re-turn, more learned

4/12/12.  Back at the keys, and I have no idea what to push.  Kept notes all day today, in one of the small mead journalist notepads I have on me from time2time.  The ones I call “flip-pads.” Everything from characters, to situational reactions, to verse.  Thinking verse may be the most lucrative, and conducive form for me now, given all in motion around me.  Today, 3 tours.  All couples.  One gentleman asked me–the man on tour 2–”Do you ever write in here?”, as we walked through the cave.  Told him I hadn’t yet, but I now plan to as a result of his mention.  Why HAVEN’T I written in the caves yet?  Will, next shift.  If I have time.  See Self, clearly now,  writing for 8+ hours a day.  For income, yes.  But, more crucially, for peace.  So many notes in this little notebook.  Don’t have a clue what to share with this log.  And maybe I won’t share anything tonight.    Or ever.  Maybe they’re just meant to be notes, for me.  Will leave it for tomorrow morning’s Martin Eden-esque session.  Setting alarm for 5:50am.  And I will leave bed at that time.  Start coffee, and hit 2k.  Short prose.  Poetry, verse.  SONG.  All I have time for, now, as a new dad.  Well, just as a dad, period.  And I like that I have less time, that I’m struggling to write; that I can only, many times, fit in notes, crazde poetic yawns, spurts, into whatever paper I can get my hands over.

Just finished a glass of ’09 Cab.  Trying to determine which vintage I’m leaning towards, principally.  And I hate speaking in generalities with wine, you might already know.  But that’s the exercise I’ve put on Self, tonight.  Have to say that ’09 has a more uniquely crafted continuum than 2007’s set.  Again, I’m just using the two Cabernets I tonight tasted as evidence, or any validation hint…  But, thinking of other bottles I tasted from these two years, I’m realizing that ’07 was like that pop culture film that everyone loved, kept watching so many times on account it was easy to understand; It was appropriately luminous, palate-friendly, but formulaic, too easy, and often too loud; a ceaseless circle–big fruit, huge tannin, expansive mouthfeel, elevated volume in each taste stage.  2009, sharing fruit that went through struggle, giving us as consumers a unique character; one defiant, seductively evasive, strangely charming; it educates us, our palates; She takes US on a tour, shares stories, doesn’t aim to appease; She’s truthful, tangible, wine’s validity paradigm.  Wish I didn’t wash my glass out downstairs.  Need another pour…

No.  Need to be ready for early rise.  Tomorrow morning’s 2,000 words.  And yes, I’m targeting a word amount.  And that “word count log,” or whatever I have it titled here on the monster’s polluted beach of saved files.  Just pulled the little pages from my back pocket.  Growing quite attached to this little notebook, I realize, listening to some sensuous track on my Wine Bar beats Pandora station.  One note: “Fear of somms”.  As in, sommeliers.  I have no idea why any winery would want to change their habits, tasting flights, tour progressions, verbiage, or anything just because a sommelier’s coming to taste at their facility.  Where’s the individuality, integrity, Autonomy in that?  Certainly no Artistry.  I respect the humble sommelier, not the self-anointed one, thinking he/she’s deserving of some special show.  That’s not Wine.  And it’s certainly not THIS writer.

10:49pm.  Rain, trying to return, like me to this keyboard.  But I think it’s tired.  Wonder what Kelly’s been creating, in recent days.  Haven’t heard from her.  Her character, becoming a challenging equation.  Think I need a tutor.  OR at least a mentor.  Maybe I should just let days’ moments tell me how to involve her frames into my Literary games.  Note symbols, suggestions.  Unintended existential nudges.  Wait, let Her happen.  She’d tell me to pour mySelf another glass of the ’09.  “You deserve it,” I hear her saying.  She’d more than likely urge me to taste that ’07 Sonoma County Cab [didn’t mean to surrender appellation] just to be sure that, and why, I’m siding with ’09.  And she’d do so without assumed instructional tenor.  She’s musical in a way I could only pray to write.

4 minutes till I make mySelf lay.  Tomorrow morning’s session, one for my book.  Historic, hardly morbid.  All victorious, and altogether glorious.  In those 2000 words, I want 3 standalone’s, written with intent to recite.  So if it’s prose, I want to have both ’07 and ’09 attributes.  A non-vintaged dexterous dart.  One more glass before I’m done, or passed, past.

Track 11 — NewRoute

On mind: how I wish I had more time to write.  SO, I’ll do what Martin Eden did.  Stop consumption of alcohol, which for me is merely beer and wine, and shorten sleep periods.  Alarm is set for 6:30am.  May have to feed my mini-character around that time,  but if he continues the pattern of late, I won’t till after 7.  And if I wake before alarm’s call, I’ll rise, walk right over to the desk, start typing.  Has to be project-specific.  The pages have to carry purpose, a destination.

Raising budget to $300 for chapbook1, publishing ventures.  Thought about an office of my own all day today.  Might be why I didn’t sell a single bottle.  Anyway, the wind’s wolverine-like charges through the trees to the right of my window, and at the glass itself, told me I need to do more to be heard as an Artist.  That’s what Kelly did–That’s why I write about her.  All the time.  Had a couple sips of a Sauv Blanc when I landed here in the condo castle, but I wasn’t touched by its song.  Too light, grassy, metallic for me.  Dumped it into a surprised disposal, went to IPA.  Only had one, as I had the Martin Eden notion while eating.  Need to read that book again.  And maybe once more after that.

To work, and back to base, listened to various Shakur works, studying his tonality, rhyme scheme, varying themes.  I’ll never be at his level, ever, and don’t want to be.  It’s his.  But, I do want to have a distinct voice, Identity as he did.  And, even more insistently, mimic his work habits.  3 pieces a day, ideally.  Like Updike with 3 pages, I guess.  But, with Shakur’s plan, I’ll have 3 standalone Literary/musical works before bed.  Music…  Just turned on some Wine Bar beats, my molded Pandora station.  Just loud enough for my ears, single volume notch.  Quiet enough as to not wake little Kerouac.  Feel like my son may pursue some Art, perhaps painting, drawing, with this early infatuation colors, shades.  Will be interesting to see where his passions land.

Not ready to clock out.  But I really should.  Interesting that writing is the only job at which I would have trouble not staying late.  But that’s a silly sentence, as there’d be no time with my Art.  I start when I want, end when I feel appropriate.  Not boxes.  Speaking of the box, I want to get started on my piece centered on its inner-workings, characters.  Revealing all the details, dialogue I trapped in those cubeNOTES.  The idea shook me like yesterday’s earthquake [Was it yesterday?] downstairs, when I thought of what my last cubeNOTE was.  I haven’t forgotten.  That piece WILL be written.  And ALL will be exposed.  Maybe chapbook2’s anchoring piece, or all of it, could be that piece I’ve been dying to write.  Speaking of chapbooks, “cb1,” as I refer to it on my calendar, is due in 9 days.  More than enough time.  Tomorrow morning, that’ll be my only focus.  No ridiculous blogging, wine blogging.  Only pages.  Literature.  Not-so-fictitious fiction.

These lounge-y beats, their echoing percussions and effects, making me quite sleepy.  Don’t think I’m going to pen-to-paper tonight.  Going to be faithful to my alarm’s time.  So, I’m clocking out.  Determined to make Mr. Eden, and little Mr. Jack, rather cheered in my discipline’s new turn.  May be able to fit in a quick poem, or scribble.  Somewhere…

No.  Punching clock.  Leaving keys.  Bon nuit.

3/6/12, Tuesday

7, 5, 6, 8 — Wine Mind, Time Bind

9:18pm.  Back from a movie.  Wasn’t the most riveting film I’ve ever screened.  But, entertaining.  It did what it was supposed to.  Looking forward to tasting tomorrow.  And pouring, meeting guests, gathering material.  Characters.  All about the characters, always.  Still tired from today’s word rush.  Could probably touch 3,000 words if I pushed hard enough.  But I don’t want to put you through that, reading my simple filling of a page.  My Comp Book, at right, begging for some wild scribbles.  So tired, having gone to bed at 2-something AM this morning.  Not in the mood to write.  Should stop.  And from what I’ve read, Updike would stop at 3 pages.  Not a sentence more.  But it’s hard for me, to just stop.  Me, the page addict.  Narcissistic.

Was a treat revisiting Martin Eden this morning.  Yes, I’m sure of it: Self-publishing first, then maybe traditional.  If they come to me with an offer I like.  If not, I’ll make them fly away, scatter like geese from a shotgun clap.  Have to save coin for the first serious release.  Probably only going to be a chapbook.  Seriously, this time.  Not even going to entertain page length right now.  Worry about that later.

Tomorrow’s Wine mission, at Kaz: revisit all being poured, innumerate 10 descriptors for each.  Could be fun.  Crazy, as I like writing, writing paired with wine, to be.  Not sure I’ll list ten, or will be able to, for the ports.  The white, maybe.  But the blush and the red could be tricky.  I only encounter a cluster of notes with those.  They’re quite steady and consistent, so I’m not diminishing the wine’s palate presence, or pairing potential, of blush or red.  I’m just saying those ports are very direct in their respective symphonies.  Anyway, my writing homework for tomorrow set…

Not much time left.  11:11p.  Yes, I’m officially uneven in my strut across these lines, left to write–I mean RIGHT.  See?  Clocking out.  Wonder if the Lenoir is still on tap in the Room.  Remember sharp notes of lavender, dark chocolate cherry, slight cinnamon…blueberry?  Let’s see what tomorrow’s pours sing.  Sip, sip … (2/11/12)

2/12/12. Sunday.    Back from the tasting Room.  Home, ready to write.  Might watch the Grammys, a little.  Rain.  Cold.  Wind, for the writing.  TOnight, a long one of writing.  Spoken word, verses.  Song, mostly.  Was reading Plath’s entries this AM.  Told me to write more.  And READ more.  Her work, and others.  I need to study.  Be a student while I write, like I was yesterday.


2/13/12.  Monday.  At the coffee shop.  Small circular table.  With which I’m content.  Don’t want to be encouraged to put a swarm of THINGS around me. Clutter, not in the mood for it.  Not that I found the Grammys inspiring last night, but it did accomplish in sparking my thoughts, with music’s presence in my writing.  And, seeing the consciousness-streamed style through.  Better, worse.  Have to trust mySelf, just as all those “artists” last night have done with themselves.  Next visit to this café, only pen&paper.  Feel there is too much on my person now.  Weary of who comes close to my bag, tucked between the inside of my right shin and the table’s base.

Busy yesterday at Kaz’s.  Loved how people were blending the ’09 Lenoir and ’07 Syrah, just to see what happens.  Just ‘cause they could.  That’s what wine should invite: the unorthodox, the tangential.  The rebel.  All the pretentious swine thinking that wine is a “luxury” product, that it should bring with it status and exclusivity, are malignant poisons to the majority of us who love the wine, truly embrace our passion for it, wanting nothing more than to enjoy life.  They should be removed, forcefully.  And if not, then called out.  I’m one to do that.  And I invite their response to my citations, quite openly, eagerly.  Money, the industry, infecting wine’s world in many folds.  All I can do is record, relay what’s uncovered.  Like a journalist, I guess.  No, as Artist.

Glad I didn’t hit 3k on Saturday, even though I was a bit upset with Self at day’s end, then.  Think that may be too much to write–  Just saw a bigger table become abandoned, free.  But I’m staying here.  Discipline.  I guess.  Thinking, what do I want from this sitting, which I’m designating till around 2p.  Standalone’s, for reading.  Manuscripted music.  Not in a novel, or book, mood this morning.  Still having trouble waking up.  This groggy net won’t leave my character’s capsule.  Need another sip of this 3shot, which was free from a voucher, or coupon, whatever, I was given yesterday from my friend Raquel at the coffee house down street from home.


Travel.  Dominating my focus.  Just want to write somewhere incredibly distant.  My buddy J.K. recently went to Morocco, Spain, and I think one another mark on my list.    Would love to see Norther Africa, all over Europe, Australia like my cousin Nick.  Need to see more, for these pages’ sakes.  Wouldn’t take this laptop with me.  True adventure involves essentials.  Ink, lined paper.  Or, just blank sheets; Life Canvases.  Take pleasure in that idea more, I think, just a blank page.  Lines entail direction, organization, formalism’s forward, which we all know is not for me.  Neither this Author, nor his journals.  And, older I get, the more I realize that’s all I write, will ever write–Journals.  All pieces released, be they curt or a tad more lengthy; for performance or readers’ perusal…  From the Journals.

Post-box, I’m feeling carefree in a way I’d only fantasized when there.  And, in no way am I of mood to follow direction.  Not anymore.  “Don’t have a bad attitude,” one could advise, probably should advise.  But, my Sense responds, “He doesn’t have an attitude, but rather, finally, a secured sense of Self.” Writing for me; Living, then writing.  Hopefully people will read.  And if not, then I followed with what I saw as germane.  I’m prepared to be wrong, with this dispositioning practice.  Being “right” isn’t my aim.  At all.  I’m sprinting for consistency, principle.  For ME.

Was just thinking to mySelf, “I can’t post this now, I still have to upload the pictures I took yesterday.” How is that Literary?  How is that Wine-like?  Dependence on technology, cutting it out.  If I can “post pics” to this “blog,” then I will.  But, the focus is the writing.  Miss talking to my students about the pitfalls, addictive habits of technologies, the corporations circulating these clinging devices.  Yesterday, while at Kaz, thought of the feel my tasting Room would bring with it.  “True brick and mortar,” I thought.  You wouldn’t check-in on an iPad.  That’s ridiculous.  I’d want it to have a vintage, retro-feel to its corners and customs.  You’d sign your name, if you wanted.  Want people to walk into the past while sipping a modernized approach to wine, but with sippable elemental simplicity.  Does that make sense?  Don’t worry, it will…

Winemaking, my wine…all I’ve been thinking about lately.  Need to text [yes, I know…technology] my sister, see if she’s free for a meeting, tasting, at some point this week.  Also want to talk to her about our focuses for ’12.  I, of course, want to do another Cabernet, but I want to see if we can maybe fit in the Sauvignon Blanc, as well.  One red, one white.  To me, this is the next logical step.  Time isn’t forever, so why wait another harvest, couple harvests, till I produce another wine type?  Quite sure she’ll support me in this project, and if not I’ll go it alone.  Be a true winemaker– SOLO.  Need to start putting some notes in that little black journal I bought, for my winemaking lessons, discoveries.  Should probably go snag a winemaking magazine today if I have time.  “If I have time,” ha.  Nothing but time.  Thanks, pigs.

Even as a winemaker, I’ll be outspoken.  Just as with my writing.  Going to be bold, daring like my brother Kaz.  Stand by my convictions, freethinking, as Dad has always ordered.  Don’t want MY son to have a coward of a father.  And he won’t, as I’m not.  I’ll never be muted, as I urged my students to be anything but.  Like Dad said, “Everything that I lectured to my students, about independence, free thought, has now fallen into my lap.” The world, notably this “industry,” will be shocked at what’s to befall.


Before I end this passage, I wanted to again tell you to expect music, lots of it, entering my tasting Room.  Wine has to have music, a musical surroundings set, I think.  It pairs more than just amusingly, profitably.  It’s one healthy element co-mingled with another.


1, 3, 4, 2

Over 2k before noon.  Guess that means something, for the day, my Now.  If anything, that I’ve been active.  Creative.  Do want to go for a drive.  But haven’t taken a shower, yet.  Heater on, just for a bit.  All I can afford.  Mocha done, onto Diet Coke.  Want to sip coffee, though, as I was writing this morning.  Look at books.  Maybe buy one.  Ugh, now I’m just repeating what I wrote in the book.  Trite.  Should be writing poetry right now, some verse for my impending performance.  But, thought I’d check in.  Just hope readers are checking in.  Otherwise, these words, woefully wasted.  Wait, no they’re not.  I wrote them, read them.  They mean something.  If to no one else, to me.  I know winemakers that make wine for themselves, to save money.  Same with my beer-brewing buddies.

A little tired of writing.  Is that bad?  Does that make me less Literary, that I may need a break?  And, the sun appears again through the blinds, right when I wrote that sentence.  Has to hold some significance.  The day, Life, outside.  And I’m in here.  With these buttons.  Not in a gloomy, pessimist perspective, please note.  I’m just stating, obviously of course, that I haven’t tasted the day.  Think that’s what these sun slices are saying.  12:45p.

Should go for a drive.  Bookstore.  And not Barnes & Noble.  The independent one down the street a few blocks.  More suited, aligned, with my written productivity this morning.  And, I just enjoy seeing those books, in their tower stacks on the tables as you walk in.  Like a manuscript metropolis.

Still thinking about the Martin Eden passages I re-read earlier, for the first time in years.  That book is totally meant for the sovereign artist, to encourage a Self-published author.  Editors, Magazines, they don’t care about artistry.  They’re content collectors, for sakes of ad inflow.  Despicable.  Not for us.

Thinking of my own shop.  What kind of shop?  Don’t know.  Just a place of business that is mine.  Where I can think, row down my own river.  Survive off it.  Could be a wine shop.  A café, restaurant, Wine Bar.  Or just an office where I can write.  Nothing box-like about it.  That wouldn’t be allowed.

Free, artful, tasty Equilibrium.

2/11/12, Saturday