As someone who obsesses over work,

and what work he has to do, what I have planned the next day and the remaining hours of this day, I am honestly with nothing.  But I make myself write.  One student tonight saying one of her goals is, was, is to wake at 2am to get ahead in her studies and I assume write a little as she does write poetry and write in short lines, short stanzas, pieces that span only a page.  And I say ‘only’ out of awe, that she does so much to a page in only a page’s pulse.

Was nearly too lazy to write anything tonight.  Told self, “Just a hundred words, per blog.” But I can’t hold self to that.  Should I do what this student plans on doing?  Should I set alarm for 2?  Isn’t that the time of the artist, the writer and poet?  Didn’t I read that somewhere?  On my lunch today grading papers and writing in the Sonic journal as this goddamn laptop didn’t want to let me use it.  Of course, now, I do push the buttons and have a note in my writing normalcy.

Finish the fucking book, I tell myself.  Like my son said tonight as I poised to make his bed with new sheets, “GET TO WORK.” I am.  I say the same to self.  

Sip the Barbera I popped last night. It, she, more calm.  Me the opposite of anything tranquil at the moment.  Working in the home office which isn’t as common as I’d love to tell you it is.  But, WORK.  Work.  What I write about.  Force self to write when I don’t want to.  I do write about wine, but that’s not my only onus and thought light.

Now, I’m like a train with this, these writing thoughts.  I, not failed.  Not failing in my aims.  I won’t allow that.  No one should.  Why would you.  You are here, once.  And I’m not addressing the fact one only lives once…. I’m speaking to myself and you, that where you are, right now, the opportunity and life invitation to bring a project to completion is singular.  You see it once.

You are a train, if you wish be.  Some unknown animal of fruition, bringing works to an offering stage.  There are only stops that persist acknowledged.  So acknowledge none of them.  I see so many of these speakers and motivational-who-be’s profess all this counsel but don’t consider the most apparent reality… the audience member has to decide.  They only elect to act if they bring themselves to movement.  Tonight I could have just as easily poured this red from El Dorado, sat on the floor of this home study, went on phone and scrolled through some photo pour.  No.  We decide to draw, paint new plausible for our Personhood.  Decide to move, be alive, mentally, alive, wildly alive in all movements of your steps and actuating saunter. 

What work does for and to the character is animated in divinely lucrative chant.  Dodge the task, never.  Distractions and suitable sanctions to project-dodge are terminal.  The panacea, always, is preemptive production.  Never, labor deduction. 

10/15/18

A wine shop… me. 

IMG_1514Started a 365-day countdown a while back, but don’t know where I am in it.  Wine and business, e-commerce, wine chats… so many ideas in my head now for my wine life and story, the books I’ve written and will write.

Need a vineyard walk.  Need to breathe.  Not be around any humans this morning, as I’m sure today will be mad at the winery, Memorial Day and all—  Or, maybe people will just stay home and not come out, they’ll bbq, drink Coors and watch some football game.  I mean, baseball.  And that was an honest error, I meant baseball.

39, tomorrow.  Found where I am in store countdown.  164/365.  Need to intensify everything and get some wine books in circulation, speak somewhere, be more zen and wake up earlier to write.

Need my vineyards… my ever-promising and promised vineyards.  They’ll tell me what to do.

(5/28/18)

Contest

img_2187Out of class, with students and their potential paper directions, writing a thesis in under ten words, me suggesting it should be that or less— short, contained, declarative.  I urged them to stay active and not stop, to always write in the journal they keep on their person, what I refer to as the “You Journal”, and stay connected to what they want to say.  After class a returning-student from last semester coming to me with the dilemma of paper direction— “I don’t know if I should get into Kerouac AND Buddhism, and religion, or …” I counseled him to focus on Kerouac, and to suggest that the lack of direction is the direct, or sense in Kerouac’s life.  Hard to recover in memory everything we covered, but the discussion following session was just as kinetic and connected as the collective with entire body.  As well, urging they trust their first inner-push, be tireless, to just start writing, worrying about polishing later.  There’s more composition in the whim than in the template, I said.  Urged them to keep changes minimal, with where they want to go argument-wise.  This is just how I teach, with endorsement of disciplined freedom, a reaching rhetoric autonomy.

img_2198Yesterday I thought about how people speak about wine in the tasting room, and outside, how some visitors are so preoccupied and pinned by their worry of what language to use.  “I don’t know the right wine words for it…” Someone a few months ago said.  I thought, ‘right’ wine words?  Who’s to say what’s right, what’s proper or sophisticated.  Like with students that overthink their initial ideas so much before expanding upon a potential topic they have no topic or direction at all nights before final submission.  With these tasters, they’re so daunted by how to talk about it they barely taste, if at all enjoy.  We need to just act, not think so much, but act.  Be active.  Move.  Otherwise, no life.  There’s just worry.  Do you want to be at the drawing board forever, or do you want to create?

We have to be tireless.  We have to be so dedicated to our work and our experiences that img_2200when exhaustion does set it we simply deny its presence.  Ignore it, completely.  And why not.  The purpose is to live, not exist.  To not be too planned.  To be wild, a beneficial madness that we let lasso itself around our characters and frames, our mind-frames… to view this as a sort of game— blend of chess, checkers, football, boxing, swimming, sailing, marathoning.  Wines I sip at home have me researching, researched, a dialogue doting on search’s intrinsic aspect—  How’s that.  It’s beautiful.  It’s realized and actualized, “actuated” as I always say, resplendence.  This morning taught me, reminded me to keep with my teaching, that every morning and succeeding set of minutes and moments are standalone pieces that will teach.  Like my student after class, I have more sight, more direction, and not from what I “taught” him, or taught myself, but what the moment and interaction with that moment imparted.

(5/4/17)

Writing in Hill-Chalk

img_1997Had a tasting today, unexpected a bit, that shifted my view on wine, surprisingly.  Two SB’s, two Chards, two reds, and I’m sitting here on the floor of the home office knowing something seismic is about to realize.  Just finished a glass of from a Cab bottle in my cellar I was convinced would be shit however it decided to be defiant.  And I loved, love, it. It professes structure and sense, architecture and an autonomous varietal lecture.  I’m in that HST wine-writing fashion— not caring about the destination but only the ride— remembering and intimately recalling what I hated at Chalk Hill, from the two SB’s to the Chards, reds…. I’m reborn in a sort of perceptive ports.. here in a meditative selectivity, measuring my Personhood from where I am and what I did only ours ago at that Chalk Hill rung.

Wine jousts with me this evening.  It challenges my embrace of convention, even when I img_1998tout and flout how rebellious I am, calls me out, tell me I need further go.  There I was, and here I am, thinking about what I saw and tasted in that hidden facet of wine idolatry.  I walked around, just staring at the hills, even while I was poured the 4 whites, 2 reds, noting in my head and in my inner-tablet what to do next with what I was experiencing.  A new Roman Candle, the counter, that hall, that balcony, the pours and I mean all of them in how they uniquely translated varieties while purposing something for consumers like me—  I had more than a tasting, today.  My oenological conception is re-shaped, definitively.  And it goes beyond whites and reds, it’s realizing timing.  Chalk Hill instructed a reiteration of intention, an observed statement—  There is always something to be learned, and what more advantageous instrument for such than wine?  I’m with new intention and thesis about everything.. new Dharma, new path, new Roads— a renewed Beatnik, me.  Solitary poetry, stalking only my electric syllabary.

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The Nose

img_0820I learned a long time past— take your time smelling wine.  Don’t inhale too hard or too fast.  Inhale like squirrels you see, or groundhogs, that stand upright and take in atmosphere in those staccato’d pulses.  “It’s wine smelling, not wine tasting,” somebody once suggested to me.  At first I was like ‘Yeah, okay bro…’.  But now I realize he was entirely right.  And don’t overthink what you smell, the “nose” of your wine.  Just see what you see.  It’s an encounter, like anything else.  Hear so many say “wine is alive”, but don’t treat it like a living thing, or being, person.  They use the first contact, the smelling or ‘nosing’ act as a means to show how much they know about wine or how sophisticated they are.  Take your time, smell what you will, and taste.  This is your tasting.  No one else’s.

Devices End First

Tired after today.  Not much motivation to do a single Literary thing.  But I made mySelf sit, with this full glass, red blend, to type.  No more than 500 words.  And I mean not a WORD more.  All day today, guests’ questions annoying me.  I know that’s not fair, but I’m being truthful, as Mr. Hemingway would have his students do.  “So is this barrel expensive?  How much with all the wine in it?” How do I answer that question?  I of course provide a roughly rough estimate, but still.. what a question to ask.  Was supposed to run today, as you know, but no energy 2do so.  Most helpful part of day, seeing old friends, recently engaged, JK and Mindy.  Haven’t seen them in over a year.  Made me again think of time, how it travels to its destination, to end things, people.  It’s so indiscriminate, cruel.  Especially to writers.

Tomorrow night, workshopping of 4 pages.  Know exactly how I’ll proctor the session.  If any students show complete lack of progress, I don’t know what I’ll do.  Probably nothing.  I mean, what would they expect, at such a point?  Want to have two poems for both sections.. thinking 1 Poe, the other Shakur.  The similarities in tone, theme, 2me seem so evident.  Want to see what the matriculants think.  Want to break a bit from this infernal final paper.  They know when it’s due, and I keep reiterating ONUS, so why not tangent into another activity?  Poetry, all structure in platters for passion.

This ’10 blend, falling apart, or maybe it’s just in a valley, as wine does that in bottle, I in ’11 learned from Kaz.  I’m still it sipping, just not as rapt as I was the last few times I it sipped.  Have coffee machine all set for morning brew.  5:30a, if I remember right.  Alice offered to wake with Kerouac, but I can’t allow that.  Early AM’s our clock slice.  And if I can have caffeine already in cue when the little Artist rises, I’ll be on my way for a 3k day.  You know.. that’s my goal, inclusively.  3,000 words.  Mostly for OFFblog.  Love this new project, I have to tell you.. venting everything about the industry, about– not going to tell.  You’ll have to read when I send it to print.  Need a break.  Suddenly [I hate that word] the wine reveals a more evidenced eucalyptus-y, minty, earthy shake than in previous nose-ings.  Not sure I like the moody nature of this bottle.  AND, maybe it’s just the bottle.  But I don’t have the luxury of analyzing bottle variance, as this is the last from my cellar, I think.  So I can only judge what’s in front of me.  On palate, it seems hot, sharp, uneven.  Interesting.  An unexpected winemaking lesson.

11:02pm.  May go a little over 500, but not much.  Already looking 4ward to coffee.  Reality TV, poisoning the populous, obviously.  Now, in Spoken Word mode.  Thinking about my mood, early, when I touched down on Estate.  OH, people could be reading this.  But I won’t be censored.  And no writer should.  No freethinker could.  Why can’t I speak my mind?  “That’s unprofessional,” someone could I guess somehow say.  But, again, I’ll continue to speak, write.  Be a writer.  Let it be KNOWN:  I fear nothing, because I write.  Everything’s being recorded.  All ills, one day printed.  And names named.  Already over 500, so I’ll heel b4 6.  Just poured night’s cap.  Time4verse.  Can’t wait4coffee.  Morrow’s 3k.  News, not interesting.  Just embellishment, sales pitches, fear-mongering.  Finally, awake.

(5/8/13)

uniformed interchange

Checking in.  8:14am.  Little later than I usually do.  Starting with home-brewed coffee.  Only two posts to this “blog” today.  Need book done.  Not teaching in summer, and I don’t want to be reliable on any clocks, just my Art, my bindings.  I will reach 106 in book today, without fail.  Relieved that now it takes shape of collection.  Not sure what made me think of Mr. Emerson’s piece the other day.  Glad I did.

So nice having my little Artist back home.  More of a Writer’s retreat with him home, really.  Right now, he walks around, snacking, showing his new sounds to his ever-typing padre.  Cold this morning.  Heater’s already come on twice, or maybe 3 times.  Kelly on mind, but saving all for BOOK.  Had a dream about her last night, what questions people would throw at me when doing readings, signings.  Not sure I’d be able to answer them all.  Meaning, I need to know my character better.  That simple.

That group from Boston yesterday, the man from Montana here on a business trip, the new wine club members from FLA.. all in mind, sight, for book.  I had someone say the other day, “You must meet so many people from all over the country, all over the world, huh?” I’ve always found that interesting, Literarily valuable, how guests see my position there, in the Room.

Oh yes, the article Mom brought to dinner, on “indie authors.” More motivating than I can “post” on this blog.  I have to be of indie fold, the way I write.  The way I see it. I’m marketing my ideas, my character (ME), just as much the pages.  Celebrating this morning, with this coffee, with little Kerouac.  Just posted a poem to blog, and it’s still poetry month, and I want everything I say, do, think, breath, respond, reject, fiddle with, explore, understand, misunderstand, to be FULLY poetic.  Mr. Emerson demands it.  He reminded me of my responsibility.

***

 3:50pm.  In adjunct office already.  Find mySelf stressing.  But why?  I’m the instructor.  Just as I urge my students to display ownership over their work, I must more over mine, in professorial arena.  Much rejuvinated following nap, from 12p to nearly 2.  Nursing my 3-shot mocha, 2nd of day.  Didn’t sleep that well last night.  But I will this even, note–

Going to lighten my load by dropping some excess papers off at car.  Back in a couple.  Frankly I need the fresher air– actual air.  This office, a choking chamber.  Overheard some full-timers talk about student writing, how awful it is, how they shouldn’t care about their students’ stories, or some of them.  I thought to mySelf, “When was the last time you wrote something worth reading?” Further motivation to finish this book.

Feeling jittery.  Anxious.  Just need to relax.  Take notes on essays I want to write, those of academic/analytic, or deconstructive topics.  I can’t obviously finish one here, in this little rectangular holder.  When home tonight, only pen to paper.  Going to pretend I’m Emerson, in his day, where there’s none of these electrical bats digging their points into my thinking’s surface.

Just had an idea.. but starting in Comp Book, before I start typing.  Going to be a position paper, or idea titled.  I don’t know.  500 words, I’m thinking.  Need more of these standalone pieces.  Essays, vents.. expressions.  Me, expressing.

4:28pm.  Still have quite a bit of time left to write, and/or gather Self.  Both, more usefully.  Tomorrow, back in TR.  always when there, behind counter, I think of these essay ideas, these deliveries, lectures, writings to finish.  Now, I start trend where I do bring them, ALL of them, to fullest fruition.  Quiet in building.  Don’t hear anyone talking, nothing on this door’s other side.  The other door, leading to that auditorium-like classroom.

Already started typing the 500-word piece.  Why did I do that?  Oh well, I did.  I promise to finish it tonight.  Just heard something on door’s other side, like the professor’s firing something up.  Was a sparkling sound, if that makes sense.  There it is again.  I listen to my Wine Bar beats, here in chambers.  Tonight, no wine.  Not even a drop.  Need to be focused for writing’s sake.  And, need more than plenty sleep.  Bringing papers to work, tomorrow, for grading.  Want this semester over with.  Want to be further ahead of students.  For their benefit.

Collecting Self, amid those sparkle sounds, which come more consistently.  Only 11 more meetings, counting finals week.  Should be interesting, this final push.  Letting both sections go early tonight, so they can gather themSelves, come prepared–far beyond mere adequacy–for next class.  Throwing all energies at term’s close.  Grading, prep, interaction, meetings [collective, individual].. want my students leaving this section [both classes] with scholarly system.

Full professor mode.  In fact, I should stop with this entry, return to lecture notes for night.  That’s what I know better to do.  Clocking out, to clock into professor’s stroke.  Notes, for students…  What I need to get to.  Have everything I need.  Allowing Self two more minutes for this entry.  Tomorrow, should probably check on wines, at some point, if I can.  See if that Zin-y funk has gone away.  If not, I’ll have to run analysis.  These wines aren’t dying, not on my Creative clock.  Jumping to other journal…

6:44pm.  Five minutes to write.  First class, sent to library.  Hope to all that’s scholarly and Literary they do their part.  IF they don’t, what else can I do?  Of course I’ll be blamed, but it’s the student’s responsibility to do the work, to motivate Self.  Again, ONUS.

So hungry.  Hard to concentrate.  Next class, a little discussion, then release.  Same motive: research.  American Scholar.. has to be alive, somewhere.  Tonight, again, no wine.  Not in a wine mood, really.  This blog, capturing all of me, I hope.  The entries, from 1 year ago, when I was at AV Winery, and Jackie was only a couple months old [2 months old, one year ago, yesterday], unaware we has one of the most amazing vintages in 20+ years on our hands.. still in writer’s swirls.  6:49p, off to class.  Hoping this meeting shows more prep, energy, fire for independent work.

8:34pm.  Can hear the instructor on the other side of office’s door, in front of me, slightly left, lecturing.  My 100 section, went well.  HAVE to catch up on grading.  Going to bring 15 items to grade, tomorrow.  Not quite how I want to spend lunch, but that’s what I have to do to get ahead.  ALSO, write detailed plans for EACH remaining session.  If I want American Scholars in my class, I need to provide mySELF as one in these sessions.  Especially the remaining/final ones.

Leaving in a couple minutes.  When home, working on book.  Pushing old material in, for sake of re-exploration, transcendence.  These diarist efforts, not for nothing.  Fine writing, I believe yes.  They’re truthful, they reiterate, they’re personal, and they more than affirm courage–  I’m still writing.  I write EVERYday.  Not each session produces something worthy of canonization, but I’m still in seat.  Scribbling, or typing.

Wonder how much I have in Self-publishing stash, now.  Probably about $140, or something.  Right?  The instructor raises his voice, from other side.  Going to press my ear up to door, see what he’s addressing…  “…Austrians defeating the Turks, did that have something to do with religion.. absolutely…” he said.  Could feel breeze carrying his lecture into my ears, cooling left side of the writer’s face.  “…the Czar in Russia…” Would love to sit in on his class, much I love history.

Oddly comfortable, and stimulated in this chair, in this miniaturized academic thought hostel.  It’s 8:45pm.  I’ll leave at 9pm, fleetly.  6 days from now, at 5:50pm, I’ll see what I’m allowed to teach in Fall.  Hate that position.  Definitely need to revisit the idea of starting my own writing community, teaching practice.  I’ve heard a number of instances of people tutoring after leaving teaching, making immeasurably more money.  Something to think about.  But research first.

That nap today definitely helped the writer.  Right now, I feel more alive than I did before classes.  That tired trend was certainly just in my head, around 5:15 to when I started class.  Can’t let mySelf get like that.  Can’t let mySelf get behind on grading like I do sometimes.  Next classes, all handed back.  All settled.

Think I do need some wine tonight.  Something red to pair with pasta Alice made.  I’ll let you know, as I guess this is still technically a “wine blog,” of some phylum.

(4/16/13)

Plath Date, Stratagem

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Had everything on mind platter, now it’s gone.  Should wear this laptop around my neck.  Glass, the Zin from last night.  Today in tasting Room, incredible characters.  Didn’t do much tasting, but took plenty stills.  Photography again pulls at the writer’s attention.  Another thing I’m noticing, I need to keep the prose on this “blog” to minimum.  1k would be more beautifully placed in a book.. what I want to write.  Tomorrow, my Saturday, all for book.  BOOKS.  TV, won’t ever again have my eyes.  Alice watches her show, now, and deservedly so, spending the day’s whole caring for little Kerouac.  But I need to immerse Self in study, writing.  Three characters, that I can only now remember [will probably be able to summon more, later] from Room today, in graduate programs.  Everything from MA’s to PhD’s.  Not sure if I need the apostrophes, but I don’t care.  Not now.  Thinking of study, my studIES.  But I’m at point where I need to do EVERYTHING independently.  Took some theory notes after the first left.  After second, third, I filled a handful of pages in the little book.  MY Literary Theory, one rejecting theirs.. embracing the ACT of reading; the practice of; the love for; the engagement.  And just as a winemaker can’t specialize in every varietal, or even several, I don’t look to be an “expert” in numerous authors, or theories.  Ms. Plath, at this stage in my life, has author’s commitment.  And my theory, rejecting theory; dismissing institution, endorsing readership individualism.  Today did quite a bit for me as Author, reader, scholar.  MY wine, didn’t touch it today, regretfully.  Might go in tomorrow, but I doubt it.  Have to prioritize, schedule.  And what holds focus, in this writer’s Life: the WRITING.  What a concept, I know.  The rain, falling just outside this kitchen window couplet.  I listen, knowing evolution’s sculpting its own solution.

IMG_0759Need to jump into my reading.  Ms. Plath smiles at me, almost saying, “Don’t worry, I’m right here.  Come over when you’re ready.” I smile just typing that.  Should be writing poetry–  Just had memory.. one of my grad school colleagues, the first day of Poetry Seminar, saying “Well, I’ll just get started writing poetry till Prof. G gets here.” Prof. G, such an elevated bat.  Beyond pompous.  Who can’t even write that well, showing little mastery over language.  Would love to do a reading right now, as I did when living in the Prospect Place apartments, driving down to Cotati, reading to beats I’d bring on a CD.  Miss stage.  Memory has me muffled, marvelously, tonight.  Need to explore more of this valley, county, the one on mountain’s side other.  This must be Zin talking.  I’ll let it.  Looking into Plath’s pages.. wish I had her senses, her sensitivity, sensibility.  Wish I had her pain, but then I don’t.  This amount of work, only a small spoonful of her total tray.  My book, hopefully, starting similar ripple.  So I just need to keep writing, stop worrying about what others are doing in juxtaposition to where I currently circle.  Yes, a doctorate would be nice.  But a Self-published supernova would be more mammoth, meaningful.  I don’t seek institutional approval, even from my ever-adored Stanford.  All starting with manuscript, with writing.  OR even typing [but I should prefer ink].  And I’m only a chapbook’s length, if that, from my Palo Alto campus.

Students, last day this Wednesday.  For my first semester in over a year, I think I did average.  I remember going in with a bullish bravado, aiming to make Self known with my lectures.  Think I succeeded a little in such slant, but not to targeted or wished-for degree.  Next term, has to be a “perfect term,” as Dad used to speak of the “perfect flight.” 2 developmental sections in Spring.  Definitely a challenge for this speeded-speak scribe/philosophy, Theory-obsessed/defiant dagger Lecturer.  But I’m going to make it work.  For me.  Pouring Self another glass, before I meet Ms. Plath about her map.  Listen to atmospheric nearness–

12/16/12, Sunday