transient writer talk

1000 words, logged.  No more mocha, morning in decline.  Working at St. Francis from 12-5p.  Excited, as I need the money and writing material.  All works out.  Feel like I have nothing else in me to write.  Time, 10:16am.  Have to start getting ready at 11.  Again, reminded of Literary Lunches in Napa.  Miss it, and don’t.  Don’t know what I feel this morning.  Maybe I’m off from an actual night of regular sleep, last night.  On my second writing movie for morning.  All of these writers have something, at least one character chord, in common with me.

Should be busy today, last day of a holiday weekend..  So, hopefully that’ll help.  Hopefully I’ll get a tip or two.  Speaking of, have to count publishing stash upstairs.  The new one, that is.  The one I’m not touching.  No matter how dire my straits bubble.

Class starting in 2 days.  Can’t believe it.  All day tomorrow, has to be for project R.  Printing, copying.  So much on mind, maybe that’s making me, the returning professor, tired this morning, after a 4-shot mocha.  And there, again, I don’t feel like writing.  Want to be lazy.  Wish I could.  Not with a son…

Hope I can get some grape pics today, before they’re picked.  This harvest, vintage, mine.  Have to push through stalls, any & all, with that ideology.  There’s nothing strange about this, Mike.. this is what you do– WRITE.

Might stop by the store on way to winery, to pick up a legal pad.  Not sure why, won’t make me write any better, or faster.  If anything, it’ll perpetuate the habit of scatter.  So, there.  Decided.  No legal pad.  Just write in the comp book.  Someone wrote “WASH ME” on the rear window of my car, backwards so I’d see it prominently when looking into my rearview mirror.  “I know,” I this morning thought to myself, seeing the message on the way to get my morning manuscript mocha.  Whatever I want it to be, these diaries.  So, onward.  Maybe the wine world’s helping me more than I realize, with all its idiosyncrasies, contradictions and wage constrictions.  All for me, the page, I meditate in this morning meditation.  10:32am, head start on getting ready–

(9/3/12, Monday)

Gathering pages.  Chore.  Not as much fun as I thought it’d be.  What did I expect?  Did I think making a living as a page person would be easy?  Indoors, in my home.  No stimulation.  None.  Need to get outside.  Travel.  All targets on list chirping to my unseen sensory slate.  Have to take notes when in tasting Room, always.  All days, shifts.  Business cards need changing, just realized.  Always promoting bottledaux, but 1Stop’s the first site seen next to my name.  Sorry, reader.  Just in a bad mood.  But why?  [Thinking this should be something for the Comp Book..]

Miss the Literary Lunches from when I worked at the box, downtown Napa.  Putting together an email list, not that that’s a Literary act, but I’m hoping to shoot a newsletter-type effort to contacts accumulated.  Again, not sure I want to follow through with this, but I’m thinking about it.

Ready to work today?  Think so.  On a material hunt, as always.  So, just so I can point out my intentions: I’m in spy mode, looking to capture characters, their moments, for this writing.  12:32pm.  Clocking out, prepare 4 departure.  Pen, pocketed.  Need to get new mini-pages at store.  New ink cartridge settling in printing, printing test page.  Annoying.  Ugh, and this desk’s surface.  rubble

7:04pm.  Home.  St. Francis wines always re-invigorate my passion for wine, winemaking.  Brought a bunch of tech cards home with me.  Sipping one of the Sierra Nevada Torpedos I bought the other night, when Mom and Dad came over.  This will be my last post of the day, as I just want to play with words, rhyme crazily.  Be truly Artistic.  Tired, for some reason.  Thinking committing a Barleycorn session tomorrow morning.  Which means, no wine tonight, after this beer.  And probably one more.  Thinking again about the email blast, or mailing list, or newsletter.  Just doesn’t sync with what I want to be as an Artist.  I want my son’s to have a pure Artist father; one who only creates, 8+ hours a day.  Travels, reflects on those travels; takes risks.  Not some pseudo-scribe/marketing block.  No.  I’m Poe.  I’m Plath.  Joyce, Faulkner, Kerouac, London.  Shakur.

Took a picture with my phone, of a view from SFW’s “Syrah Patio.” Love this wine capsule in which I live, write, sip, sing.  No where else for an Artist like me 2B.  I’m talking about permanency, not saying I wouldn’t like to spend a couple weeks in distant cities; Paris, Milan, Lisbon, Madrid, South Africa, Australia.  Need something to eat.  Dizzy…

After a little in writer’s core, coupled with this second [and last for night] beer, I’m ready for page.  Before I lose memory, wanted to share 1 character I met in Kunde tasting Room the other day.. mid-50s man, training for half-marathon; wine club member, but hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in over 3 months, was picking up his shipment, planning on giving it to friends.  His race isn’t till July of next year, and he’s sharply devoted to not having a single solitary sip till after crossing race’s end-line.  Admire him more than I have time 2 here write.  In these final lines, I’m just again letting it B known.. writing my way to inner & outer peace, from the peace I now find, in this sitting, submerged in my moments.  (7/23/12)

B track

Seven minutes till I need separate from the desk.  These lonely keys.  One coffee in circulation.  Just emailed some info, and picture, to magazine editor.  Interested to see where that leads…  I’m also interested to try the ’09 Cuvée, Alexander Valley, that I brought home last night.  95% Cab, 5 Merlot.  May be a little young, but with all the French oak it saw, and some breathing time here in base, it should be a treat.  A welcomed oeno-shock.  I’ll taste it, sipNscribble, 2nite.  Five more minutes…  Why am I counting down?  Time wins that way.  Don’t want to be anywhere but in session, writing, today.  The Starbucks, or any coffee house [Napa Valley Roasting Company!] time warp.  When at work, I can’t work.  Not on what I want.  I want all my life’s nanoseconds in these entries.  That’s my fantasy.  Yes, wine would be there, sometimes.  But this is a Literary aim.  An Art thing.  NOTHING to do with wine.

Now, I hear more cars speed by, all going to work, I’m sure.  How many of them have passion for their “duties?” How many are miserable?  How many have dreams, still, and may be at an age where they’re considering accepting defeat, that they may never swim in that envisioned body?  Makes me sad, and sick thinking about it.  No one should be kept from their picture, their film.  Their purposed role…  Soon, I’ll be like my Dad, in flight, joyously asking himSelf, “I’m paid to do this?” as he deconstructs cloud shapes, looks down at our ground.

Business cards, who knows where in corporate America’s channels they are.  As I step over the time’s bordered, I’m in a responsibility demilitarized zone.  Should I just keep typing, make some character notes for her, or get in the shower, get ready for responsibility, “professionalism?” Shouldn’t phrase it like that, this new assignment in AV’s been more than generous, supportive with me.

Do I have time for a mocha?  No.  Well, I will, but I’m not letting Self have one.  Refusal of the coffee brothel’s tempt.

(3/21/12, Wednesday)

2/19/12, entry’d

Now I feel better.  Typed a poem I wrote yesterday, while walking in St. Francis’ Wild Oak Vineyard, into this chapbook project I’ve started.  Working today at Kaz, and having Mr. Jack here at home with us, shows me I can’t change my mind.  And I shouldn’t.  Creative Wine Writing, in chapbook form, could lead me somewhere.  No, IT WILL.  Jack tells his father to go forward.  Don’t turn around.  Press peddle, forcefully.  Nice guests in the tasting Room today, a shift unusually busy this time of year.  Met a lot of people from my old neighborhood, all over the Bay Area, notably San Francisco, and all over the country, world.  Met a couple from Morocco/France (he: Moroccan; she: French).  Everyone came to sip, talk, learn.  Positive, peaceful.  The pace, not as overwhelming as yesterday’s, but still impressively consistent.

Tonight, no wine for me.  May have enjoyed a bit 2much for my first sipNscribble in a while, last night.  Either way, I’m here at the keys, tired from these days back at the bar.  Not even listening to music.  But that’ll change when I open the Comp Book to scribble some rimes.  Going to check on Sir Jack, fetch Self a Ginger Ale.  Do I have any in the fridge?  Was my mocktail of choice at the hospital.  Looking at the sessions titled “Nonfiction” I wrote in earlier than early hours, both before and after he was born, all on that 3rd hospital floor.  Life has remolded for me, beneficially.  Joyously.  Calls for a toast.  Ginger Ale…

Raising can…  Tomorrow, back behind St. Francis’ counter.  Was smitten by all the new releases, other wines I hadn’t tried.  I do plan on another vineyard walk, carrying the little notepad, taking pictures.  As I with the Literary Lunches in downtown Napa, I’ll so sequence with the block saunters during my 30.

Kate and Joy, from San Francisco, with their new Kaz bottle ...

Not trying for 1000 words tonight.  And honestly, I don’t want that count.  Not aiming for it.  Don’t need it.  Don’t see a need for it.  Want to just leap from this device to the incomparably organic Literary process–ink, paper.  Even the Comp Book’s lines unsettle me a little.  Next journal, just a brick of blank canvas.  A boldly inviting page stack.  Lines, emblematic of strict direction.  Don’t want my writing to be ordered to excessive pattern, or any routine, map.  That’s ridiculous.  Want these pages boldly, even obnoxiously, ARTful.  I see my paragraphs at their truest when cubist.

Car Writing

Foggy this morning.  A car on each side of my XA.  Ducks wading in directions not-at-all planned, in the at my 12.  May have found a new writing spot for mySelf.  Was going to entrench this AM’s writing at the coffee shop where I bought my morning mocha.  But, now I say thankfully, all seats taken.  To my left, view obstructed by the Mercedez SUV next me, a house, possibly for boat rentals, paddle boats.  The ducks disperse, like my concentration.  Just heard Canadian geese.  No visual, though.  There’s a peace to this writing arrangement that I’ve never before tasted.  Funny thinking about where I was writing a week ago, this time of day, versus now.  The Autonomy, addictive.  My new preferred poison.  A lady walks her dog toward the lake.  Stops at one of the picnic tables, has the attentive golden retriever hop onto the splintered surface.  She waits for her friend, pulling a black lab.  The golden hops down, greets its friend with gentle, cautious, nose touches, comforting pats.  All, humans and K9, set to have a relaxed day, starting with their fog walk by the lake.

Before I switch to pen to paper, felt the need to warm up with an entry.  Meeting at AV Winery at 1p.  Should go till about 3p I’m thinking I was told.  This morning’s mocha, nothing like the Roasting Company’s.  Going to miss that part of my day, the Literary Lunches on 1st & Main.  But that’s about all I’ll miss from that chapter and sector.  As a couple mallards paddle towards the docks, I realize I don’t have their meandering luxury.  Have to stay focused.  Especially now.  No wine tasting today.  None.  No SB, Syrah, Cab, Rhônes.  Nothing.  Lots of runners, here in Howarth Park.  Reminding me I need to step at some point today.  My run on Sunday, compromised by the little wine I sipped at Kaz.  Want to see how long I can distance Self from wine, tangibly.  I’ll write about it, obviously, as it’s universally Literary, artistically formatted.  Just not sip.  Going to test mySelf.  Change character, for the writing, for my characters.

So now, pen2paper.  The novel.  Have those printed pages next to me, in my black bag.  Don’t want to edit too much, or make obnoxious exponential additions.  Want it to stand like an unfiltered wine, barely oaked/manipulated.  I want it representative of its moments; my stream of thought at THAT moment.  See the Canadian geese, in the distance, finally.  They, more staunch, authoritative in their patterns.  Telling me something, with this project, the novel.  “Don’t waste time!  Any!  Not even a halfbreath!” they order.  Closing the monster.  Jumping from its buttons to ink, line.  Autonomy, finally.  Free in breeze – bird of prey, frowning down from trees.  An author, now in ease.  Relaxed in fog grip.  Spirit taxed, but I’ve not slipped.

Living from my spoken word, in constant nomadic travel spazzes…  Thought.  May not work on the novel in a minute.  Or will, who knows.  Perhaps a new shift.  Character working hard, in wine’s surreptitious “industry,” only seeing poetry.  In everything.  The corks, bottles, pours, characters (coworker, guest), winemaking, vineyard, surrounding natural intricacies.  Everything.  He puts together some short collections, 35-40 page chapbooks.  Sells them, does some readings, gets recognized, he can leave work, give notice so he can finally be noticed.

1/31/12, Tuesday

Saturday’s Ides

12:39p.  Literary lunch, but on Saturday.  At Starbucks on 12 and Mission.  Glare from ricocheting sun, from floor tile, bothering me here in the back.  Mocha2.  No prompt for this session, just to ingest all around me, let all these characters fall into the consciousness river.  Two ladies at 12, early forties, talking about goings-on in each other’s family, I think.  Have wined beats playing, but not loud.  So a little detected dialogue.  Two ladies at the small circular wooden table to my left.  One in a chair, the other, next to me, on this long cushioned booth seat.  Another man, older, at my 1, reads the papers, with a small cup of steaming black.  He too looks so eased by the Saturday reality.  Another character, an attractive 20-something blonde, at my distant 2:45, sips a drink through a straw, probably not to stain her teeth.  Not a cold cup, as it’s not in a transparent container.  She reads a book.  Also with little concern, like I and the 1 o’clock role.  Weekends, some living solely for their days off.  I won’t be that way, ever.  I hope.  Each day’s a working stint, something worthy of capture, for the page.  The lady next to me dumps sugar into her coffee, three packets.  Stirs it like there’s a rush.  She laughs with her friend, before the friend gets up to get a napkin.  The lady to my right, not on the cushion but at a singular table, types on a calculator, for her math homework, in a workbook of some kind.  Probably mid-40s, back to school.  Can’t help but feel happy for her, strangely proud of her.

Only 2 shots in my fuel.  Don’t think I can talk another 3.  Haven’t written here in years. The last time I had a sitting here was, I think, three years ago, just after xmas.  It was pen-to-paper.  Poetry, spoken word.  Yes, I remember getting that Poetry Speaks book, bringing it with me.  On a collection mission, with my verses.  Recent and past.  Again, staggered by how much I’ve written.  This truly is my theology.  These words, pages.  The language, the authors, books, thoughts, Exchange of Ideas.  Planning on leaving this coffee shop around 2p, which gives me, currently, 6 minutes with an extra hour.  Love weekend Lit Lunches, in their more accommodatingly situated frame.

No wine for a while, for me.  Empowered, even though I miss a varietal’s kiss.  This is out-of-character for me, something I’ve wanted to try for a while.  Probably why I’m enjoying it so much.  Man just set a bag down, table at right.  Feel too constricted, enclosed.  Do I leave, or stand ground?  His role: late 40, academic wardrobe, like he teaches math or Anthro at SSU.  Miss the classRoom, every time I mention anything studious or scholarly.  He returns, only to pull his table away from mine.  He stands with his newspaper, rocking slightly back and forth.  Not as settled as the surrounding cast.  He stands, minutes after entering space.  He reads, rocks, flips page, continues in teetering waves.

Have to use the restroom, but don’t want to surrender this seat.  Could ask the ladies left to watch my spot.  But I’m not that trusting, proudly.  The 12 o’clock ladies depart.  I dash…  No, halting Self.  Don’t want to be rude.  But what do I care?  Then, the professor’s wife sits next to me.  She points to the ladies’ table.  They rise, take possession of it.  Then change mind, take the table in front of the blonde.  Interesting.  Wife pushes chair along the tiles, about twenty feet or so, awakening all present, even me over music from my phones.  Even more interested.

[1/21/12 – Sa]


12:58p.  Left office at 12:47.  Just now sitting to write, as I was confronted with stalls.  But here I am.  Read through the first three pages of my book at my desk.  Not as bad as I was expecting.  In fact, the prose’s consistency and thematic progression is surprisingly engaging.  My mocha, in a pint glass.  Hot, like it wants to be heard, seen, like it’s angry that it deserves more attention.

Quite a few cubeNOTES scribbled.  My thoughts this morning, till now, tidal waves of sight.  Like my visions multiply, promising proximal tangibility.  At the back table.  Think this may be my new favorite writing spot in the café.  A young woman sits, sips in my usual seat.  She types on her laptop, but not at a pace which indicates anything Creative, reflectively Literary.  More like the composition of an email.  I could be wrong, though, as I often am.

The Cabernet, still on concentration’s operating table.  Know just how I would market it, if I was to sell.  Not this first vintage.  Shame, as it tasted sovereignly sculpted to my palate, the particular palates of Mom and Dad.  Tonight, printing three more pages.  Have a drop-dead due date for my ms: 3/19/12, exactly two months from today.  Will keep this promise, as I did the countdown at the end of mikeslognoblog, and as I fantasize about receive acceptance from a publisher.  Yes, I boast as a Self-publishing writer.  And I am.  But, this first book I want to disseminate and market traditionally.  Going to prove to my Self that my writing’s at such a level.  Going to show everyone the same.  Want to see it on shelves, do signings, TRAVEL.  Write while I travel.

That winemaker I met on Tuesday, his words, following me, my scribbles, following me to this small wooden chair, here by the bean bar.  He went ahead and did all his way.  Took tremendous risks that paid, brought what he envisioned.  Fruitful fruition.  Now, he travels with his bottled projects.  His stories.  I’m not far behind.  I’ve written too much, far too much to be stationary, for all my pages to just be stored on some “doc,” or shoved into that plastic container in the closet, under far reaches of work shirts.

1:12p.  35 minutes.  Is that right?  Typing fast, so math’s a bit strenuous.  It’s difficult when I’m relaxed, still.  Haven’t touched the spoken word yet, today.  For when I’m back at the desk, between tasks.  May have found a couple readings, casual open mics of interest, here in Napa.  But, my exhaustive ridiculous commute, how it squeezes my time like morning oranges, has me wondering if that’d be optimal time use.  Of course it would, it’s Literary.  Time, just passing, but these entries, shorter works (yes, that includes my novel, as it won’t be some trashy Twilight book-length effort, an aircraft carrier or tanker’s anchor of paper).  Brevity, where wit sits.  Is at my table, or that girl’s, over there?  Now I’m certain she’s not a writer, as she’s mousing around some site, with her left index finger skating around.  Am I a writer?  How do I know?  I don’t have a book out.

But I will.

[1/19/12 – Th]

Thinking of artistic independence, the same way a winemaker would their own Autonomy.  What should I do?  And I need to come to a serious decision.  One final, resolute.  This web log, journal, one approach.  Perhaps THE path for page profit.  Currently, there is no surplus for shotgunning several submissions.  But, I’m quite sure, I need to send out sample chapters.  I should, just to see what results.

Just put some entries from mikeslognoblog into the book.  At 64k+ words.  Won’t go an inch past 80.  Or 75.  Who would read that much of my writing, I have to ask.  I’ll put in 80, edit and blend down from there.  Beautiful day, looking out the windows of my parents’ house.  Never written like this here before.  Love the light, the shot of that hill, thick expanse of the trees, upward.  That little red barn over there.  This scene beckons poetry more than prose, I feel.  Feeling quite bardic…  Something to recite on stage.  Something to market, sell.  And after realizing the thin twinge of my budget, that IS what’s priority.  We, as artists, want to subsist from our work, don’t we?  Is that wrong?  Couldn’t be.

So what do I do with all these hand-written journals?  Have to go through them, soon.  Time, racing past my moments like I have no clock.  Focusing on Paris, drives on roads never seen by me.  Stopping for pictures, quick scribbles.  What I need, as a writer and Human, is travel.  And, yes I’ll use the word, ‘adventure’.  Of some kind.  My definition of Life.  Motion.  Tasty continuations…  Holding onto that image of me, on a layover somewhere, or right after an appearance sponsored by my writings, at the desk in my hotel Room.  Just sipping some Cabernet, or Pinot, writing.  Would have to be pen, paper.  Want to see more ink.  So I open the Comp Book.

“Five Literary Lunches in a row.  Where’s the book?  What is this adding up to?”

Good question.  Where is my book?  Tired of writing about that.  Think I need a drive.  But that costs money.  Gas.  Item 1 on budget list, the new one.  Boring.  Looking up resorts in Ibiza, online.  Imagine the writing that would come from sitting on one of these verandas.  Looking though this journal, the Comp Book, I have to wonder how time passes without me having a chance to appreciate moments I’ve recorded.  Yes, I wrote them down, so I guess that qualifies for appreciation of some degree.  But, my point is, they’re gone, only existent on these lines.  Then I write about something else, forgetting the prior.  Guess it’s unavoidable.  Need a drive.  I’ll worry about the expense later.  Responsible?  Don’t care.  I want sky, road, empty vines; A written winter.

Giving Self till 2p.  Pictures, those could help.  No tasting, though.  Want to be fully focused.  But do I want to leave?  This music, this view of the hill, houses on canyon’s opposite side, telling me to give this scene more time.  I have to disagree, frankly.  Maybe I just need a break.  The consciousness stream, exhausting itself.  More caffeine, or lunch?  What would nurture a delicious delineation?

Just added some more old typed entries to book project.  Over 70k words.  And I stop.  No more cutting, pasting.  That’s not writing, anything even despondently Literary.  Only pulling from these written logs, if I need pull at all.  May already have a best seller on that “BOOKNeW” doc.

1/7/2012, Saturday