inward jot

A cemetery on the grounds… an amazing vineyard walk at new property, actually more than one… selling four cases to a couple from the South Bay, people with whom I spent a lot of time, talking about everything from the Peninsula where I grew up, the drive up to Ridge Winery in the Cupertino hills… the views… walking around on the grass just realizing where I am and the new wine story ahead of me…. And, of course, dinner tonight at a soft opening of a restaurant owned by the family that owns this new winery for me…. I’m reflective, contemplative, measured.  Sitting on the floor in the home office, realizing more my current reality and its currency, how I didn’t really write all day, just took notes and shot some still pics and videos with phone (which could later be translated into pages), the writer echoes inwardly, more, telling himself to not stress about times where he can’t write.  Like with dinner this evening with these new co-workers of mine— would I have rather been writing while at the table with them or enjoying their company, the various bottles opened, all the new plates put before us… the oysters, that squid, the burrata, the burger I elected then the desserts, my French Press coffee.  As writers we have to let the moment pervade and land, we study, then paginate later.

Dishwasher in kitchen, I take a break from my types to look at my photo’d record of the day.. wines, views, cemetery, food, friends— new co-worker’s birthday, mine ten days from now.  38.  Have to not think so much about writing and who I write about, and when I write, and WHAT about— just fucking write.  Right?  Tannat open, glass in kitchen and not by me so I can drink slower, and less, focus more on the page and my book.  Hoping to wake early, but just a hope.. but I hope not that it’s jut a hope.  Make it not just a hope, Mike.  And yes, the ‘NO WINE’ lament isn’t going to work, not now anyway.  I need to study wine, react to wine’s character, narrate it as I told that man and his wife at day’s end.  Tangled in my musings, that I’m not even sure are mine anymore but more possessions of the elements around me catalyzing them, if that makes sense.  My sensibilities caution me, against me.. this overly tenacious Self that wants everything and everything in the same timedrop, plated pretty like those oysters and that colorful and cubist burrata.

The stroll around the cemetery with Nic early warned me, reminded me, that this isn’t always.  That the morrow is anything but assured.  That all frames and standalone moment-pieces need be appreciated and examined and written about—  “That’s a lot of work.” Someone might say.  “Exactly.” I return.  That’s why I’m here.  Now, I can have a Tannat lot.  And after that what?  What do you mean, “What?” Whatever the moment is is what’s to be written.  There’s nothing of null gravity.

From Remain

My brother Kevin, inspecting the Pinot block…..

IMG_690710:04,  Mom and Dad left, and me here with the Pinot, the one a “friend” at work aside for me set.  Listening to classic rock tracks from dinner.  Dishwasher in full focal, and me here with this keyboard, indeed influenced, and more than likely not running in morrow.  And why should I when my wife was enough celestial to get my some coffee for rightafterwake.  MY wife, building her teaching career, and not settling, only advancing, having her progression ascend and never comfortably stabilize, she’s always moving and advancing–  I’ll use that as the model, her as idol, like the grapes of this vintage that continue their maturation, their storying.  This morning, walking the rows with a friend, I noticed, it came to me, the inevitability of a vintage.  It will happen.  Their will be grapes pulled and wine made.  The writer must develop as nature does: inevitably.  Tonight on the porch, sipping the Pride Syrah with Dad on the porch as little Kerouac played with his friends in minutes remaining before they were called away to bath and or bed.. he said, Dad, “It looks like something could come from these clouds,” meaning rain or some front.  That’s natural, that’s more than just simply predicted– it’s definitively systematic.  The writing need be the same, part of my climate and system and yes the wine to me codes but I entrench in my convictions and out carry my mission.  Again at the pictures, the onset of real pigment and life and visual– me lost in the night and my session, looking at bottles on counter, by kitchen– the SB and the Pinot, SRJC, that I opened a couple nights past.  And now this glass of barrel-borrowed Pinot, 2013, oh that amazing vintage– why are so many so quick to IMG_6922forget about 2012?  I’ll never get that.  And I’ll never get the innerworkings of the wine life and world and circle.  Tired, and bent from Pinot and not knowing where I’m going with this narrative– can’t wait for the novel to be done, what Mass’ does with his life and how he figures all into his story, what he wishes and what he sees, what he does wit his adjuncted reads.  My mind’s not the most sound it’s ever been, but I’m writing looking at pictures I shot this morning of Kevin and I walking that block and how the story correlates to my permanency here in this stage and moment– wish I were on travel, on some street and in some hotel unknown– is that not the life that we all want, the unknown and the unexplored?

IMG_6910Last sip–  Yes.  I know I’m one with wine and I can’t get away, not from the biological effect but from IMG_6909the character code it poses to my persona and Personhood.  I remember the first wine that really told me something, something– a 2000 Merlot, from a larger producer– An old song, Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”, comes on, and I think and think and imagine me, the world and the time and whatever– confused and contorted– others talk but I don’t listen, at all, because they talk.  I want to feel and think and postivize, that’s me and my aim, disposition.

Can’t thank my wife enough for the coffee– can’t wait to wake and not run but just write and look at these pictures more.  But now, I drink this Pinot that my “friend” set aside for me in “her office”.



Didn’t think I’d get time to write, this hectic morning.  My lectures, being written with more speed, more Artistic pace, habit.  Hopefully running after work today.  Need a shorter jaunt.  Like I said yesterday, 3 miles.  Taking Poe works and legal sheets with me to work.  Want to take some notes, well as do a little writing.  Writing for what?  One of my books, still in line.  Should print something while I’m here, in an at-last-quiet condo.  No.  Will do later.  But when?  With all in rotation, becoming harder to have meaningful session.  More, now, just blurbs, rants.  But maybe that’s my voice, Literary shape– hmm, ‘Literary Shape.”

8:43am.  Leaving soon.  Need 4shotter, blueberry scone.  On Mountain, today.  Not expecting much Newness, as wine’s world continues to thrive in its one-dimensionality.  That’s why, complete shift to Literary World.  First target, in this manuscript masterPLAN of sorts: Fall Semester.  This is what will do ‘IT’ for me.  I’m sure.  Still with scope significantly on Stanford, please note.  All these industry contact cards, on desk’s top, to suffer the fate same as the others I tossed in the trash last week.  What do I need them for?  What do I need THEM for, these people?  Are they going to publish my book, get me lecturing about the country quicker?  No.  So they have2go.

Out door.  Taking notes all day for lectures.  Poe, with me, additionally.  Ready for a day all MINE.

9:03pm.  Writing intently tonight.  For books.  Two spoken pieces, then one old prose.  Sipping some ’10 single-vineyard Cabernet, paired with the artisan pizza I ordered from 12 & Mission.  3 tours on mountain today, so no run.  Will have 2B tomorrow, I guess.  Hate feeling like I have no time.  To write.  Can change whatever I want, I keep telling Self.  The characters, continuous in TR, and mountain.  But not today.  With exception of one former English major/writer from Santa Barbara.  Where ARE all the writers, I’m asking.  They seem shy, afraid, nearly ashamed.  But anyone making wine, or trying, can’t bloody wait to share what they’re doing, that they’re ‘making wine’.  What is it about making wine that puts everyone in worship?  You go to wineries, and they’re so quick to share “winemaker’s notes.” Makes me sick, sometimes.  What about consumers’ notes, responses?  What about the people drinking the wine?  does that matter?  I just thought I should note what I’m seeing.  Why are writers dismissed so easily, but someone trying to make wine quickly enjoys lights, attention, admiration [even though what they barrel, bottle, may be deplorable draff]?

Waiting on second glass.  Need to take second to Self, think about the writing I want in this book.  Find Self in interesting state, barely having time to write but wanting to create so badly.  Where else is poetry more demanded?  And when more are old entries invited?  Time to blend past with present to actualize “future.” Looking at pictures of Merlot clusters, shot just after work.  Concepts of growing.. new theme quite dominant.  Already needing morning coffee.  May have decaf cup tonight, first ever.

Entry done.  Time for spoken word.  Then pedagogy blog following.  Stick to routine.. surest way2ROAD.



8:10pm.  Exhausting day.  No three pages tonight.  Meditating on this blog.  Unfortunate for you perhaps, reader.  Writing begins tomorrow.  Morning, after dropping off Alice & Jack.  going to miss them, yes.  But there’s work to do.  Should be back in chair, at latest, 7:30am.  I’ll have my 4shots while carving the 3PAGES for day.  Have a big group tomorrow, for VIP tasting in cave.  Not exactly thrilled, but I know I’ll gain something from it.

Topped my Merlot today, with more Merlot from Tank 50.  Tasted nice, even better than it did a couple weeks past.  Writing in dark, like I have a problem…

9:46pm.  Not in mood to write.  So why am I writing, or typing, then?  Should go sit on couch, watch some polluted MTV reality show, let my Life fly away.  But have Comp Book on person, like I’m armed in zones perilous.  tomorrow morning’s session, beyond epic.  3PAGES, blog posts, spoken word.  All.  Complete Literary madness.  The quiet, the coffee, the resulting Compositions.  Not thinking about the huge group I have tomorrow.  Not anymore.  Not taking it seriously.  And why should I?

Trip to Napa, Tuesday.. not planning it.  Going to stop wherever I stop.  That’s it.  Want randomness, not the planned blandness.  And dinner tomorrow night, hoping to make quick.  Not rushed, exactly.  Just to-the-point.  Giving my life a review, like a 90-day or yearly review for employees.  Certain things need reshaping, I’m defining.


7/14/13.  Back from dropping off Alice & Jack at airporter.  7:32am.  Two minutes late to typing, only ‘cause this devil laptop was giving more grief, atop every other annoyance it’s happy to provide.  This house, disturbingly silent.  Watching one of my writing movies, to ease me into day.  Eating blueberry scone, with 3shot mocha.  Not a 4, as I already had a cup this morning before we left.

Dinner with a friend tonight.  Needing to make it quick.  Want to be seated upstairs, in office by 9:30pm at the LATEST.  And yes, ‘downstairs’.  Haven’t set up desk yet, and I don’t need any more morning anxiety, this morning.  This trip Jack & Alice are taking, without me with them to protect, plus the group I’m hosting today [for some reason.. not sure why I’m taking it at all seriously.. in fact, I’m not, nevermind..], already making heart jump over invisible barbed poles.

Not as hungry as I thought I was.  May not finish scone.  Oh well.  Not like I need it.  Alice taking later bus, disabling run possibility this morning.  Which is heavenly, by me.  Wasn’t in much mood, really.  Need to make list, for this time to Self–realistic targets to hit.  Lots of printing, definitely– BOOK1 [the 59-page project].  Need to sip this mocha faster, feeling tired.  What wine am I opening tonight?  That Pinot by the door?  The Cab Franc Katie gave me?  Don’t know.  Was going to bring a bottle to dinner, but I think I’ll just get a glass.  One beer before, one wine with steak which I’ll more than likely order.

7:41a.  This quiet, so strange.  Miss little Kerouac, his wonderings around the house.  Thinking of my review, yesterday.  Everything went wonderfully, as I have an unusually supportive TR director/”manager.” But I’m caused to give Self my OWN review.  What do I[!!!] want next?  Which direction should I[!!!] choose?  Not what someone has ‘lined up’ for me.  Grandma said, “It’s your life, you have your choice.” So what do I want?  I already know.  I’ve known.  Huh, you know, reader.. so why even address it.  Just letting you know what my brain’s painting in this early solitary hour.

Want to be upstairs by 8am.  Need to prep desk for tonight’s work.  Not sure I’m going Napa on Tuesday– or wait, yes I should.  I’ll bring paper for writing, for the day’s 3PAGES.  I’ll carve them in Napa.  Maybe at the Roasting Company, like old times.  In the box’s territory.  So what if they see me?  What would one of them do?


There, then.  It’s a possibility.

7:49am.  Why does that time look so odd?  Maybe just another odd component of an immensely odd morning.  And no, I won’t write at the Roasting Company.  I’ve done that before.  I need Newness.  Maybe at the Rutherford Grill.  Outside, at one of the small tables, like Hemingway– by Self, glass, maybe small bit, engaged in my work, recording characters, those around, just for sakes of so doing.

Already past 500 words.. forgive me for reporting, but I can’t believe this speed, considering how ‘off’ I feel.  The mocha, singing louder.  Thinking of giving Self a promotion, following review– maybe I should give Self a formal writeup, in this ‘review’.  Point out strengths, weaknesses, take all the trite evaluative steps They do.  Just MUCH better written.  When do I do that?  Maybe tonight, just as this writing retreat starts.  Putting it on list.. just did.  List in Comp Book, opposite side of 3rd from last page.

7:57am.  Unplugging laptop, moving upstairs.  Haven’t finished scone.  Why am I not with usual pastry itch?  Because this morning’s curvingly unusual.  Unusual equals beauty.  Sipping faster, propelling momentum like rogue asteroid towards space’s edge.  8am, going upstairs…

8:04am.  In shower by 8:20a.  Writing movie still on.  Want to hit 1,000 words by shower’s time.  But I shouldn’t obsess over the count, even though that’s part of my voice, I feel.  If I write from Rutherford, who knows what’ll happen.  You know what, consider it planned…  On list.  Item 3.  Much calmer than I was earlier this A.M.  Felt a little anxious yesterday, too, at start of my only mountain tour.  But it away went with the couple chilled water sips that shot into the writer’s inner streets.

Wine, thinking.. what do I open tonight with writing session?  Don’t want to sip too much, though.  Lately, wine, and my preferred artisanal beers, have been slowing me when writing, not allowing mind and vision to fly in beneficial randomness and spontaneity, as it once did.  Need to buy more sparkling waters.

8:11am.  Breaking from buttons.  Need a little still time.. I’ll note in Comp Book if anything of note catches.  Should switch modes, to one ready to “work.” That’ll be in my Self-review– hate that bloody word, ‘review’.  Evaluation, then.. SELF-EVALUATION.  One note.. stop doubting Self.  Just jump.  Start living like more of an Artists, relying less on these vile devices.  Ink, paper, that’s all I need.. that’s what I need to really accept, understand.  As Artist, AND Human.

8:53am.  In departure’s form.  Tempted to get another mocha.. should I?  Or at least a latte, one of those cinnamon ones from VJB.  that’d be newness.  Settled, then.  Thankfully charging phone before I leave.  Don’t know why I’m happy about that, having to do only with device need.  Already taking some items off desk.  Reading this release from 2010, the vinoLitLetterz Issue, the only.. think I might rewrite, blend into 59-page project, probably pushing it over 60.  Oh well.

8:56am.  Should leave soon, as I don’t know what the coffee line’s like at VJB.  Haven’t tasted their wines in I think, maybe, 2 years[?].  They were good, from what I remember.  But I’m in a coffee mood, mode.  tonight, printing, while sipping red, slow.


music, every cut into soil

leaves dwindling by deadlines, ignored

repeated measure, untethered weather

write another letter

microphone off

speak louder, like trees obstruct

speak over cliff

speak to IT


8:59am.  1,000 words, before “work.” Guess I’m happy.  Would be smiling more if I didn’t have to leave, if I could just stay here ALL morning, day, night.  And just write.  This’ll be in my review, I Self threaten.  Okay, leaving.  Not letting this group today too far into my head.  The latte’ll make sure of that, building instant, well-defended, wall.

2012 Harvest, Revisited

IMG_2330    IMG_2319


 2012’s Harvest was huge.  I’d never seen anything like that before.  And then, before I knew it, before we all knew it, it was over.  What I’ve tasted from those vines, so far, whether newly-released whites from bottle or something pulled from barrel or tank, simply incomparable.  Again, never experienced anything like it.  It was odd, seeing those vines unoccupied, but I know another such vintage’ll happen.  Someday.  Till then, I can only look at the stills I shot.  -MM, 6/19/13


Thought I had another mishap with the blog at my bow, just now.  But now.  Had to rush downstairs with laptop after putting little Kerouac down.  Watching him by way of this mini-monitor to left.  Considering this a trial run for retreat tomorrow night.  When am I going to get around to editing my book?  With future projects, edit IMMEDIATELY after sitting’s finished, so as not to in this position again be.  I’ll edit 3 pages at some point tonight, promised.

2 mountaintop tours today.  Nothing much else to report.  It’s like a day full of wine tasting: it’s all starting to blend together.  In other words, nothing stood out about today– well, except for the baby rattlesnake the catcher and mySelf found up there, while I was setting up.  This little one, ready to attack.. rattling, hissing, showing fangs, biting at the catcher’s boots, even coiling, lunging at me.  Just how I need to be as a writer– more confident, vicious, aggressive with release schedule.. not caring about results, just putting ALL out there, for readers.

Think I’ll sip some of the ’12 Rosé tonight, pair it with the quiche Alice made last night.  So schedule, for tomorrow night.. and from this, no breaking:

8-9: 1,000 words in OFFblog log

9-10: bx, 500 words

10-11: Comp Book.. 3 standalone spoken word pieces

11-12: bx

12-1am: freely write/create

Of course there may be a bit of deviation, time slot overlap, but that’s how the night’s set to progress.  And for dinner, thinking something simple, like a burrito.  And yes, I’m still opening the ’09 LE [Lancaster Estate] Cab.  From that, there will be no shift, wobble.  I’m not making the same mistake I did a few weeks ago.  In fact, Sauvignon Blanc is outlawed for tomorrow night.  Noted.

Already feeling poetic urges for tonight’s purses.  Should at some point tomorrow night “revisit” the old blog.  Wow.. just realizing I started mikeslognoblog in ’09.  Crazy, this Life, how time escapes us, how we can never escape IT.  Unfair.  Again thinking about grandma, with this perspective.. a little frightening.  It’s all too short.  So the only thing a writer can do, WRITE.  And sip.

Think I need to open that Rosé now, thinking about all this.  Life, challenging me, now, in realization’s shape.  I’m 34, but not slowing.  My sprints, long distance runs serve as evidence of that.  Speaking in, of.. not running tomorrow morning as I’d aimed.  Giving Self an additional day off.  Sunday, however, after work, running 8+.  And I’ll be shooting for distance, not time.

So quiet down here.  No music, no sounds but a couple passing cars on Yulupa.  Wonder what my sister’s doing on her “business trip.” Time for Rosé, to wish Self back to Beaune, sipping Pinot and Chardonnay in that winery’s basement.  Oh, and the Rosé I had with that omelette.  Seems like so long ago, 2009…

8:35pm.  Back from short dinner break.  Rosé paired impressively with that Alice quiche.  Still no TV, no music.  Lovely quiet in this Room.  Relaxed in a way I haven’t been for weeks.  And the fact I’m not even interested in music should tell you how serious I am about holding to this state.

Just broke stillness, putting on that writing movie I was last night watching.  Glass [stemless] of Rosé in kitchen, stretching pour’s Life.  Only in mood for Art, Life, requiescence.  Should probably turn on this light to left.  But the dark seems to have more Creative value.  Not letting Self stop with these types.  Wish I would have brought the Rosé into Room with me.  In not stopping, I pressure Self.  Isn’t that healthy?  Just wait till this Writer has his OWN office.  Getting tired talking this fast– I mean WRITING, writing at this pace.  Babbling, maybe.. just know I’m always in obsession over, in, about writing, wine, writing about wine, writing while whisked in wine.  Okay, need Rosé.  Tomorrow night, only victory.  Cutting book1, maybe.  The chapbook approach has marketability, from its brevity, its uniqueness.  But more pen2paper, much needed.  That’ll give way to more projects2vend.  Only seeing future, now.  Time won’t muffle me, Mike Madigan.  Maybe I will go for a run in morrow’s cruelest hour.  AC just came on, again.  How warm is it in here?  Jack’s Room’s meter reads 77’.  Interesting.  Doesn’t feel hot down here.  Should be on paper, not these keys.  Forgive my abrupt cut, reader.  Now, I’m off to kitchen, to Rosé.. to INK.


chocolate stock process

Committed to Comp Book 2nite.  My Life, my choice.  A VIP tour, earlier, then back in tasting Room.  Tasting Sam’s wines, back at his home lab.  Have to be frank, I enjoyed all of them, and I have even more respect for him as a sovereign oenologist.  9:50p, at home, my “Friday” night.  Need to get to Road, my office.. that’s the only obsession I have in Life, if any.

My friend, a winemaker, on the road, for two weeks or so.  You already have an idea of how much travel intermingles with my writing aim.  Tonight’s wine, twisting my focus, but it’s fine.. I’m off to Comp Book after this typed sitting.  10:01 on microwave clock.. why does that time look funny?  Anyway, Grandma still on family’s mind.  Still seems odd she’s not here with us.  Watching that footage last night, the forgotten interview I did with her in ’11, or ’10.  Hard to palate, this new scene set without her step.

Racking barrels on Wednesday.  Not sure how that’ll influence my wines.  Wonder if they need acid adjustment, and I only think that, or entertain it, after sitting in on an acid trial with Blair today, in lab.  Now, I’m only thinking about wine, the priority and stress surrounding bottling.  Maybe we’ll get more thunder, lightening tonight, and that’ll tell me where to write.  How should schedule my release intervals.

Again, no running today.  Tomorrow, no fail.  Hoping for 4 out, 4 back.  Was so odd last night, being woken by those cloud sparks, atmospheric grumbles.  Thought I heard one this morning, when playing with Jack in his Room.  Already thinking of morning coffee, how I’ll use it to writer’s advantage.  These next 2 days off, have to work for me.  Again, by summer’s end, have to have Self in different space, for Literary place.  The pattern’s set to be pummeled.


“It’s your life…you have your choice,”

Grandma said.  But before our visit, I was on a mountaintop tour, bringing with it a proposal, hidden photographers when we arrived.  Someone drove them up before hand.  Than young man’s speech to his future bride.. heartfelt, with depth, intent, surrounding softness.  His soon-2-B wifed queen, genuinely surprised, atear.

Another event from day that gripped me.. a former coworker returning to tasting Room, while I was on Mountain, dropping off a short story he wrote, soliciting my critique, or opinion, or reaction.  Don’t even know what to say, other than I’m humbled, motivated, a bit concerned.. if I’m worthy of such beckoning.  I’ll give it read 1 tonight.  Sipping some ’08 Syrah I brought home yesterday.  Still quite full of life, hopping all over palate with that volcanic chalkiness I’ve always loved.

Final event of note from day: friend Kate, owning her own marketing firm, stopping by for a tasting.  Made my day, really, having a friend come in, that I could just pour for, not have to recite any scripts, didn’t have to “pitch”.. just talked to her, about wine, what I thought, what she might encounter.  Hope she enjoyed.

The Syrah, slowing me a little.  Grandma, on my visit, telling me this life is mine, that I decide direction.  Can’t remember what motivated her comment– oh yes I do.. when I told her I wasn’t teaching over summer, that I wanted to but I also wanted to spend more time with Kerouac.  She simply told me the power is in my hands, that I orchestrate the tonality of result.  Can’t stop thinking about our conversation.  Was surprised how calm she was, how at peace she sat, there with her enclosure, which was rather cozy, clean.

Found a post-it in bag this morning, or rather Jack did, reading “-Lisa getting info from A… -Last note to Emma at winery. Want to get out of here…” Easily, I can tell this was written while at box.  I’m choosing that the books need to be out, now.  Again, tonight, another semi-finalized 10 pages.  No time to excessively edit.  Already finding pieces to rack, new ones [written in past] to type.  Poetry, my key, definitively–

Left shin, hurting a bit from yesterday’s walk/jog with co-worker, here in Bennet Valley, up into hills.  Felt guilty about not running tonight.  Tomorrow, after work, I’m dashing.  Not doing the Lawndale piece, but I will run significantly.  More than likely along Summerfield, into Howarth Park, into Annadel’s depths.  Just realized, tomorrow’s my actual Friday.  Two off days, rowed.  When was the last time that happened to this writer?

Know I state this is “another Literary wine blog from mike madigan …”.  But really, if someone WERE to pin me and ask, a-bloody-gain, “What do you write about?” I’d have to answer, “Life.” Wine is just an ingredient, sometimes.  At best.  I drink wine, I don’t write, certainly don’t LIVE, by it.  Just racked the verse I wrote the other day, on the 30th [May] into book.

Just reading, more so skimming, entry written precisely 1 year ago today.  Same patterns, which isn’t pulling towards ocean floor.  See only as boost, to spheres.  But I’m sick of this laptop.  Going to search for Comp Book pieces to rack, tomorrow.  Can’t break from the 113 pg target.  And I won’t.  This 2nd racking, the last.  I will print this doc before 6/30.  Discussion ended.  Actually, just remembered where some old poems were.  This is like archeology, with my own work.  Going to pour another Syrah, more for celebration.  Doing so at this late hour, as it’s MY Life, MY decision.  sip, sip–

Jim, the former co-worker, submitting his piece to me, lets me know that I’m behind.  Enough of this blogging– I need be printing, having something submission-ready, not that I plan on “submitting.” But he has a standalone manuscript.  Calming, calming.  Still haven’t poured Syrah glass, yet.  Just read the first couple paragraphs, nearly the first page, and yes I’ve decreed: this blog dies, soon.  Execution date not yet set, but it’ll here be soon, within a couple years.  Need something I can HAND to someone.. not some devil web address, a “url.” Just decided I’m changing, tonight.  Seriously, this time.  And so you know, reader, the book, my work, will be raw, maybe even sloppy, incomprehensible.  But I don’t care.  I want my work to capture how I think, what I see, how short my attention is… the momentary nature of my nomenclature.

Feel Self getting into Spoken Word’s mode, diode– I know, then just leave, take a needed reprieve–  Okay, stop.  TV, muted.  My usual evening custom.  Wrote “tradition,” originally, but changed.  All these people, chasing employers.  Caught mySelf saying to Grandma, today, “My employer…” Hate how it sounded.  NOTE: I have NO skirmish, qualms or gripes with the winery, it’s just hard for me, one with Autonomous entrepreneurial aims, to concede that I’m employed by outside body, dependent upon THEIR pay.

Now, I’m only colluding compositional carrion.  Poured Self another glass, evening’s last.  Need Wine Bar beats to relax me.  Tomorrow’s run, to music, I’ll try.  But I prefer be alert to all around the writer.  Like with Jill, yesterday, walking up Woodview, seeing the mama dear, her babies, then the formidable buck around corner.  If I have phones, miniaturized speakers into my ear drums stuffed, then I’m partially dead.

Already on pg 112 of this new bx doc.  If I wrote my books with mirroring inertia, I’d already be in office, in New York.. back in my city [Paris].

Why don’t I just follow this pattern on Book– stop, you’ve addressed this before.  Go get a glass of wine.  Get a grip, take a sip…  12/17/99, remember writing about that, the last party we had before xmas break, SSU.  Listening to “6 Underground,” Sneaker Pimps, on Pandora.  Made me think of that night, how oddly it all unfolded.  Those days, in dorm– or, apartment, more memorable than most moments in my existential mold, manuscript.  Relaxed, finally.  Soon as I get off these buttons, I’ll be all more Equaled.  Tomorrow’s run, definitely up to park, towards Spring Lake.

All this “racking” with my writings, too complicated.  Closing all docs.  Not even posting to blog tonight.  Just going to write, till bed’s calling time.

Write for book first, then blog.  In order of priority.  Again, not sure why I didn’t think of this before.


hot base

Finally tasted my wines today.  Relieved, as they both taste fine.  The blend, however, amazing, unlike any wine I’ve tasted recently.  The Merlot, developing a little more muscle, losing whatever flatness it had before.  Tonight at home, sipping a ’10 Merlot from St. Francis.  Paired perfectly with the Italian sausage pizza I brought home (also having olive, mushroom, onion).  Need a break.  Of some kind.  Just quiet.  A Road trip, for writing.  OR maybe I just need another sip.  Tonight, poetry, after this entry.  Closing computer altogether.

Great session this morning.  Makes me feel guilty, frankly, about the wine I’m NOW sipping.

Posting my last video to blog, tomorrow.  This is a writer’s space.  IF there’s the occasional accompanying still [photo], that’s fine.  That’s part of journalism.  But video, that’s a blogger’s bag.  Not an Artist’s.  In fact, maybe I should post it to bottledaux’s social media page, one of them.  Not spending another second stressing about this nonsense.  Focus on page, books.  But I’ve said this all before.  Tired of my own repetition.  Sick of it, really.

My mood, falling.  I blame this laptop, all technology.  The blog, what it makes me do: Tweet, Facebook, tag, reblog, repost.  NEW RULE: no more new “docs” opened on this monster.  Divorcing technology.  Relying strictly on Comp Books, or legal pads, or pieces of scratch paper I’d find in one of my desk drawers upstairs.

Merlot glass, empty.  Thinking of my Merlot.. what do I want to top it with?  Maybe some Petit Verdot, if they’d let me.  Definitely needs oxygen, some so2 maybe, according to Blair.  May be making another wine with Katie this vintage.  So excited.  Hope it’s something voluptuously palate-situated, depending on what vintage conditions are naturally provided.  Do I want to do another Cab?  A Merlot?  Syrah?  Will Katie, the consummate Chardonnay queen make me produce her Burgundian belle?  This is the part in winemaking, PRECISELY, I deplore: the waiting, the dependency; on people, Nature.  In Literary lots, we do whatever we want.  There is no dependency.  In fact, we thrive in and ON rejection of pattern, the expected, the “norm.” This may be something I want to cover in Fall, especially with 1A, where we cover Poe, maybe some Faulkner, Plath.. some Shakur?

10:49pm.  No run tomorrow, Mothers’ Day.  Not sure if I put the apostrophe in place proper, but it’s a day for all mothers, in my sight.  Makes me think of all she’s done for me.  Almost 34–NO, 34–years of parenting me.  Advice, support.. I don’t know what else.  I mean, I do, but I don’t have time, space, energy to here it type.  She’s amazing, my Mom.  Need to bring a nice bottle tomorrow night.  Like WHAT?  Need to see what I have here.. especially upstairs.  Feel I have too much of the winery’s wines in this house.  Has to stop.  From now on, bottles I take home will be for gifts, or bartering.  Like tonight, gave the ’11 “Reserve” Chardonnay to one of our neighbors, Brittany.

Almost out of coffee here in house.  See?  Need more bottles for exchange, which I’ve done before.  Now thinking to Self: “What do I have up there, upstairs?” Lancaster, some St. Francis, maybe some other bottles about which I forgot.  Who knows.  But my Mom deserves one quite special.  I’ll have a bottle-elect at some point in morrow’s morrow early.

Nightcap, approaching.  The bottle’s been open for about 2.5 hours.  Should show more balance, by now.  Would like it to have that tannic shock like our winery’s 2010 Merlot.  Have no problem telling guests that’s my favorite at the main bar.

Already well over word limit for day, so I have to park.  Need the canvas, anyway.  Beginning to hate bloggers, social media willy-nilly subscribers.  If the sphere reverse circles, then what’s left for the writer’s hurdle?  Watching the news, so bored.  Just noticed some of the new “followers” of this [my] “blog.” These aren’t Literary people.  Just my point.  Need change.  Practice revamp.  Retarget the box.





4/29/13 — Entry opened.  Tonight, red sauce pasta paired with Meritage.  Two Mt. tours.  1 $20 tip.  Straight to stash.

8:47pm.  In kitchen nook, with Meritage glass at left.  Odd, feeling guilty about all the media I uploaded to blog.  Should have been writing.  But I couldn’t, right?  I was working.  The Meritage, like my book.. voices blended.  She would agree.  As she is, always, speaking to me.  The book, not touched in some time.  After 1,000 warmup words, I’ll journal-hop over to its waters.

Warm down here.  Was all day, in valley.  Thinking of material…  The random dialogue lines I put into phone’s note function: “Takes you to that mellow land,” the lady said on the mountaintop, about the Reserve Chardonnay.  Then, I accidentally delete my notes from day, can’t recover them.  I’m feeling an anger now that’s not helpful for a written session.  Why do I trust technology?  Why do I do ANY writing on this putrid device?  Now I’m researching, on this same devil phone, how to possibly recover those notes.  Need to get all writing off this thing, this swampish laptop.  Pen2paper only, from now on.  Need a sip.

Not bothering.  Doesn’t matter.  I can embellish.  Isn’t that what my kind of writer does anyway?  Going in to work tomorrow, to write wine club notes.  For some reason, that bothers me, volcanically, moving a pen for anything other than my entries, or lectures– speaking of which, I have to plan these remaining sessions.  AND, the Fall term.  What should I do, order, for 1A?  Or 5?  Big term coming up, my “best” ever.  It’ll provide useful material, I’m sure.. from the students to the Lit I assign, to the lectures I write, to other thoughts that through head stream.  Already, ideas popping.  Won’t put any idea’d notes into this phone, you can assuredly be.

Need this book done, already.  Said I wanted it, at least a draft, done before term’s end [this semester].  So…?  Where is it, WRITER?  “I’m working on it,” I self-reply.  This wine, the blend of 5, telling me to just throw pages in.  “Stop overthinking it,” like Kelly’d say.  IT’s right.  SHE, seemingly always right.

Tasting through some tanks, and maybe barrels, with winemaker tomorrow.  Still bothered by the way my Merlot tasted yesterday.  Can’t stir the lees, as that’ll breakup the color, possibly.  Can’t top just yet, as I just sulfured it.  SO, I guess I just wait.  I’m a writer.. I HATE waiting.  I don’t have time to bloody wait.  Who waits, in the Art world?  Ugh, don’t a choice have.  See what I can do, tomorrow.

Not sure how much I have in stash.  Thinking that’ll be my winemaking jolt, rather than Self-publishing coinage.  When I need to publish, I’ll pull money from somewhere, as I don’t plan on funding a huge run.  Just small blocks at a time.  Due for a break, I feel.. but then I have an idea for media, the blog, selling wine, what’s beyond this Now, the current affairs’ state.  Have to think, do a little research.  See all these other rascally lack-linen mates with their own wine businesses, I should be there, NOW, in my office, sipping my coffee, selling wine, putting together media plans, marketing missions/visions.. LIVING.  Not merely existing in scathed wage.

This blend, a bit more engulfing than the winemaker the other day spoke.  He said it was young, that it should be let alone for a couple years.  OR, decanted.  And I HAVE had the bottle open for almost 2 hrs, so never mind.  But he was right in 1 right: this wine’s depth is daunting; IT has a varied nature that need serious cognitive connection; It’s seductive in its palate mathematics; it solves its own equation the conveniently reconfigures for another challenge.  Listing notes, or “nuances” (hate that cursed word), not a reasonable act with wine this dimensional.

One lady today, called the Merlot, ’10, a “big bumpy wine.. this is a bumpy wine,” she said, looking at her husband, as if to say with her eyes ‘agree with me’.  For ’13, no matter what, I’m doing 1 wine.  Only.  A Merlot.  The best I can acquire.  Will let native take off on its own, then I’ll inoculate if there’s any trouble, or annoying pauses.  Refuse to let any other varietal touch it, I don’t care what the winemakers counsel.  I’m an Artist, I can figure it out, make wine, GOOD wine, or maybe even GREAT wine, on my own.

Going to need a break in a minute.  Note2Self: research benefits to flash pasteurizing of wine, redox potential, sulfur pros & cons, topping philosophies.  Can’t get my Merlot away from my head.. bothering me like a bad grade on a test.  Yes, the blend’s good, I know, but Blair helped me tremendously with it.  So it’s not TOTALLY mine.  The Merlot is, more or less.  Just have to let it sit, evolve.. maybe it’s mad with its barreler.  hope not.

Can’t wait for another glass of this blend.  Want to wait, though.. let the oxygen talk to it.  Wonder what the wine wants to say, versus what I hope it says, or what I think it’s saying, or how I’ll interpret its suggestions.  Just had another scuffle with technology, with this laptop.. it wouldn’t turn on, so I had to restart.  Could have lost this entry’s progress, but it did save.  Lucky break, I guess.  Only words away from connecting to the newJournal.  Ink, paper.  No way that’ll get lost.  I hate the dependency on the functionality of these devices.  Emerson never had to deal with this nonsense.  One of my guests, speaking of American Scholars, was going for her doctorate in psych [I believe].  Made me AGAIN entertain my PhD.  I will, one day.  For my personal vision, “satisfaction.”

This blend, tasting better with each pass.  Watching Midnight in Paris, for the who-knows-how-many-th time.  Just love the simplicity of that time in my city.. the richness.. the characters.. the musical voice of everyone, writers and non.  Can’t wait to visit MY wines, tomorrow, with my professional winemaking friends.  Learning, much I can.


Almost had another folly with

this thing.  this tar-tailed laptop.

my fault, I know.  past what i want

2B in past.  dash limpingly to another

crash.  then recalculate.  shrouded pace.