mine in wine — day’s 1000

Friday — Scribbled a page, quickly.  Jack, awake wide.  Eyes ready for images, new knowledge.  Me, wondering what to print today.  Need more music.  So, buying new songs, and writing my own.  Have J.K.’s book next to me, in bag.  But I’d rather spend the time in session.  I’ll read later.  Tonight before bed.  That is, if I’m not session’d.  My little son, now with heavy lids.  He likes the music I’m playing, I think.  Or, he’s bored of it.  He just released a couple small notes.  Not sure what he’s aiming to convey.  His mom’s a far better translator than me.

On a note entirely removed, I find it New Life, when I find a new Wine.  May do a little bottle shopping, wine shop hopping.  Today’s varietal focus: Syrah, after some disparaging words for the buxom varietal were catapulted into conversation yesterday, after word, closing the tasting Room.  Because Syrah wasn’t the market monster everyone wanted it to be, it’s now labeled an effort deflated.  That’s absurd.  Syrah’s characteristics are like swarming spells for palates.  If you want a Cabernet, or a Merlot, or some safe reassuring blend, then buy one.  I stand by Syrah, and I love that it didn’t do what marketing morons wanted it to.  It’s sovereign, separatist.  It’s artistic; It embraces the subjective reality, while the money people at wineries view such scope as diseased, a hinderance to furtherance.  It’s the most significant victory bottled, to me.

Price point, $20 cap per bottle.  Budget: $50, “out the door,” as Dad says.  May just go to the Safeway on my block.  Or should I go to an underground, more indi shop.  Indi, as I am an INDEPENDENT writer.  The corporate curse doesn’t work on me.  I’m shielded by Artistry.  Wine, my thematic ingredient, not a subject crutch, crush.  Time for song, I’m thinking, to help me plot approach.  Wine, forever intertwined in mind —


inclined in time’s lime, lemon;

Voice escalated, leavened.  Count seconds,

reevaluating present.  And, the last past.

Another bottle, poet act brash.

Count sins on tops of mountains;

No sense, but rowed whence I gather

pages in latter ages.  Can’t wait as

fate’s gate doesn’t allow escape.


11:33am.  Weather outside, have no idea.  And I don’t want to, yet.  This time, with little Jack, more enjoyable.  I’d rather be here with him than in Paris, Hawaii, New York, anywhere on any country’s stage.  That’s what tempers my wishing for travel.  but I still want to see the road, as it’ll provide that “marketable” material that’ll pay for the little artist’s college.  No winery can provide the career I want.  Only I can.  All these wine factories can do is supply income, writing material.  And I appreciate that, believe me.  But, they should temper their tone when speaking of promise, opportunity, trying to rile me.  They could never give me what I TRULY want.  Only I can, here in pages.  It’s the Writing, what keeps me alive, motivates me for little Mr. Jack.  “Careful what you write,” people might site.  I’m just voicing opinion, thought.  If wine’s world doesn’t want honesty, free thought, a free thinker as my father and mother have raised me, then they should keep me out.  And deal with further attack.  But it’s hard for me to write what I just did, really.  As I LOVE, LOVE Wine.  It’s Art, and I’m an Artist, so I will always admire bottled thoughtfulness, innovativeness.  I even love wine’s industry, business, probably to your surprise.  I find it fascinating.  It’s merely the few components that antagonize my fangs.

So, Syrah…  What do I do with you?  As the coffee finally ends, I think of Santa Cruz, where I was brought to stage’s light, Life’s mic.  Don’t have heaping recollections as we moved to San Carlos when I was 4, or 5.  Another city on the list.  An Artist’s city, definitely.  Think those city limits, elements, and Mom’s father have a storm of influence on the writer I am today.  They have to.  I remember seeing grandpa’s paintings on the walls.  In both houses.  And, I can also easily summon visions of me drawing, or painting, coloring, what have, in elementary school thinking I’ll be an Artist, like him.  I remember one time coming home to him giving Katie and her friend Erick a lesson, showing them certain techniques, color combinations.  Intriguing, these memories, especially with where I am now, with the little Artist sleeping, my right.  I see Mom’s dad leaning over them, Katie and Erick, considering the process of their creating.  Interesting that this falls into my sight this morning.  And what does the Syrah have to do with this?  Don’t know.  But I feel that I’ve found MY varietal, finally, in its independent motions, stance–  Its Defiance.  Syrah makes me want to paint, write, sing, be musical.  Just thinking of a glass of Syrah puts me back into that Arundel Elementary, and Central Middle School, train of thought where I just created; painted, drew.  I didn’t care about submitting it, what criticisms would follow–  I.  JUST.  CREATED.  Why, as an adult, am I, are we, so contaminated by reality, responsibility?  Why can’t we, I[!!!], just forward?  Maybe the bottle I today buy answers such.


Almost to 1000 words.  Sorry for so much, reader.  I’m just mentally alive in a way I used to urge my students be.  Speaking of past pupils, I received an email from one of my formers this morning, that he prepared a lengthy report on Carroll’s Alice works.  He said I would have been proud.  Again, makes me miss the classRoom, those Exchanges of Ideas.  When I’m at Stanford, I can only imagine what students I’ll be working with.  Soon, I keep telling Self.  Writing my way there.  Today, when outside, when driving to errand spots, I know I’ll be thinking of teaching.  I am right now.  Preparing lecture notes, discussing Literature with students–how the author may have felt, what these authors want us to take away from text; What we DO take away, individually and collectively.  Professor 4ever …


sing 2 self; earth notes

in rushed writing — wave tips grip

dreamt letters; collect



blending noises/crashed cuvée [Comp Book entriez]

4/3/2012 —

Time, like medals invaluable, now.  No to little, and back to no, time to write.  So, just think about the wine I’m sipping.  ’07 Cuvée.  Calm, musical.  It’s telling me to relax, not to take any of this with excess seriousness.  Can’t believe I made it through the day, to be honest.  Not much sleep last night, and today’s tasks hardly charged my sight, space.  But, probably because I had that state in my head, didn’t push mySelf.  Need the travel for the writing.  Something.  A new varietal of day, more frequently.  Now, not in the mood to write.  Why, I’m guessing, is because I’m too comfortable.  Too much around me’s familiar.  To force mySelf into a beach kissed cabin on Hawaii’s big island, or Tahiti, or a small resort in Italy, would revive my motion on pages, in their sentences.  If I wake up earlier than I usually do tomorrow, like I did that one morning, that’d be like stepping on stages unknown, wouldn’t it?

Another city on list: Brussels.  Have heard enchanted descriptions of those roads.  The food, Life, visuals.  I just want to hear as much language I can’t understand as I can.  That’s what I need, roller coaster writing.  Whims atop leaps covered in randomness.

4/4/2012 —

Today, a mocha, scribbles in the Comp Book, first thing for morning.  Two tours today, one of which I met a brilliant photographer from Atlanta, with an encouraging and heartwarming specialty, the other introducing to me a nice newlywed couple from Southern California.  Both tours brought curiosity, love for wine.  That Human dimension that I aways write about.  That I have to write about.  Still sipping last night’s ’07.  Makes me think about this morning’s writings at the estate, in the Comp Book.  Still haven’t counted the stash, yet.  Tomorrow morning, going to commit to waking even early than “box time” (6:20am).  Right now, too much activity.  I need silence when I write, I realize more than I ever did.  Only exception, the Wine Bar instrumentals I find mySelf igniting just before pushing a single key, scribbling a single sentence.

Picture taken by Alice, Jack's mom ...

Playing with descriptors today, with both groups.  One of the gentlemen asked me, rather directly, what certain varietals are “supposed to do.” Finally someone voices this dialogue for me, my pages.  I’m also thankful to this gentleman’s question, as it points out just how artistic wine is, continues to be.  It’s subjective, as there’re different interpretations of varietals.  And that’s more than “okay.” This character, who I’ll call “Nick,” asked more questions, showing genuine interest alongside his wife, the camera-toting artist.  The other couple, a young lady nurse, and her husband, a fellow educator, and one of the nicest gentlemen I’ve ever met since working in the wine industry.  They were accompanied by her mother, an adorable, and quite wine-astute, woman from Massachusetts.  We sipped, after a tour I feel I may have rushed, talked about wine, life, time with loved ones over nice wine.  I talked about the “sibling rivalry,” as I call it, between the ’07 and ’08 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon.  I compared them to different music types.  And before I could voice my comparative waves, the gentleman’s wife, whom we’ll call Teagan, said it was like the two versions of Leila by Eric Clapton.  I couldn’t believe her speak, as that was precisely the analogy I was about to web.  But that’s what wine’s world and centered interactions bring–surprise, ones rhythmically pleasant, memorable.  There is no script in the bottled life.  At least not for this Bottled Ox.

As I was frustrated with the blogs last night, and quite a bit of yesterday, I didn’t think–no, I didn’t plan on writing for either of them tonight.  But after today, the characters, crisp AV weather, minimal clouds, this wine, my little son laughing tonight, smiling irresistibly, uncontrollably, and now these wine bar beats…  I have to.  My concentration’s in sectors, altogether scattered.  Beautiful.  Perfect for song, poetry–the real writing into which I love to dive…  Another sip, the wine tells me to buy this song before it ends, add it to the aesthetic atmospheric arsenal.

Dying to know how much I have in the stash.  What am I stashing for?  Not sure.  Just to stash, or save, I guess.  thinking again of publishing something paper, again.  But not going to leap.  Going to sit.  Write about the thoughts, the turmoil, the indecisive weights in authorial perceptive anvils.  Oh this blend…  Making me sing.  Need to bring the Comp Book to this desk, scribble more.  Looking through my pictures, the recent ones; Little Kerouac, smiling for whomever’s in attendance.  Wine and its elements, gripping me like songs from followed artists.  Now, I’m in song, my songs, my material.  Writing for my Life, so I can continue to have Writing 4ever in my Life.  Sip scene…

Disgruntled Diarist

Rain, still swinging at my sphere.  Me, sipping a cast of interesting wines tonight.  Cab, a curious cuvée, and another ’09 Pinot.  But, after 3 tours, I’m almost too tired to type.  Which is disgusting, especially after I write it, see that I just that confessed.  How could I be too tired to write?  Maybe I should just walk away from the keyboard.  Just enjoy my wine.  Can’t hear the rain anymore.  Maybe it’s breaking so I can think more clearly.  The other blog, building as its own brand.  So, again, it gets another extension on its life.  Not going to kill it, ever.  Can’t let mySelf.  And I shouldn’t.  Going to show EVERYONE that I can build my own business, built simply from writing, wine journalism.  IF you could call it “journalism.”

Feel like not that much happened today, aside from work, the AV Cab, ’05, I tasted, eventually took home.  I’ll finish that song from yesterday.  Yes…  First, a couple notes on the ’05, for the other blog, solicit some reaction from readers, then finish my song.  Start another.  I want music back in my day.  Everyday.  And I want that stage.  The travel.  More writing from that travel.  Diaries, diarist fiction.  Kelly’ll be with me.  Can see her now.  She’s painting, listening to rain, a handful of her favorite songs.  Relaxed.  She’s not worried tonight.  Nothing to worry about.  She has time, she has Art.  She has herself.  She has me.

Thinking, for a reason I can’t pin, about Chicago.  Have no idea why.  Another city to add to my list.  Soon, I’m hoping, I can just be road-attached, like Kerouac.  Just write about everything.  In poem, entry.  Now, in this fluttering think stream, I fly to visions of my wine.  MY wine.  Can’t be patient.  How will I ever be a winemaker when I’m this shape of writer?  A mess.  I need another chug of that cuvée.  [3/31/12]


4/1/12.  No jokes from me today.  Not in the mood.  And, frankly, I can’t afford to joke.  Early in AV, but not scheduled till 10.  Drove up here to write on road’s side.  A Literary Lunch in the car, if you’d be kind.  But, I don’t like where I’m presently pulled over, presently.  Going to drive a little more, on 128 towards Jimtown, and see if I find a little docking bay for my filthy XA.  Better find one quick, as gas fades, warning signal fiercely in flash.

8:56am.  Parked right in front of Alexander Valley Vineyards.  Hope they don’t mind.  If anyone questions, I’ll just say I’m a writer/blogger out on assignment.  Won’t tell them I’m also a spoken-word Artist, songwriter.  That might make them suspicious.  4shots in my mocha, typing like I’m not just on fire, but made of fire.  On both of my sides, vineyards, happy to see this AM’s sunny symphonically stroked notes.  As am I, from newing sun.  But I wonder if some of the vines still want more, if they’re greedy.  Also wonder if this is what Kerouac felt when on the road, if he saw anything like this.  Should I get out and take some pictures?  No, the writing’s enough, Kelly would say.  Intense light greens, gentle yellows, making tourists stop to snap stills.  Bud break, about to take stage.

Keeping mySelf to 300 words, typed in this pullover Lit Lunch.  Why?  Want more song, more ink on paper.  What will I do with it?  Eventually type it.  Print, perform.  Last night’s wines, still in mind, especially that ’05 that just lacked vigor.  Feel sorry for the bottle.  But my expectations were too high, so it didn’t have a chance either way.  Feel like this is something of which wine consumers need be more mindful.  Just noticed I’m already over 300.  How that happened?  Caffeine.  And I know where this page is going, so it won’t be sent to some stack, some box in my Room’s closet.  Glad to have escaped from that habit.  And the entries to come from touring with my writings, songs, poems, will only build in their richness, appreciate like AV Cabernets.  Looking at these vines, I think of a writer before writing a novel, not knowing what she’s going to write.  She knows she has to write something; To eat, pay bills, be mobile, buy birthday gifts.  But she has no idea what to write.  She has to start writing.  But what?  She sips wine, but it only slows her.  She needs focus, an angry drive.  She puts the Chardonnay back in the fridge.  She looks at her current journal, then its predecessor.  No electricity, no connection, nothing salable.  She hated that she HAD to write something, something to sell.  She wanted to want to write another novel.


Book due.  I don’t know what to do.  So, I’ll just be the writer with a blank page.  And soon, a blank account.  Haven’t heard from my agent in over a week.  Think he hates me.  Don’t want to give him another expected female-honed thematic sheet stack.  That’s not writing, I don’t think anymore.  But I’m under contract, he’ll say, remind me like I don’t know.  Should I go for a walk?  What would that do?  I wouldn’t have to look at this page anymore.  Done.  Walking.  In a minute.


This isn’t Kelly.  It’s another character.  Successfully artistic, under pressure.  She doesn’t like how her efforts are made mechanical, turned into merchandise, sellable items.  She’s disgusted, truly.  But just as she doesn’t know what to write for her survival, I don’t know how to write her, or if I even should, for mine.  To pen & paper…

11:26pm.  At home.  Tired.  2 tours.  Finished last of Pinot.  Taking car in, morrow.  No sleeping in, on day off.  Something wrong with that.  Hate both blogs, and I hate my self for looking to see if a “post” was “liked” by some idiot I don’t even know.  What happened to actual pages?  Only 3 minutes left for self, tonight.  At least I finished the spoken word song, finally.  Wrote a sonnet, for stage.  Need to start touring, traveling.  Especially after talking to my last tour, how they went to Italy, Switzerland, how the wines were different, entrancing in their dimensions.  Want the road.  Air.  Water, even rough seas.  My writing needs oddity, illusionary mundaneness.


Won’t lie, I’m in no mood to write.  So should I just stop, essentially calling in sick, to my Self?  Or should I do as I advised to my students, and write through it?  Too much required to sort it all out.  Sipping an ’07 Cuvée, but it’s not helping.  If anything, it slows me.  So I should stop, yes.  But it’s delicious.  Like a bottled album, singing to cure its listener.  Feel bad for it, as it tries so admirably.  I’ll go along with its efforts, lie to it and say “I’m fine.” And I am fine, reader.  I just need to let go of what’s troubling me.  But I’m not sure what that is.  Or do I.

It’s “the industry,” again.  How these wine devils pull that carrot, amusing themselves in your struggle.  But what if you stopped chase?  What if you declared Autonomy, stopped telling yourSelf it was something you had to earn, work towards?  People keep urging me to calm my writing, as it may hurt my opportunities in “the industry.” What if I’m just tired?  At my age, and with a son whom I’d like to perceive me the same I see my father, I’ll take my chances.  I’m secure in my paragraphs, in my poems, in my persona.  Sick of the wine industry’s expectations for an Artist.  And that includes dim-witted one-dimensional, glossy publications.  I’m reactively expressive, not a mechanical wheel meant to write/repeat “facts” about a winery, hotel, spa, or wine country resort.  Those too afraid to speak Self can satisfy such nonsense.

A couple small sips left of the ’07.  Not sure how this one’s speaking to me, now.  Spending too much time thinking about it, I think.  Just looked at my word count log, here on the monster.  Counting today, I’m 3 days behind.  Should trash the doc, but I won’t.  Only going to log-  You know what, I am going to trash it.  Counting words doesn’t finish standalone writings.  Writing does.  Staying in the chair does, refusing to leave the studio.  Tomorrow’s challenge to Self: NO PROSE.  ONLY POETRY/SONG/VERSE.  The more cubist, the better.  vinoLit, still in my bits…

[3/29/12, Thursday]