Need to do more journal writing. More notes to self.  I am going to grab another legal pad, after all.

Haven’t noted any notes.  Not one.  Couple more calls then I’m switching gears, to something else.  Planning on getting out of the office more, next week.  Have more meetings, just get out of the office.  3:25pm, and I need more coffee.  Need, but not letting self have one.  Honestly not sure what I’m doing for the rest of this day.  Writing, writing about writing, new notes on these legal sheets. About writing, about teaching self to write all over again.  Responding to readings, book Mom bought me and the re-read of Road.  Coffee cup on desk now is old, with old coffee in it from the morning.  Gross to look at.  Thinking of a topic, and that would be writing, wine, writing about wine, how the wine writes the writing, or at least with me.  My first note on the first yellow sheet, first thin blue line.

I’m always timestamping and dating entries.  What if I didn’t do that anymore.  What if I only knew what the time and date were but didn’t disclose it, or didn’t as much?  I don’t know, something I’m thinking about.

And again the idea hits me of super exclusive writings, sold.  No more than 35 pages.  Between 25-35 pages of prose.  No more.  Have it be like a reserve list writing release sphere.  Chewing this new piece of gum and resisting temptation to hit more coffee, which would be my third cup of day, I saw the small manuscripts, which I would email to subscribers.  What about… wine.  Writing.  Life.  Work.  Everything.  Not about one particular thing, or maybe that’s precisely what it should be.  Start at wine and extend from there.  Yes.  The all comes from last night’s Pinot, in many ways I feel.

The legal pad will be an exercise to itself, to fill it.  Three lines in, nearly.  About boredom.  What I wrote about, I mean.  Boredom is a choice, not the result of something that was done to someone, or the lack of anything.  Just a thought.


Getting eager to see harvest, the clusters landing and eating them from the bins.  Just what’s on my mind and in my sight right now.  I just see those clusters, smell ferments, see barrels being rolled out.  More motion, more activity, that loving and lovely chaos of the making of wine.  What I want, what’s needed by me and the story.

Looking at pictures I took last year and ones before, and everything is wine in this frame, the next.  Everything is the composition of her, what she speaks year to year.  Nearer, nearer, I promise and reassure self as June ends in only two days.  With recent heat, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone somewhere brings in some red lots before July’s close.  But then, I can only hope and speculate without any viticultural expertise or true know.

wine page


Morning writing in nook.  Feeling especially musical and beatific this morning.  Possibly from the morning being sans Road bumps with kids and their A.M. dispositions.  Not sure.  But I’m in the mode and mood to do something, today.  Lead out, so I sub in taking crew to Richmond District.

Going again regular motions and patterns, perpetuations, today.  How every vintage is different, year to year.  Even if the block selection is the same and the same oak and yeast and all dimensions contributing are the same, the year will sing a different song, in a different key.  Today different but not just for sakes of contrast, new invention or new direction….  I don’t know.  The espresso in this latte has me wound and spun, singing alongside it.  Thought in thought, birthing more thought..  Much of it from wine, yes, but the rest from the moment around me.

Sonic employees in breakroom getting their coffee and or morning snacks, breakfast, whatever, and I hear some of what they say through the music.  But I often write that.  What now then… the envelop.  Like $150-something in it.  For what.  Am I just saving to save like an old friend, Chris, said he was doing several years ago.  More than twenty past, when we both worked at Sears in the sporting department.


Mike writes down his plan for wine, his winery, him.  He does it again, this time with different words, not so much varied emphasis.  He teaches himself to write again in writing down his wine aims, seeing the view from a hillside site, Cabernet, some Merlot, Chardonnay.  He walks the vineyard with his sister and some vineyard manager expert bloke she connected.  Mike knows it’s happening now.  His wine story, his winery, wine encompassing his beats and paragraphs.  It’s a good day, he says to himself.  Closer to wine, closer to a Room, a quarter where others will be with him.  This morning, this day, this move and the next, paragraph and the lines composing them, perambulating in possibility, meter and verse from one cordon to next.  And all from money he started racking to an envelope.

Next week, to Napa.  To taste different interpretation and new characters, voices and rooms and Roads, hills and beats.  Mike searches through wine’s denotative and conno’, learns about where he is and what he’s doing, why he’s had all the jobs he’s had—To bring him here, to be with wine for the bliss and grinning percussion to her step, soul, arrangement.

Mike smiles, looking around the Sonic breakroom, seeing that this is making him more HIM—more a writer and more an explorer in the principle pillars and ideologies of wine.  Madness, the hilarity of how it all came together.  Something people always say but Mike has always shrugged.


Last two day with Field Sales.  Next week in B2B boat.  Learning, as I did when in wine’s room, those first days.  Like life started over and kept going, one story ending all in erratic conversing symphony.  More than emboldened this morning, more than with accelerated voltage, but a storm of inquiry and wild exploration, me in a new station and day’s dazin’.


Wine.  All I can think about.  Somehow making it, its business and industry do more for me.  Six days from 40.  Feeling immeasurably better than I did.  A little sinus pain but other than that I’m essentially fully recovered.  And the here-and-there cough.  Writing, teaching, how the semester’s gone, and I’m on my own with these thoughts, or not.  What’s in my head I don’t know right now finishing this latte, about 50 minutes from when I need leave and head straight for office.  I’m overthinking, a lot, I just said to self just noticing looking out the window and up seeing clouds wondering if it’s going to rain a-goddamn-gain.

In the Richmond District again, today.  Windy again, more than likely.  How to make today different, as I always say I’m going to.  How…. Maybe take a step back.  Observe more.  Say less.  Make notes, or not.  How about just BE, in the moment on whatever street.

Why am I writing, now.  What do I want.  What do I hope to hold.  Wine, or travel, or both.  Yes and yes, but something else.  What I’m not particularly clear.  Mom has often recommended I stop writing for a bit, collect then return when something constricts me.  Thinking now may be one of those walks, stops.  So, I stop.  Put laptop away, and only note in the Kerouac pages she bought me.



Left a ton of writing on work laptop.  Up early tomorrow for quarterly meeting and party.  “Quarterly”, they call it simply.  Allergies killing me, started at run yesterday.  Tired, but sipping wine.  Another bottle of that St. Francis Claret.  How to get back into the wine industry, but in a dimension and sequence, tell and pulse I prefer.  Blogging, writing, photography and video.  Should take a detour to office, tomorrow.  Do I have time, to sneak a couple new shots in, somewhere around here… one of those vineyards on Piner.  I have an idea.. about and in and on, for WINE.

Wine and writing.  Blogging.  Okay, yeah… for me, completely expected.  But… different.  Wine in the glass now gone, sipped glass too fast from excitement from idea.  More red, more sentences, more of the world around us.  And if this is too hard for you to conceive and encapsulate for purposes of retention.  It is wine, it’s always been wine.  Wine for me.  Wine for all days.  And not just glasses contents.  But the life there, the life here, thoughts of my sister on the crush pad watching fruit come in as she did that day in 2011 when our Cabernet landed—the best early xmas present I’ve ever been gifted.  One ton of Cabernet fruit, maybe a bit less, from RRV.  Katie said all I have to do is meet her on the crush pad.  The thoughts were overwhelming before it happened. What if this turns me into some famous writing winemaker, what if this changes everything?–  It did, but now that I look back I see missed opportunity.  I need back in the wine sphere.  Stay far and clear away from industry contaminants.  I’ll take notes, starting here… small room, appointment only—NO, invitation only.  And not to be one of those wineries, but to know the person coming in.  And to not depend on the business but to enjoy it. I just want to break even, I used to tell people about the eventual and envisioned label.

Wine to me has always told vignettes, not short stories or exhaustive novels.  Wine has never been patterns, or paths.  You compose and narrate your own way how you see it played.  It’s jazz, not classical.  Wine is random and unexpected.  Excess order and constriction will shape no listen.

Writing on the laptop at work, addressing wine as well.  I feel wine as all the answers to everything in this writer’s story and I always get fucking distracted.  Why.  WHY, do I let such fuss.  About to pour self another glass, and think of the tasting room days at St. Francis, Dutcher Crossing, then back again to Kunde Family Estate with its incongruent operations and terrestrial functionality in bar presence atop multitudinous garnishing acrimony, then wherever then wherever.  I have to be done with tasting rooms at this intersection.  I am.  I AM.  So I put it here.. wine, wine in everything.  As I was “advised” years ago. Ten, now. Not so much advised as condescendingly urged.  Spare me your counsel, counsel.  Not going to think about that, or anything.  Wine and writing, wine, then write. Me now, what I’m doing.  New story, new business, new Now.  Ox free from bottle to write about current bottled composition and voice, character and place.  I’m peacefully and pleasurably placed.


Mike still feels the exhaustion, but not like earlier.

He has class tonight, and suddenly he’s more eager to teach than on days where he does get 6-7 hours of sleep night prior.  He notes what’s on his mind, exactly and not exactly what’s present in his thinking.

The office starts to calm.  The voices lower and fade in intensity, but his intensity can only compound and compound further in words and complexities, or what he thinks are complexities.  The essay idea forward and forward further in his chair, right where he is.  There’s no lack, of anything, at all.  Like he’s before thought and like his mother has so many times told him with his writing, everything he needs to write about is right in front of him.  “You have enough to right about right where you are.” Mom said.  She was referencing his life as a father, but Mike takes such sight and applies and threads it into other scenes, the one currently right now as he types at his desk.  He’s found an antibody, a compositional vaccine.


Lunch at desk.  Writing everything down as I always do but with more craze, more wild and rich, loving recklessness to my steps.  Pizza here in office.  Pizza Fridays.  Everyone looks forward to this.  The company, so generous it’s nearly overwhelming.  Love it.  Learn from it, I do.  My company will be in this exact track and train of thought, tradition.

May start another blog—no I won’t.  Promised self I wouldn’t do that.  The idea would be something involving client and customer communications.  Not so much “customer service”, but how the work is relayed and worded.  So much in business is done not so much wrong but with unnecessary obstacles.

Brought 2 pieces of vegetarian pizza back to desk.  Saw others doing the same, eating at desk and watching a show, or playing a video game of some type.  I need this time to write.  I don’t need to think, I don’t any longer and I promise my self loudly this, time to think.  Just move.. all around blogging, and I will trap everything here.

I must wake early, tomorrow morning.  And run.  Ten miles, minimum.  Walking hills in Sebastopol earlier with Field Sales team, taking the hills like I were racing.  I walked them, yes, but with the same attitude as one running, like “I am doing this, I am taking this hill, now, NOW.”

Field Sales, an interesting voice and beat, beast.  One of constant motion and depend upon, demanding a tireless momentum in re-writing your presentation, your words and how you deliver the words.  Audience awareness, not so much brevity of speech but containment.

Where you are, what you’re doing.  More value in that than you estimate.  If you take a second, and inventory what’s around you, all the topics and ideas form their own idea den and paragraph lab.  You feel inspired and moved, exhausted and creatively ablaze in a way you’ve never known.  The holy contour of life wraps itself around you, begins instruction.

Need another piece, and maybe another.  Hungry earlier while walking the hills, Mike was.  Now, still hungry.  Mike, eager to go to this event, which is celebratory of past year’s successes and advances.  Like a rally, or gathering at a spot on Rohnert Park.  Not that far away but just far enough where I can enjoy a Coltrane track or five, maybe more.

Two friends from another department but that sit in the same isle as me here in office leave.  Taj and Leah.  Both kind, very inviting and helpful when I need some inquiry quelled, and they both like wine.  Asked both of them if they’d want to have a glass with me at the Rohnert Park spot they both said yes, told them I was thinking about getting more pizza then they tell me, or reminded me, that there’s food there.


“What the fuck was I thinking?” I say to them.


They both laugh.  Taj tells me my stomach’s telling me to eat.  I agree.  But will wait till RP.


Mike starts with the normal morning tasks.  But he sees them differently.  With more love, more curiosity, more pace intention and momentum.  Mike tells Self that today will be let to go as it will and Mike will step in only when demanded, and by step in he means grab the wheel and steer in direction different.

Mike gets the necessary items for day done with surprising speed.  He does in fact surprise himself.  He says to Self he’ll be more farouche in his creativity and composition habit for day.  And all days forward going.  Misses class, still can’t believe what happened on Wednesday happened.  Well, he can ‘cause it was raining dozens of cats and double-dozens of dogs.  He needs coffee, he needs to walk around, he needs to itemize and inventory everything, be more calculated, or calculating, tally and examine his calculations.

Weather today, not making much impact on Mike’s perspective.  He writes down three aims, visions, for day–  A thousand words, run tonight, shorter sentences.  Quite simple, to the point, contained and contributing to Personhood and character coherence.  More than self-coaching or education, instruction, or even discovery or exploration.  Self-sight.  Being participatory in his read of Self.  Self, always needing capitalization.  You need to see Self as something prominent if you’re to progress, he says to Self.  Mikes smiles.  He finds something.  And that’s another aim… always present tense.  The Now is Godly, is God, is all Gods and Goddesses.

9:04.  Mike gets another cup of coffee.  His first here at office but third for day, morning.  The morning with everyone walking around happy it’s Friday and excited about the Quarterly meeting and assembly, food trucks later, and of course beer.  Mike vows to Self that beer will not be had.  Not only does he not drink beer very much anymore, the marathon was much closer than he estimated.  He needs to get into runner mode, extremely extreme runner mode.  Get new clothes for race, go for run tonight, at the horrible least 7 miles, 10 if he can.  He tells self that he will have sparkling water, and if there’s none in the tubs of ice he’ll buy one from the market, perceive it as a running expense.

Mike remembers that he has Monday and Tuesday of next week off.  He will run both days, over ten miles each run, and NO treadmill.  The morning sings more to Mike, encourages him more, has him centered and centralized in his own eye and poetic abide.

The office, Sonic as a company and character and business poetic voice has him feeling not so much fearless or invincible, but directed, set, assured he will get whatever he sees.  His sight is strengthened by Self, Sonic, the day, the way of ways in the morning and approaching day.  Mike tells Self that he will see his aims for day, that there is no other Road.  The marathon’s closer, 40 is closer, the new year’s been here for now 18 days.  Storm, Mike says, “Storm loudly and make music never before put to sound, to anyone’s ears or eyes, any senses.”


The first thought of the day is a window, a door….  A beacon, a shore.  I’m with voyage out, sailing to something.  Coffee, in office early.  Didn’t wake as early as I’d hoped, no surprise, but I’m not letting that decay the day, or pull at my loudness of yay-saying yodel.  Class tonight.  Maybe I’ll share this, how the day started, how one can shape the day.  Over and over the morning precipitates the like-motions and thought shapes.  Today, something different.  Say that a lot as well, but oh well.

Raining on way in, soon’s I stepped outside.  In office all day.  Take lunch early, go to coffee shop or whatever that café’s called down the street.  Shit, are they open today?  Maybe I should stay in office, or write at Texanita.  Why am I overthinking this, or even thinking about it at all.

Notes to self, they’ll tell you something.  Writing notes to YOU, so you can form and frame another you.  It’s not setting “goals” that on one should fixate, but aims.  True visions.  Seeing something then not merely ‘going for it’, but composing a Road to that There.  You start this morning…. You begin where you are in with what you’re doing.  You see the opportunity in where you sit, at that desk and in that office.  It’s not an ‘I’ address but a YOU singularity.  Seeing you as not you but another You.  The you that you reduce to a dream, or some fantasy, some vision.  More than possible or plausibly, but near, nearing.

Time in its motion disregards us.  But YOU, embrace it.  You challenge it.  You control it, you capture it on page.  There’s nothing in time’s pervasive placement that eclipses what you see for you.  Stop preoccupying in a task list.  Write it again, re-write it.  See the There, leave the shore, rush through the door, always create and You-compose more.