logmikesblogodD, 2

8/28/13–  7:22am.  Coffee brewed, poured.  Kerouac playing with some toy piano over there, by sliding glass door.  Me, quite tired.  Should run over to kitchen before next sentence, swig loudly.

This revived interest in Flash Fiction, incorporating it into 5 & 1A, has me thinking about composing some of own.. ACTUALLY, establishing new parameters for my sittings.  My mind doesn’t work in LONG chapters, books.  So, before day’s end, 1 standalone flash piece.. 1,000 words or less.

Would love a day off, but need income.  Badly–  In fact.. no more.  TONIGHT: arrange 41 pages to sell.  Bind Tomorrow, between classes.  Ten copies.  Let’s see if I can make mySelf do this.  For once.

“So early…. So awake…. So much on my mind… So stupid…” a friend wrote on her account.

8:17pm.  Did Lawndale again.  This time with Carmen.  While running along 12, noticed that a few of the blocks, of other wineries, some neighboring ours, had been picked.  Before I know it, the Fall foliage will have set, harvest will be over, and I’ll be grading essay 2, or 3.  Didn’t visit my wines today.  Wasn’t meant 2B, I guess, much I hate that phrase.  Sipping an IPA from Speakeasy, the “Big Daddy.” Just what I need after the run.  Probably going to spill out last night’s Zin.  Not in a wine mood.  Certainly not Zin.  Wrote spoken word today, while behind bar, walking around Room, along with notes for flash fiction pieces.  Will try to revisit tonight, at some point.

Time for dinner.  Starved.

10:24pm.  Even with my obsessive voice, habits here on page, I’m tired, close to surrender for 2nite.  Going to make up for it tomorrow, with a Barleycorn session, I’m hoping.  Haven’t forgotten about the 41-page selling project.  Gathering ms tomorrow.  Hoping to leave earlier for Petaluma.. write ALL day.  Noting rest of night…

= One glass of last night’s Zin?  Yes, you deserve.

= Coworker, buying a refurbished espresso machine.. makes me think of the one I want in office.

= TV on mute, turning on music to put me somewhere else.

= May not finish glass I poured, as it’s celebratory in size,  Don’t want to jeopardize early rise.

= Alarm set, 5:15am.  Need to force Self up, brew coffee, write.  1,000 words, exactly, for day’s flash piece.  The ‘name tag’ idea I wrote in little notebook today, while by ResRoom register.  So beautiful at estate today, from floor to mountain’s top.

= Wine Bar beats playing, just as they did on those Literary Lunches, when I was chained by box, downtown Napa.  Recently received texts from Tina, Lisa.. wrote them, “Miss you guys, but don’t miss that place one bit.” Tina responded, “Amen!!!” So horrible, that office, how it portrays, “represents” wine.  It’s obsession with “luxury,” the whole bloody “white glove approach.” Should write some flash on Them–  OH!  Just the appropriate time to break out the cubeNOTES I wrote while there, the headset encircling my skull.  […]  “I sit, only to hate I’m not standing.  While walking to office, the hundred or so yards from parking lot, I fantasized about about-facing, getting back in car, leaving.  Yeah, they’d fire me.  But good.” Could begin the piece that way.

= Tomorrow, making the greatest writing day EVER.

= 11:45pm.  Time for bed.  Filing for divorce from these devices, how they hold me BACK.  In early morrow, writing pen2paper first, hopefully.  Writing either way.  Good evening, reader.. about to visit that Raven have it swim entertainingly 4ME.

= Progress of this laptop monster’s functions, beginning to scare me.  No more.  No more.. only pen, ink, paper, lines maybe.  Over the device dependency.  Onto Literary lambastes.

7:31am, 8/29/13.  Coffee, just starting to introduce itSelf.  Going for 3PAGES today.  Need to have finite practice, stick with it for Life’s rest, if I’m ever to be in office, see Road.  Will return to log when 3PAGES have written, printed–

8/30/–  Sipping ’08 Syrah from winery.  Finally a few minutes to relax.  Zeroing-in on truest style for writer, this writer.  Editing, not really an option with the scarcity of “free” time.  Have to send invitation to aspiring contributors to pedagogy blog.  Lots to do tonight, so not too many glasses.  Hear me, WRITER?

One more post to blog, then try to finish something for 41-page-idea.  Yes, I’m back to calling me projects “ideas.” Today, after work, helping friend [Sophia] with event.  So pretty on patio, light breeze, sun showing only vine tops, guests sipping their ’12 SB.  Didn’t feel like work.  At all.  Going to bring glass in here, I think.  Keeping Self in Literary mode.  No distractions.

Putting together a plan, for my writings.  One 3-pronged.  I know, I’ve said something like this b4, many timez.  But tonight, I know what’s needed for me to see Road, office.  The 2 blogs, the sequencing small releases.  That’s it.  Simple.  Poetic.  More believable.  Thinking of next move, in this moment, here on couch.  Need ‘nother Syrah sip, to shape a re-shapedness?  I want what I want, what’s mean for me.. Equilibrium.  The consistency of a Truer me.

Still haven’t sipped.  To kitchen skip…  Surprised how animated it’s holding, with its age.  Going upstairs to check on Kerouac, see how his rest goes.  […]  Quite well, my little Artist.  Goal by semester’s end.. support Self, family, as writer/professor.  That’s it.  Need to post to blog for students.  Let them know I’m there for them.. ALWAYS.

10:17pm.  On night’s cap, listening to chilled beats.  Just checked on Kerouac again.. sleeping like an exhausted bear.  Posted to blog for students.  Today in tasting Room, could only think of them, their readings, interpretations.  Already eager for Tuesday’s sessions.

Just read another student comment, posted just 6 minutes ago, or so.  So lucky to be in this position, I’m realizing.  TV off.  Only music.  Would have more to write about if I were on the Road.  Sorry, reader.  Please be patient with me.  I’m working on it.  I swear.  This semester, my notes, my students, will help get me there.

Done at Dawn [Harvest, 2012]

Vineyards are definitely different in the earliest of morning minutes.  Last year I was able to just walk around, after taking pictures for the winery.  I remember getting a little disoriented, then finding my way, wishing I had enough light to write.  But then I understood that writing wouldn’t be appropriate.. I should just enjoy the walk, catch just a little on film.

Watching over it again, I already look forward to when this vintage’s grapes are pulled, how the sun’ll come up, what I’ll see in the bins, how the grapes’ll taste.

There was an odd freedom on that walk, just stepping by mySelf, with little light, tired as I was.

(6/20/13)

“It’s like we’re in another world.”

5/31/13–  Finally at table, at keys.  Today’s run, more of run/walk.  Was chased by a couple squads of bees coming down Lawndale, ran so fast that I put mySelf considerably far ahead of Carmen’s and my pace.  But, approaching Hwy 12, I was without steam.  Had to initiate slightly speeded walk.  But in all, 1 hour 20-25 mins of taxing activity.  Was warmer today than I thought.  And on Mountain, more scenic than I’ve in a while scene it.

First tour, a young lady, probably about my age, from Dallas, with her Virginian Mother.  Anne, Sue, respectively.  Driving back, Anne couldn’t believe how beautiful it was on the estate.  And I mean, in COMPLETE disbelief, many times remarking on how she could so easily relocate to our state, to Kenwood, anywhere with vines, a view, inescapable wine.  I told her I’d heard that many times before.  Many.  Times.  Almost daily.

Last tour, with wine bloggers.  All three of which I’d been eager to meet, actuality’s plate,  face2face, for some time.  Sipping a COLD Racer 5, here at home.  Was tempted to take the Rockpile Red from collection, the one I last night took home from St. Francis event.  But beer sounded better.  Tomorrow morning, printing.  Looking for ten pages.  Of anything.  Not letting pieces go over 4 pages.  Shouldn’t be a problem, with this new coffee machine I took home, for birthday.

Book, nearly done.  I promise.  Will be selling it before June’s end.  Again, PROMISED.  I don’t want to be looking for work the rest of my life, hoping there’s openings, available shifts at wineries.  Those days are done.  I’m 34, going after what I want.  NO, not ‘going after’.  Just bloody taking it.  And with all this material around me, in the Wine World, it shouldn’t be a problem.

Going in early tomorrow, to taste my wines.  Blair said, as soon as I touched down this A.M., that he was going to pull the oak chain from the barrel.  I tried a last week, the week before, but couldn’t get that stubborn thing out.  Hope nothing’s volatile, reduced, or otherwise.  Need to start thinking about this vintage.. as I’ve said before so many times, as you know.  ’13, last trial vintage, to be sure.  This, promised.

TV off.  Tonight, only Art.  Sparking music.. where’s the Comp Book?  Oh yeah, in my backpack, that the lady from that marketing group gave me a couple weeks ago.  Love that thing.  Perfect for days like today, when I have to bring/pack running gear to work, for changing after clock-out.  This morning, though, couldn’t find the black & white CompB, the one with over a year’s worth of writing in it borders.  Ran downstairs in search, asked Alice where it could be, if she’d seen it.  “It’s on top of the TV, isn’t it?” she said.  Sure enough, lovingly yes.  Not letting that thing even inch from writer’s sight.  Ever again.  I swear, my heart leapt from chest, this morning, waited on desk, told me I could have it back when I found the book.  Surely–no, THANKfully–I did.

Now that I think about what Anne said, this IS another world.  This valley.. all the others…  All of it.  Wine does that to us, this place.  Now I do want a glass of wine.  Will wait till morrow’s latter clock portion.  Still haven’t turned on music.  AND, I need to see how far I ran vs. how far I walked.  Those hellion bees.  They won’t keep me from that course.  I’ll be running it next week, actually.  And I hope to see them again, whereupon I’ll ignore them.  The don’t have the gaul to sting a writer like me.  OR, they shouldn’t.

Just found out Grandma’s in the hospital, with serious condition.  Not sure what to think, feel.  This is the part of Life that I don’t get– well, I do, I just don’t particularly like it.  Mom said she’ll let us all know when she learns more.  But my mood falls.  Grandma’s easily one of my personal icons, with her energy, wisdom, storytelling, insight, tireless love.  I honestly don’t know how she is how she is.  That’s how I want to be, many her junior, and am struggling.

Just did rough calculations.. looks like I ran about 4.9 miles.  Those devil bees.  Was it the cologne I put on this morning?  Ugh.. so angry.  But Grandma always tells me to let it pass, that life is too short.  She’s right.  She always is.  Next run, I’ll do better.  And I need to time mySelf, use that application Carmen did.

Almost forgot about the verse I wrote last night.  I’ll post it tomorrow morning.  OR, maybe I’ll rack it into book, print it for my little sis at work to read.  She, “Kenzie,” appreciates Literature, thought.  So rare, for characters her age.  Most are seduced by the pervasively terminal clouds pop culture garnishes in collective consciousness pots.  Actually, now that I think.. I will rack it.  I’ll do that as soon as I pass 1k, here.  I know, told Self I wouldn’t go past 500 in posts.  But you know what…  I’m.  A.  Writer.

Not a “blogger.”

Not a social media scullian.

Was going to attach a picture to this “post.” But I just want to write.  Why is that so awful, or at least odd to some?  I’ll never get certain behavioral tendencies in “the industry.” People deify, worship winemakers, but dismiss writers–and I mean REAL writers–thinking we’re self-absorbed (which of course winemakers never are..), weird, immature.  I just laugh, as I haven’t even began to start.

Air conditioner on.  Music, low.  In my wine café, the one I’d write about on my Literary Lunches, when working at the box.  Miss the Roasting Co.  But not that brazen-faced cubicle.

Writing with these notes.. grace saving, a late taking.  Optimal.  Optimum.  My opaque opiate.  This must be the Racer, taking stage.  Thanks, Healdsburg.

Need to ditch this keyboard, actually write.  Separate from the wires, buttons, applications, digitized dope.

Grandma, what is she doing right now?  Wish I could be with her.  Went on about Self, this entry, to get mind away from her.  But I should, shouldn’t have.  This is Life.  How do I write, when Life is always here?

This all, some other world–

Rocky Race

And how much grading did the writer/professor get done today?  None.  Not a single paper.  Couldn’t believe how hot it was.  Had a VIP tour this morning, with some people from SoCal.  Had a great time, was beyond impressed with their familiarity with wine.  Tonight, sipping a Sauv Blanc I bought over two months ago, I think, for a night Mom and Dad came over for dinner.  2010, really rooted in grapefruit, pine, grassiness, earth.  Not quite my SB type, but I’m sipping it.  Hot, downstairs.  Feeling summer, already.

Finding out tomorrow, late afternoon [5:50p], if I get any classes for Fall ’13.  Not sure what position to take.  Part of me says take whatever they offer.  Other, nothing below 1A.  Can’t entrench now, have to act based on what I feel in moment.  Going to take my papers again tomorrow.  Hopefully I’m not on any groups, and can get through some of these 302 & 100 submissions.  Can’t wait for the day when I don’t have to grade, when all I have to do is write, for me.  And if I want to read, it would be on break from chipping away at a book, while on Road.  What I want, closer, more than I before saw.  Almost done with this SB glass.. need that last Racer in fridge.

They keep playing that Boston bombing footage on TV.  Why is the media so shameless.. I honestly don’t understand it.  Just looked at clock, 10:32pm.  Why can’t I just do nothing on this couch, not write?  Guess ‘cause I’m a writer.  My own improbity, riotous.  But tomorrow, its 5:50p, can’t stop thinking about.  How should I react if I get nothing?  Should I say something, or stay silent, react in writing?  Latter, of course.  Uncomfortable in this heat.  If I were on an overnight, in Dallas say, like my sister, I’d sit on my balcony, with a glass of SB, stare into city lights, and just write.  There’d be more material than I could handle, I’m sure.

The grading, haunting, taunting me.  Watching news, weather portion.. says its 60 in Santa Rosa.  Hogwash.  Feels like 70-something in this condo.  Pour little Kerouac, upstairs.  Hope he’s comfortable in his cosy nest.  Think I’m going to open the sparkling berry water I put in fridge.. that’s against compulsion, what’s better for character, session.  Again, I need as much difference, CONTRAST, as possible.

I’m in rebellious pitch.  And I need to be.  Today’s tip, right to separatist fund.  This morning’s drive, to work, juggling everything from thoughts of my office, to day I let all know I’m into Autonomy’s skate, to what poem I’ll next put to page, to wines mine [which I didn’t have to taste either, today]. to Ms. Plath’s journal entries.  MY wine retaliation, consisting of only thought.. independent construction, reconstructions.  I don’t have any mind for what They conveniently sculpt.

Can see where I use to park my car, right now [1st & Main, Napa], if I stare at something long enough.. I prefer not close eyes.  Need that berry water–  Still hot in this Room.  This devil phone says 61.  Not paying mind, but rather thinking of morrow’s morning mocha.  Or maybe I should brew in-house, save funds for book.  Have to keep reminding Self: I want to sell BOOKS.  This blog, much a distraction, running downfield then again back.  Dizzied.

(4/21/13)

lushy librarian

Sipping a ’99 Merlot-dominated blend. In much better mental and mood form tonight.  Could only vent to this poor Comp Book, 24 hours ago.  It was that bad, yesterday.  But, now new.  A new Now, for this vinoLit penner.  Need a couple sips before checking account balance.  Still haven’t touched business stash.  Be right back…  9:55pm.  This morning, before landing on AV Winery’s grounds, I filled 4 pages in the Comp Book.  Four!  Have never done that before.  Not even close.  Much thanks to the morning mocha, but also to the budding AV vines around me.  And, that little parking bay, off road, off 128, towards Calistoga.  This bottle, tasting better last night, definitely.  But back to the pages, what do I do with them?  This was a momentous session.  Can’t let them just rot in the Comp Book, same as a winemaker never ignoring her barrels.  Not one.  Thinking I have to put together a book.  For real this time.  Speed-write it.  Not much free time of late, as I told you.  Listening to a Wined beats station on Pandora, but I’m thinking I need character inspiration.  Yes, I do.  But whom?  Capote, Shakur, Austen, King…?

Going in tomorrow to AV, even though it’s my day off.  Want to tie up some ends still quite loose.  Couldn’t believe how busy it was today.  It was surprising, actually.  But I still found a couple, and only a couple (2 or a couple more), blinks to make a note cluster in the little notepad.  Characters coming to a winery to tour and taste, be they wine club members or tourists from Kansas, will always beg a page from me.  Free novels, so why haven’t I finished one?  Decided, need Capote’s help.  He didn’t stop till ‘Cold Blood’ was finished, till he saw how it would all end.  He sacrificed everything.  Everything.  He knew what the book would be, what it would do to him.  He also had no idea how he would be at its end, which I find even more inspiring.  However tragic.  This, envelopingly, is the purist form of Literature, Art.  When success delivers, destroys, you.  Make you You.

Time, 10:09 now.  Thinking of how my experiences at SSU, living on campus, shaped my writing habits, trots in experimentation with form, genre.  Now, I think of, look forward to, traveling around the country, world, and how that will shape my manuscripts.  Missing the rain tonight, beautiful and summer-like as it was on Chalk Hill Road today.  Envied the tourists walking through the door.  A great deal, actually.  Tomorrow, setting alarm for 6:20am.  Box time.  Am I looking to write before I land on winery grounds?  Not really.  But the Comp Book’s frame will be near, promised.  And this ’99, in its specious stammer, revives itself for more consideration.  But what if my interpretation’s wrong?  And, yes, Kelly chimes in, from my journal’s depth.  “You need to stop doing that, Mikey.  Second-guessing yourself will hold you in the same place.  Is that what you want?” So I’d have to ask her, “Then what should I do?  And how should I do it?” She returns, “Just do.  Write.  And stop thinking so much.  It’s inartistic.”

I sip the ’99 again, hoping for an idea.  Then I realize, or Mike realizes, he already had one.

 

He looked at his clock, the same way a coyote would look for whatever trotting prey he could see in a stretched meadow.  Hated its unavoidable veracity.  The desk’s surface, littered as always, reminding him of that picture he took of his dining room table in his San Ramon apartment, cramming the first quarter’s final work into 72 hours.  If only he could find that photo, he thought.  He wanted study again, something to anticipate.

[4/15/12, Sunday]

Track9

No barrel tasting today.  At least not in Sonoma Valley.  Out in Russian River, today.  Kaz taught me a lot about vineyard management, and where the vines were, now, with their growths.  This unusually warm weather more than likely will bring about  an early bud break, which could heighten the exposure to total frost damage.  Which, of course, doesn’t sit well for us, winemakers.  Kaz and I also talked about staying true to one’s vision.  He and I explored the concept after I asked him how one continues consistently with their brand, averts distraction, builds and remains faithful to their message.  He said–punctuatedly, promisingly–”Stay true to yourSelf.” Conveys convincing tremors thinking of his lines.  Wasn’t going to write, tonight.  Only had plans to stare at Mr. Jack, sip a Racer, relax.  But, thinking of Kaz’s offering to our Ideas Exchange, I have no choice but to write, cement another track.  Recite to Self; Reinforce rhyme in my latter time.

Again, collecting mySelf.  With my ideas, this growing manuscript I’m about to sell.  Looking through today’s pictures, which I had plenty of time to capture, as there was no tasting of barrels on Adobe Canyon Rd.  Realizing, more, I NEED travel.  To escape this pattern of predictability, the expected, the safe.  Boxes.  Was reading the New York Times this morning, after ordering my mocha, waiting by the newspaper stand.  Was reading a war reporter’s accounts, everything he saw, its effect on him, the immediate community.  Need that.  Impact.  Not saying I necessarily want to report on war, but I need distance, the unfamiliar.  And I know many winemakers that would agree that such is beneficial to Craft.  Adventure.  Exploration of Self.  In travels.  Building of Craft, in layered larks.  True to Self, in what I want, what my Craft needs.  Removal from all boxes.  Sipped an unusually structured white today, after work.  Want to sip more of the like–flavorfully odd.  Can only envision what I’d write, following.  On a balcony, Italy, staring out at Mediterranean waves tips, sipping, scribbling.  The next day, catching a flight to Dubai.  What I’ll do there, have no idea.  I don’t have plans, but to write.  Isn’t that the point?  Why plan?  I’m an Artist.  A writer, just searching for scenes, sipping.  Sequencing in scribbles.

(3/4/12)