Using the laptop as more of a typewriter.


6/19 – 7:37am.  Only Comp Book, today.  No typing, I won’t allow it.  Only song, stream-of-conscious diarist rhyming.  What I’ll speak into the mic, on stage, in some café.  Woke feeling incredibly Artful, Musical.  So, only song.  Like 2Pac, 3 tracks due by day’s end.  AT LEAST.  Coffee cooking downstairs.  No coffee brothel visit, except to get Alice her hot chocolate.  Want those 14 track for the album gathered by end of this week.  And I want to keep collecting.  As an Artist, I want my pieces gathered into their own little legions.  Swarms, feel a better term.  Sometimes, most times, I’m pushed to write away from wine.  This music, MY music, I want to be me, and if wine’s part of it, then so be.  But the priority is capturing what’s in my head at the time.  Like right now, my desk’s surface stands covered in clutter.  First couple sips, ready to write.  Starting Self here, in this entry…  “Situate my sense in a stimulating sarcophagus, no retreat, my body’s just..”

NOTE: go through winery notes in little pages

6/16 – poured

Grandma’s birthday.  Wondering how much I’ll have written at 90, if I’m here that long.  Detoxifying with some home-heated coffee, to prepare for run.  Have to wait for sun’s lowering.  Far too hot right now for a run, and I’m not even thinking of trying.  Spoke with Katie about our wine.  She did top with the Petite Sirah, and might employ some method to adjust the acid level.  Can’t remember what it’ called, but I’ll text her to find out.  We also talked about the ’07 Syrah bottle at the table, how its profile was holding up.  Katie offered, “Not as nice as the ’06,” which surprised me.  I took home a bottle to analyze tonight, as next year I’m hoping to make my Syrah production debut.  Also bought an issue of WineMaker Magazine, to re-ignite my winemaking studies tonight.  Each day, at least one note in that little black book [my winemaking diary].

Power off.  Heat must be taking a higher toll than I before measured.  There’s one note I can scribble into the little notepad.  Hoping vintners didn’t trim too much at this early stage.  Katie’s preparing for a France trip next Friday, with some other winemakers.  Happy for her, but a fiddle envious as well.  In the mood for some spoken word, in this ovened darkness.  Will write when I sip the ’07 Sonoma County Rhône…  Peace.  OH, before I go, I’m collecting 14 tracks for the spoken word album, and I’ve amassed 7 thus far.  I’ll be back on stage, one way, by end of next month, when I’ve stocked enough lines to offer any potential Artistic collision.


10:45pm.  Ran 2.5, walked the very same back to castle.  The Syrah, with a determined depth.  Smoother than I’d think an ’07 Syrah would show, but maybe I need to study my varietal more closely.  Tonight, finishing the songs I’ve set before Self.  And after this glass, need a couple H2O shots, some music.  Off with this infernal screen, its imbecilic shows.  Tomorrow morning, early up.  No prose; no blogs, nothing for any book project, or idea.  Only verses.  My Literary music “genre,” much I deplore the word.

A Diet Coke sounds incredible right now, too.  Would be better for the writing, the caffeine.  But if I need to wake early–  Bored of this session.  Syrah, maybe that should be my champion varietal, not Cabernet, or SB.  Just want to see my bottles on shelves, just as I the same wish for my books.  Money in the winemaking envelope, but not enough.  Nowhere near enough, actually.  Still want to do that Sauv Blanc with Kaz…  Starting to think that I should have it be 90 stainless, 10 oak, moderated lees contact.  Want my wines to haunt sippers, follow them like curses; I want them inescapable; I want people to feel eagerness to open them, yet trepidation in the not-so-subtle compulsion to hang on to them, save them for some occasion special.  And the labels, not sure what I want them to look like, but I’d like them simple, like Scarecrow.  We’ll see …