After this scribble, typing that stretched verse to which I’ve been contributing over the last few days. This wine’s changing, as it wishes. It doesn’t care what’s expected of it, as a varietal. This is a separatist bottle. Love it. I’m inspired by the profile, what plumes on my palate. Over 1k to project, which WAS day’s goal. Watching a sickening show on BRAVO [not sure it needs, or deserves, capitalization]. Nauseates me, honestly. So whyt am I watching? I’m not really. Just using the noise to fill room. Need another glass, I think to Self, looking through these entries on my phone, from when I was at the box, waiting for A2 in that little off-road patch on Arnold and.. some street. Still hold, not necessarily a grudge, but, a leashed lunge for those sales-seeped swine. I will let it out, all of it, in one of these impending chapbooks, and I WELCOME response. But I don’t want to focus on those hallow, patterned, putrid Napa nitwits. My mind wants to swim in this 2011; its acidic strokes, the tropical tremolo, its chilled nature on this humid hour late.
I’ll get criticisms, as an erratic writer. Wonderful. I want them. But, as I said, I don’t want that on this page. OR, screen. Tomorrow, another run scheduled. Around SV Winery’s estate, actually. 9:45am show. Excited, wanting to make this, keep it, habit. On today’s run, I thought: “Can’t let mySelf not follow through with the project, just ‘cause I’m afraid it won’t sell. If I do, fail to act, I will have failed before finding out if I fail or not.” No. Tomorrow, printing pages… But, don’t want to talk about that, either. Just want another SB glass. Need it, if I’m to dive into these mikeslognoblog entries. Why am I afraid to read past writings? All the more warrant to write, immediately release.
10:08pm. Tired, looking at these old types to my “no blog log,” as Katie used to call it. Posts that are 100 words, thereabouts, hardly of Literary merit. There needs to be stretch, time, effort. 100 words looks makes me appear rushed, disinterested. Other entries, from July 2010, include old podcasts. The blogging efforts, added and subtracted from my writing sight, sights. Still some more of the white Bordeaux in glass. Love the way its acidity has unexpectedly become shy, but still illustrative. Palate paradox.. love that. Need that Adriatic view. How is that wave body’s nose different from the Pacific? Those are the sort of elements I want to discover, learn, connect with.
Thought of Sunriver on the run back from Spring Lake. The runs on those paths.. I can only imagine, currently, in immediate juncture’s jaws. May be too late for poetry, typing that long verse to “document,” here on the monster. Just saw an old pair of shoes, under the little red table by the door [immediate right, looking at it from inside]. Not sure what they mean, symbolically, if anything, but they have my attention. They appear tired, defeated, at-mercy. Never want to be that way. Has me, this nihilistic stringer, preferring earlier curtain call. Don’t want to deteriorate. Don’t want to merely exist. Like wine, I’m hoping to depart at peak, not in any pratfall. Want to be recalled plenary, not partial.
(7/2/12, Monday, 10:48pm)
Nice body, aging remarkably well. Melodic progression in fruit and subtle earthy spices, rich berries supported by sophisticated playful tannins. Just a nice wine to sip on its own here in the 1Stop hut. Didn’t need food. Decanted for about 90 minutes. Lovely gift from a new friend! Gorgeous color, beyond merely sippable. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t ever want to pair this with food. Well, maybe sometimes, something with a buttery or carmelized element. But, as with this occasion, it was flawless in the glass, on its own. Nice revisit to the ’05 vintage …
Not what I expected at first, to be frank. There was a shortage of charisma in its nose, mouth, finish. Even in its color. But, after a couple hours of shaking, air, it slowly came around. Nice earthy notes, herbs, wild fruit. The finish had its tannic sparks, but nothing excessive. Even still, it wasn’t what I expected from a Silver Oak, but I’m still sipping it. One aspect to this to this bottle, after hours of being open mind you, that engages me, is the noses now-floral overtones and how they propel the fruit in this sexy spiraling pattern on palate. Interesting experience with this bottle. Thanks to the gifters! Wonder what else they’ll throw my/1Stop’s way…
Pinot. ’08, ’09. Can’t decide which vintage I prefer. Usually, I avoid speaking in sweeping generalizations about varietals, vintages. But this is just a fun question I’m posing to myself. And you. I know, what AVA’s are we talking about? That’s why I typically avoid such probes, because of the variables. But, let’s just talk. Which do you usually shoot for when on a Pinot safari? Lately, I’ve been into 09’s…that is until I sipped one the other night, Sonoma Coast, that felt timid, taciturn in its flavor arrangement. So I went back to ’08, one from Anderson Valley. I know, the fires, the ever-pervasive smoke note. Have to say, it was rather tempered, advantageously actually, coupled with wild berry, a little toffee and back-palate spice. So, I’m back to ’08. So I thought, till I tasted an ’09 Carneros that seduced me, proselytized me into a vision by which I’ve never before been gripped. So now I’m a Pinot mess, torn between 2 lover years. Where do you stand, principally, on the ’08 v. ’09 matter, if it’s even a “matter” at all? If you saw two Pinots on a shelf, one ’08 while the other ’09, and you weren’t familiar with the producer [and forget the AVA for the moment, and “matter”], which would you pick strictly predicated on year? And forget how pretty the bottle is… Just go by that four digit time marker… Make a vintage-rooted election. Which is picked???
1:48pm. Before going to the chapbook project, going to speed-freewrite a bit. Just got back from bank. Hate dealing with them. Not letting it ruin my day. They have their bottom line, I have mine. Just like with these wineries. And there we part. Did a little writing in the Comp Book early this morning, after Mr. J’s feed. He’s beginning to notice more, I think. Colors, shapes, his parents. He loves colors, that’s certain. Sipping my 2nd cup of homemade coffee/mocha. Those caffeine kingpins, out of my life hopefully. Can’t remember how many days I’m up to. Want to say 3. So that’s $15 towards the pages. Think I’m only going to run 15 copies on the first run. Super small. A test, testing Self, to see if I follow through with this aim, ambition.
Beautiful outside. A bit blustery. Wonder how the vines are feeling about their water deprivations. Tomorrow, behind the bar at Kaz. I do plan on doing some tasting of his new releases as I want to explore his winemaking approach a bit more, of the obscure varietals, blends. Another sip… Tastes a little funny. Think because it’s getting cold. Hopefully, as well today, I’ll get a chance to do some reading. Been looking through Ms. Plath’s entries in the initiating day hours. Always find a couple treasures her logs. And my P&W issue. Actually have another one on the printer’s roof, on addressing “inspiration” on its cover. May skim through that as well. Need to increase speed with this diarist style. Write absolutely everything; Put every word into a project. That’s diarism. The only way I can create, at this Life stage. Don’t have the posh position of dedicating 3+ years to some novel, or book. I don’t have it. This style is rushed, as time is rushing me, reminding me it won’t always be here. Sessions like this, which is precisely how they will taste from now on, my greatest defense and offense against the devilish clock. And if I had a glass of Pride Viognier right now, I’d sip again and again to this new peace.
This morning, almost completely poetry. Can you believe that, Ms. Plath? Don’t have long to talk, but I’m a little proud of my commitment to verse, in recent weeks. When am I going to read? Not sure, when I can find time, I guess. Tonight, no wine. Had enough yesterday. And honestly, I didn’t like the way it made me feel towards the end. Well, now that I remember, even at the beginning. I remember walking around at Pride, looking over one of those valleys, thinking to mySelf, “I should stop, but these wines are too incredible. One more sip…” In fact, right now, the room is completely quiet, Ms. Plath. Only thing I can hear, the refrigerator’s grumbly hum. Tomorrow, first day off in six. What am I doing? Besides spending time with Captain Jack, putting words into the Chapbook 1. Will there be verses in there? Yes, but I don’t want it to be some college student-esque poetry collection chapbook for a class, excessively assignment-looking. I want its dominance to lie in paragraph, narrative. Then, the cubist strokes of verses I like to write.
My eyes, wanting to lower. They hate me. In the previous entry, I was going to do a writeup on the three wineries we visited. But, I don’t want to write like that. That’s not Literary, reflective, of any voice emblematic of ME. That, and they’re not paying me to do so. Few wineries would. But, they would certainly take the free press, donated time, exertion. Don’t get me started…
Can’t hear Sir Jack. Maybe he finally fell into sleep. Already noticing changes in his character, his physique, his motions, mannerisms. He looks into you with analytical angles, seasoned with curious insistence. Today, he holds 8 days to his little name, frame. People say he looks like me, one friend even going so far as to call him a “mini-Mike.” No, though. He’s his own varietal. Now small, but early vigor evident, promised. How do I write him fairly, Ms. Plath?
11:03pm. Need sleep. Okay, for tomorrow…just finish the first chapbook. Throw a bunch of older entries in there, write some new poems, and be done with it. Mimic Mr. Shakur’s work habits. Like he said, you “…don’t have the time or the luxury to be spending all this time 1…” project. Especially a chapbook. Just finish it, Mike. Jack demands it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he would urge me to be more reasonable with Self, not to be like my past dictatorial “superiors.” Superiors, heh. That’s hilarious. No supervisor, has ever, or will ever, be “superior” to me, my writing, my ideas in any respect. Especially with writing, wine, writing about wine. Now I need some sleep, as my rattle warns these weary, weakening walls.