In house today.  For some reason.  Keeping self busy with projects and note-taking.  Writing plan for day.  Plan to run at lunch, taking lunch early, hopefully.  Not too hot, I checked.  People around me talking, wonder how much work they’ve done so far today talking about movies as much as they are.  Makes me want to write a script.  On working in a tasting room.  Didn’t I have a project on that, at one point.  Yes!  It was called Tasting The Room.  What happened to that?  I remember I started writing it while at St. Francis.

Opened the Tin Barn Syrah last night.  Not bad.  Certainly not impressive or inspiring or convincing of any new Beat or Road, in any way.  But I did have a couple glasses.  The Syrah in my tasting room will be far more expository and loud than the Tin Barn.  I can taste it now.

Plan for day—Run at noon.  Write notes throughout day.  After clocking out go to nook and write, a thousand words for no specific project.  Post it all to the bottledaux blog.

But what about a book.

What about one.

Just keep writing.  Everything in this office this morning and for the stretch of the day will push me to my There as that’s what I demand it do.

Sparking water, latte done.  Everything is to be written.  Everything is something on the Road, in the book.  THIS book.

9:33…. Need a break, soon.  Sooner than maybe I’m perceiving and formulating in my A.M. head.

10:04, and I’m in a circle pattern, holding pattern, some pattern where there’s no real pattern being established or reiterated.


2:36.  After run.  7 miles.  Not hungry, but a little tired.  Thirsty again.  What’s the next thing in the day…. The next… thing.  What’s happened so far.  Not much.  Make something happen.  I know…..

3:25, coffee.  Didn’t do what I wanted, the ‘what next’ dilemma.  I know now, though.  So… here I go.

Started a new haiku stream.  Just wrote one, but will write another soon.  Maybe in a minute.  All work done.  So now what. One of those things, thoughts, sip the coffee that’ll help.


3:58 and two haikus done.  Will type later.  Or I’m hoping to.  Coffee absolutely helping.  Will revisit that Syrah tonight.  Not excited about it, but I will do so and write about her and the Pinot I had… Raeburn?  Is that how you spell it?  Feel my mood getting rattlesnake-like.  Hunger, hungry, could use something.  What.  French fries and Pinot?  Warriors game on tonight.  May watch with Alice and babies. Know little Kerouac will want to see game, his favorite player Mr. Curry.

from a journal


Jimtown Store, Alexander Valley

Two days.  Not even sure why I do the countdown anymore.  Who cares… don’t want to dwell or fixate, fix or focus on that.  Writing at the JT Store.  First such sitting in ….. how long.  How long, ever, I wonder, with time flying by me as it does.  Wife upset she didn’t wake early to workout and me not happy with my continuing late wakes.  Going into this new year of my story… 1, no fear, of anything or anyone.  2, less editing and less thought, just fucking release all writings.  All writings can be sold.  3, 4am is GOD, and you WILL NOT be unfaithful to her.

I wake this morning getting into shower hearing my babies be silly as they often are in the morning call to me and play basketball with one of those hoops you hang from your door, Jackie’s that he received as a gift last xmas I think,

This latte… costing 8 dollars as the young chap behind the counter was nice and accommodating and I know that if I were him I’d appreciate a nice cash shove. So there you go an $8 latte.

Call intruding on writing but I don’t let it.  The morning, the latte, Jimtown, Alexander Valley and all the vines enjoying sun which reminds me I brought my camera and am committing self to taking some pictures, somewhere either close to the store, that vineyard across the street or near Lancaster, down valley.

2 days.  More writing, 4am or death, books over books, over more finished manuscripts.  Thought of the plan to just give all my writing away, but then no… I need to sell works just as my studies masters did.  Why am I afraid to sell my work.  WHY?  Why are any of us as Artists afraid to live from sentences?  Isn’t that what we want?


9:11.  Getting ready in a bit to leave and launch into vineyards and take pictures of the vines that call out to me, that want my attention.  Which ones do.  I have one block in mind, close to Hannah’s property, across the street.  I’m even more compelled to cruise through vineyard blocks and just note what I see even more than capture it with some fucking lens and button.  What do I mean ‘even more’?  I’m a writer.  Not a photog.  This room, this back area where I imagine people eating breakfast or brunch, or just stopping for a midday beer or glass of wine, from far away like the people I met yesterday from Southern California and those from the other week from MN.  Everyone comes here and it blows me away.  Travel, the vines and this room tell me, travel… get out of here.  Go write about other rooms, other varietal blocks.  Photograph everything, write about it.  40 is now alarmingly close, and if something in my practice doesn’t alter, then I circle.

Yesterday tasting that 2-barrel Malbec, remembering why I keep coming back to wine, writing these essays if you could call them that, these entries, keep returning to the tasting room much I criticize it and its industry.  There’s a mystery and then the obvious, a helix heavenly and promising me to write this book and finish it then begin the next one before this one ends.  This book on thought, how so many of my thoughts precipitate from wine and barrels and my days at wineries, how now after all the industry battles and downright wars I’ve fought against the machine, I’m immediately free in the tasting room, at the winery, in the vineyard to do as I need to, as the books demand… more stemming from MY personal legend, or narrative, nor notes.

Today hosting a Napa winemaker, from one of my favorite Napa wineries that I can right now think of.  Know my approach, and know what I’ll talk about.. the wine, maybe, but life, why we’re both there, at that moment, in the philosophy of the Now, the narration constant and present.  I’m not planning or preparing for this tasting, I’m eager to talk wine with someone who writes in wine as I write in and from, more toward my own voice closing in on 40.


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.