12:16pm.  Both barrels racked.  Cuvée topped with Syrah, Merlot with a little more of that Petit Verdot.  Nice of the winemaking team to let me use more that prized Estate varietal.  Still tired from yesterday’s run.  Want to do two miles or so later, just to put me over 10 miles ran for week.

What wine do I open tonight?  Has to be a red, thinking Merlot.  Mind in a million places right now.  Writing, music, wine, winemaking, little Kerouac, Grandma…  Have to somehow calm.  Exceptionally tired, after the rackings.  Feel like a nap.  No, need coffee, 2get2work on book.  Make some of the pieces shorter.  Want all standalones to be blunt, not overextended.

Yesterday’s walk, providing invaluable thought.  The path, telling me to follow my own.. keep everything simple, as in that “simplicity” there’s complexity, interest, readership.  Checking account balance.. all secure, right where I want it.  Definitely developing obsessive habits with running as I have already with writing.  Could be a positive, but could also serve negatively, leading me to overextend Self, lead to injury.  So, today, not going for distance, just time.  30 minutes.  Not more.  Walking after that.

Writer’s retreat this Saturday, with Alice & Kerouac headed down to Monterey for Father’s Day.  Not making ANY plans.  Staying in.  May do a re-do of the most recent Monti’s night alone, where I planned on having a Lancaster ’09 Estate Cab with the sirloin burger but wound up nearly assassinating a bottle of ’12 SB.  Not this time.  Writing, for that night.. whatever happens.  Not planning.  But I do want some progress on this diseased book.  3 nights before I’m seated in that session.  What if I could have it done by Sat night?  Imagining, for once being ahead of schedule.

Could use another coffee, already.  Sounds quite amazing right now, frankly.  Schedule Draft 1 for Sat: 6:30-8pm, dinner; 8:15-10:15pm, write; 10:16-10:30pm, break; 10:31-1am, WRITE & PRINT.  My kind of evening, where I’m only concerned with writing, printing.  And you know what, I’m printing all new material, that night.  Want the before-July project ready to print by 7/20.

Driving home from winery, again had the appreciative wave for where we are, here in Sonoma’s Valley.  Need to see what I have up there, in office stash, from SV.  My sister, in Portugal, business trip.  More motivation to get to Road.  Almost there, I know, but I have to push hard.. I’m getting indignantly, testily impatient.

Reading tonight.  Just started a little, on 2nd standalone, “IT.” After release of this book, a 50-something page chap.. going to keep them coming.  At this bloody point, I don’t care if anyone reads, or buys.  I just want the writing out, and the older writings resurrected.

Time for coffee, soon as this post is “posted.” I’ll sip & read.. that French Roast, calling the writer.

Just read a little from book.  Like the pages, how they sequence–

Grounds crew here in complex, starting their work just outside condo.  Know they’ll wake Kerouac.  Should grab that coffee now.


Day Noted.. 5/20/13

925am. Already hot. Not warm.. Hot.

4shot, no scone. Victory. Small, but still a small forward.

Hope I’m not trapped in tr all day.

Cave still from yesterday..


Sneaking away to write in bathroom.. Can’t wait for my office.. Glad I brought printed pages to edit.

What will be the Petit Verdot verdict?? Just want to use it once.

Already ready for day to be over, for my run.

Opening caves.. I volunteered —


Cave tour.

Nice couple of ladies from So Cal.

Biz concept written in napkin… Story told by guest.

Woman from Ohio, smitten by everything. Everything. Thinking everything was “cool.” It was adorable, her enamored state.

So nice out. Should be tasting, writing, shooting..

Got some pictures on lunch, and permission to use a little pv on Merlot.

In VIP room, covering for coworker leaving early.

Home, looking through pictures. (7:36pm)

10:18pm, 8/21/12 —  Not going to write in this log, tonight.  That’s my compulsion, but I’m going against.  Off to Comp Book.  Verse, only..  [Closing document on monster, so no temptation.]


8/22/12, 8:33pm — Sitting for the first time in hours.  Writer finally unwound, relaxed.  So, thus far with a new winemaker acquaintance, I’ve sipped Petit Verdot, high elevation Cab, old vine Zin.  All from 2010’s vintage.  Spent just a touch of time in lab, with winemaker, oenologist.  Took more notes than I knew I could in such a condensed time string.  No notes from tasting Room.  Was too much in winemaker mode.  Thought about nothing but what I see Self producing, after devoting my half-hour lunch to lab time.  Couldn’t hear anyone talking, couldn’t see people walk in.  Only saw wine.  MY wine.  My tasting Room, my barrels.  More time I spend with these wine producing characters, I’m all more proselytized into this Art.  Yes, I want to “reflect terroir,” as everyone says [hate that word, “terroir,” by way, how it’s so overused, overmisused].  But even more, I want to write, through the fruit I source; Interpret the varietals in ways consistent with my vision.  To say, I don’t think Sauvignon Blanc can be produced ONE way to be “good.” Same with Syrah, Cabernet, and more than certainly Chardonnay.  And I think all this while sipping a sturdy local ale.

Was invited to recite at an open mic, tonight.  But couldn’t.  Had to come home, write.  After this sitting, back to Comp Book.  Tired of device dependency.  Like I said prior, I need more organic shifts and progressions in my scribed practices.  […]  project R, right around time’s corner.  Have to keep writing, if I’m to see this consolidation put me on Road.  Time, 10:06pm, sipping an ’09 Cab.  Somewhat surprised with its docility.  And just like that, a stall in my types.  Hate when this happens.  My style, I’d like to think, like Kelly’s– continual Creation.  So, I have to just write through it, keep tips in tap, on this cursed keyboard.  And then I think, “What am I doing here, on this devilish device?  How is this organic?” My novel begging me to come back.  The Stanford PhD, also calling my scribble stream.  Sip 2 of Cabernet, more balanced, seductive; like a vampiric femme, alive on page, one which only selective cognition manifest; she comes alive as you want her to.  Again, Kelly…  Interesting wine.  Haunting.  Just what I see Self bottling.

Looking through old notes, reading what that man from England said about our wines.  “This right here, just a bit too forward for me.” Now, I have to ask, “What would want them to be, passive, light?” And then, a couple from Missouri, said they only like sweet wines.  I know, every has a “valid palate.” Okay.  But how many wineries in Sonoma Valley produce SOLEY wines sweet?  Exactly…  And if you’re going to respond, “Well, Mike, they’re tourists,” I’ll agree.  But wouldn’t you do a little research, or  simple planning before embarking on your tasting trip?  Maybe I am being too hard, harsh.  And, honestly. this topic, or anything wine-focused, getting boring like a robotic comet, right now.  In Literary modus.  Topic next …

Think I’m on the mountain tomorrow.. but that’s not what I want to talk about.  At all.  I’m thinking of mobility; contrasting the stationary.  Writing from random hotels, scribbling between sips of a wine from the wine list that some muddleheaded sommelier hairbrainedly amalgamated.  Writing while in midst of vocational dashes.  Make sense?  Think this may be my Cabernet voice.  Don’t tell…  2 my comp book.  not capitalizing cuz i’m 2 lazy.  this is definitely a writer’s cab voz.  hope it didn’t hurt, or annoy..


11:01pm.  Just watched a news anchor, or correspondent, local, sign-off for his last.  But after that, this Friday night, how will he be remembered?  Will he be?  Maybe he will, as he’s a wonderful Human Being; one caring about the community, conveying credible information.  Can’t help but think of how I’ll be recalled, thought of, even casually, when I’m signed off.  Could be the Petit Verdot talking.  Not sure.  But either way, making wine’s on mind.  I don’t want my bottles to be influenced by oak; I’d rather they be a product of concert with their barrels.  Two ladies, right at day’s end, talking about wine as if they were consumers whose habits should be studied.  Like they knew more than winemakers, chemists, every other consumer.  Criticizing all for them I poured.  Hoping I see Katie tomorrow, not just to talk about our project, but the Craft of bottling Art encompassingly.

All day, honestly, had winemaking on mind.  At times, more than writing, more than my projects.  May be the first time that’s ever happened.  I feel like the Petit Verdot: all alone, ardent; atmospheric, adherent to my aims.  Grandma, 90 tomorrow, and still denominating Collin’s passing a couple weeks ago.  Life, on its own track.  Not sure I wield any weight.  But I’ll keep with my songs, verses, spoken pieces.  Alarm, for morrow: 5am.  And when I wake, only pen2paper.  Instrumentals.  Recital; seeing Self on stage.

11:13pm.  Still have these entries on my iphone, just noticed.  From when I used to wait for that brainless oval-headed script stone, Adrianna [A2, as she was the second Adrianna in the toxic office], to meet me on Arnold, so I could drive her to box with me.  “When will I use these?” I’m thinking.  Maybe I should just delete them.  No, don’t believe in that.  Tired.  But, suddenly grabbed when I read:

“Wine, tonight dinner with family

The cold, for writing, wishing self away

Box is writing assignment, keep telling self

Incubator, death chamber, truest meaning of wine labor camp

Need more notes, for wine, my days, my pages, projects

Brevity better with chilled ballads”

Almost reads a poem, I guess.  Off to sleep.  I need it.  Artists DO need sleep, don’t we?



Blame Self for not having time to write this morning.  Woke at 5:54a, only to fall back to sleep.  And I didn’t that much consider waking to write, or staying awake to get a little character collection to page.  Getting tired of the expectation to blog.  How is that Art, responding to that expectation, request?  Hate this rushed feeling…  Tomorrow morning, I’m getting up from those devilish sheets.  Not sure how much I’m going to edit this note, but…  Thinking of how the vineyards are excelling in their stories.  This vintage, this issue, this volume.  Lately, and it’s hard for me to understand this, I’ve been one of Zinfandel.  Think I left its arena too quickly, with too much momentary mood haste.  Today, goal in tasting Room: taste, notes for each wine.  Already have character scribbles for that Century Vine Zin.  But, the others, need reflection.  How else would I be able to speak of them passionately.  Which reminds me, I received a compliment bluster, that lasted the full day, on how I speak of the wines.  One woman, from Italy, expressed relief, saying “You don’t talk about wine in a phony way.” And that’s exactly what I’m targeting.  Not just that reaction, but that shape of consumer mind, one not Spectator-adhered.

Leaving for work.  Still haven’t charged that phone.  Don’t need to.  Hate how I have to attach all these ridiculous tags when I “post” an entry.  Can’t get over it.  For this entry, I’m only using a couple of these limp “tags.” Did Poe attach category to his work?  No, it was its own.  It spoke for itSelf.  Me, as a varietal, any more: a Petit Verdot–  Dark, formidable, Romantic meanderer; Artful, atmospheric; timid of criticism, as people don’t often see my solitary step.  And just before 9a, I hit my word mark.  Need to stop announcing such.  If anything, it lets you know I’m aware.  Of time.  What I have to do, fighting its tentacles.  [8:57am]

one last note,


Was going to post a poem I wrote today, to this blog.  But that’s like throwing it away, I feel.  And yes, I’m standing by that statement.  I post journal entries to this “blog,” rushed writings.  Poetry, paginated Art, need a book.  Performance.  Maybe it’s above a simple binded paper brick.  I’m “cutting & pasting” it to another “doc.” Deplore all that tech talk.



Working a wine club event at St. Francis, tonight.  Excited, honestly.  Haven’t poured there in some time.  Tomorrow, at Lancaster, want to get there especially early, to shoot some footage and snap some stills for the other blog.  Want to start a Lancaster video/photo journal…  Ideas still fermenting…  Tomorrow, looking not just for growth in the buds, but development, new “nuance” [overused as the word continues to be], in what we pour.  Thinking of Paris, listening to this new station.  Want to walk along the Seine, over and over.  It needs me.  Well, maybe not.  But I need its views, bricked paths.  On the flight over, I’d finish a short collection.  Then, when there, write until I had more than I wanted to edit [which always seems to be the case anyway, like now..].

Had a dream last night about being in a maze with old coworkers from the box.  Everyone around me was in costume, as if it were Halloween.  One character, can’t remember whom [although I have a pretty good idea], was dressed in devil getup.  I remember him dropping his pitchfork, and me having to leap over it.  Was following “friends,” but I lost them.  At dream’s end, I encountered someone dressed as Mel Gibson from one of his movies, one set in the 18th century, or something.  Not sure if Gibson was ever in a film set in that period, as I can’t stand him as a human being.  Either way, the dream had me waking to thoughts of deception, industry and societal guises, rouses.

11:39am.  Had two cups of coffee, made in-house, this morning.  Energy, still very much with me, makes me think, with this station’s songs, that I should research places on my travel list.  If I can’t go there, to any of those there’s, now, I can certainly research, learn, immerse Self with Self-education.



Stirred this morning.  Thinking about last night’s wine club even, wine club members as a collective character, wine itself…  Off to AV early this morning, to clock in early.  No 128 session.  This all needs a new shape, I’m realizing.  Travel, new views, sounds, languages.  CHARACTERS.  Maybe I should rush-write my novel, just see what it does.  Need coffee.  And a new little notepad.  Will stop by drug store, pick one up.  Mocha, or home cup?  Wish I could just write the rest of the day, that a chair, ink, were my only commitment.  Today, only jotting notes; Think in whole sentences, write only partials.  Tonight, work from memory as best you’re able.  Don’t scold yourSelf if not every scene is “adequately” captured.  You’re writing for yourSelf, not some pompous wine industry magazine rack resident with a polished cover…  Artistry only from me.  Not predictable journalism.

Think I may need a mocha.  I’ll use some of the biz stash; I’ll have to, as I don’t want to use debit, disrupt my funds.  Besides, I’m well past my saving goal for the business, anyway.  Out door.  Clocking out to clock in, up there…


10:20pm.  Sipping the Petit Verdot/Malbec blend from last night.  And as I suspected, its structure has further settled in the bottle, and now on palate.  Today in AV, shadowed a trade tour with the owner, winemaker, and GM.  Learned more about the winery, which I appreciate.  And, probably even more substantially, more about their terroir that creates that Cabernet character; the more subtle, composed, musical Bordeaux.  Touched down on winery grounds at 8:30, left at 6p.  Long day, on paper.  But passed more than fast, in mind.  Tomorrow, I’m leaving as early as I can for a 128 session.  All to be typed, in standalone’s, for some Self-published effort.  All day, thought of poems, sovereign prose pieces for reading.  If only that were my commitment.  But then I thought, only minutes ago, right here, on my downstairs couch (one of them, the one directly in front of TV screen), “It can be, right now.  Just change everything.  Right now.  Just write.” Thinking wishfully.

Need more money for publishing bigger works.  Have to start with small.  And I want to start my research on other countries.  Today, thought of Austria (probably ‘cause Dad’s there), and the Czech Republic.  It’s the history, the developing value sets and thought patterns of Man that engage me into travel, carrying nothing but essentials; pen,  notebook.  Today someone asked me, when I told them ‘I’m a drinker with writing problems’, “What do you write?” I told her that I write about 60% prose, both fiction and non-fiction (then qualifying the latter with the tags “expository prose” and “erratic entries”), and 40% poetry-and-spoken-word-poetry.  Should have just said, “Diarist prose and poetry.” Even that I don’t like providing.  Why should I have to place mySelf in some category?  Why do I have to tell people WHAT I write, in a language they find acceptably plated?  I write, EVERYTHING.  I’m a WRITER.  And I write what I feel like writing, when I feel like writing it.  Maybe my attitude’s in the way.  Again.


When on tour, I will not allow Self to carry a laptop–  Stopping there.  No more saying what I’m going to do, promise lists, similar.  But, one thing I AM going to do–well, DOING–is my Sauvignon Blanc with Kaz.  Thought about quite a bit today while listening to Jesse, Lancaster’s winemaker, talk about the various projects at the Estate.  Was also triggered by owner Ted’s emphasis on the winery being non-corporate, independent.  Autonomous, able to manage every block and micro-block in the vineyard, having total control over the fruit going into the bottle.  Could only think of my writing.  My characters…  Kelly.  But I’m not sure I want total control over her.  Want her to tell me what to write, how to write her.  Is that excessive in demand?  She paints, even on oddly warm nights like this one.  I think of all the Cabernets in the lineup for tonight’s event, vertical tasting, at AV.  Left before it started, but I walked to my car thinking how all those other wines, and ours, are heralded so strongly.  My writing can only have paralleling prominence if I put it out there.  Which I will.  Now…

Details, for new pieces:  1) Cave, in AV, 2) Barrels in cave, 3) Buds, 4) puddles of wine on back counter, 5) lids on glasses set for tasting [containing aromatics, notes, character of wine], 6) vineyards I’m not familiar with, 7) traffic on 29, Napa, 8) corkscrews [not sure why, I just they’re neat, and serve such a loud purpose], 9) a microphone, reciting into it, people listening, 10) Petit Verdot/Malbec blend, darker than dark in my glass– Gorgeous.