12/30/12 — zone cross, painted

Watching The Thomas Crown Affair.  Seeing how people admire, gawk over, commit crimes over, Art.  Paintings priced in the hundreds of millions.  Artists CAN survive from their revolutions.  History’s proven that.  And which version?  The Pierce Brosnan edition.  Galleries.  With Artists’ lives, whole souls.  For me, no more wine this eve.  48 hours from this sitting, here on sofa’s left side, or wherever I’m sitting, I’ll be alone.  Simulating office.  Might be playing a video game, with new journal exposed, wide, inviting.  Today, and the four that preceded, took my integral.  I’m more than drained.  In 48, I’ll be sipping something lifted; something stratospheric.  Maybe that ’07 Cab I scored at the AV gala.  I don’t know.  But it has to be luminous.  The movie, about to end.  Galleries.  So indescribable 2me.  All in borders.  Thinking of that footage in Paris.  Should transfer some of that to blog, on my homed artistic retreat.  Such admiration, protection of these pieces, hanging from walls.  Want my books to be seen same.  Have to type in waved similarity.  Nearly wrote linearity.  Gobbled by fogged hobble, my fault.  All in2 vault.  Little Kerouac, asleep above my immobility.  Can only think in morning mocha masonry, manuscript’d.  May still be slightly grinning from the ’10 blend.  This movie also has me thinking of Art as it infuses aside winemaking.  MY wines, have to be expressive, purist, minimally manipulated.  Tentatively have dinner planned with winemaking sis, sometime this week.  Want to talk to her about oaking, yeast strains, topping, racking, blending trials, tasting, descriptor selection [as a winemaker would write them, not a writer/winemaker..].

News on in a little.  Me, falling into lethargic whisks.  Still have my grading to do.  Doing all in one day.. 1/1/13, or 1/2.  Already missing my students, especially one, the talented writer/rhetorician.  Her papers, pulled my back into passionate pedagogy.  Don’t have energy to get to my word target.  Maybe Mom’s right, I should take a little break from writing.  But who am I kidding, or even my beautiful sweet kind gentle mother, for that matter?  Writing’s not merely what I do, or “like” to do.  It’s WHO I AM.  Anyone who fully knows the writer knows that.  My wife, reading “Paris Wife” before I do, says she came upon a part where Hemingway goes to a coffee shop to dive in2 Craft, and she [Alice, my lovely wife] thought of me.  “That’s what Mikey does,” she said, adorably, in the kitchen as I poured the first ’10 push.  May get in a little café composition, tomorrow.  But we’ll see.  Two Pinots I want to taste while writing retreat, but I’m hooked by my Cabernet salvo.  Dilemmas of a studying winemaker– hate that word, “winemaker.” Sounds so titular.  I make wine, or am starting.  I have no ornamentally cyclical scope to hold “winemaker” title at some “powerhouse” coporate goblin winery.  I just want to make wine, traditionally, maybe sell a couple bottles.  […]  And the sitting, set.  Can’t wait for sleep.  Wonder if she’d tell me to stay awake, or retire to write more tomorrow, early.  My blood test, for physical, in A.M.  Not in any way looking 4ward.  So, to bed.  Even tireless writer pirates need setting.  Bona … Dreaming of Art, mine, what it’ll soon, only in weeks be.

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Thought about having another beer, but I’m thinking something sweet would serve even more sufficiently.  Tired, and more sips would force a scribe2sink.  Can’t afford that.

Just made the last xfer of words to book.  And that “book,” if I could call it that [no, I can, finally], DONE.  Now, the editing.  Giving Self to 12/15/12.  Not sure it’ll be a ”novel,” reader.  Please don’t be mad.  Finally, novelist.  Wait…  Am I?

11:01pm.  The news, really eating up this approaching “storm” set.  First story, already.  “First signs already landing,” she says.  One person today told me that winds could reach up to 70mph.  Just funny, to me.  And when this storm fails to live to hype, what will they say?  11:04p, and they’re still talking about these supposed storms that will slap our seaboard.  Talking about “storm surge,” an obvious hurricane reference only weeks following Sandy.  I’m being entertained, frankly.  2nd story, storm-seamed.  Time, 11:05pm.  Wondering how long they’ll go…  Sandbags, even, being handed out in Oakland.  “Crews in the North Bay getting ready for the storms…sandbag ‘stations’ are open.” I can’t believe this, to be honest.  Going to stop writing, just watch the dramatized dramatically dramatic storm drain drama.  Time, 11:07p.  This is pretty impressive, these reports.

Even the Weather Channel’s getting in on this sensationalization, this show.  Just checked the Weather Channel, their sit.. they’re officially joining circus.  But, to their credit, they cite in the hour-by-hour deconstruction that this “first” storm’s paramountcy only’s set to last a couple hours.

“You can see the camera bouncing there…”

“Winds are picking up, over the higher elevations…”

 

11/28/12.  Was awarded another section for next semester.  Another Developmental.  Going to have to slow my approach, lesson planning, execution.  Can’t be usual Mike.  Slow, slower.  Going to lower my overall volume for this assignment.  In this semester’s assignment, only 6 sessions remaining.  How.. Did.. That.. Happen?

On the rain today, what a surprise.. not at all what was projected, promoted.  Not wasting anymore time on that topic.  Back to wine.. sipping a bottle opened for tasting Room, that I was able to take home.  It’s a ’10, so there’s youth revealed in both nose and palate, but the encompassing character does encompass a palate.  Makes me want to revisit my wine, that ’12 Merlot in barrel, everyday.  Tasted through tanks today with one of the winemakers, for my blend.  Turns out there could be up to 7 different varietals in its borders, if you can believe that.  Becoming addicted to winemaking.  Thinking this may be MY topic, as a fiction writer–  Wine.  Making it.  Selling your own bottles, much as the Self-printed writer does their mss.

Thinking of how busy I’ll be next semester, especially with the amount of work these pre-Comp sections’ll require.  Just have to recalibrate.  And with my first Self-published release.. Due date, 12/15/12.  Pages, 54.  Would love to publish something over 100 pgs, but I just can’t afford it.  And it’s not practical.  Not yet.  Not till I’m more known, circulated Artist.  And, I believe there 2B more sales potential with smaller publications than those lengthy.

This wine, soft on palate.  Poetic, now.  Just needed oxygen.  Asked the winemaker today what he thought of the numbers my sister shared with me on MKCS.  The only question I had was on the free sulfur sitting at 26.  He said it was fine, and that he “liked oxygen,” meaning a little oxygen touching the wine.  Can’t learn enough about this Craft.  2013, I’m going at it seriously, Autonomously.  Another reason to bring down my manuscript’s page length to 51-54.  Have to project expenses better.. only learning this tonight.  Carefully proceed, with all monies.  Have to hold enough for my official launch, next year.  And the writing, MADIGAN publishing, has to fund effort majority.

Tomorrow, who knows if there’ll be rain.  Checked the Weather Channel, heavy rain set for morrow’s evening.  We’ll see.  Only thinking of simplicity, its concept.  Something I should share with my students, in all section levels.  In my writing be more honest by day, I find Self with bit of a nose runny.  Better not be getting sick, again.  Can’t afford it.  “Afford it” …  Then I need to make my OWN money.  Sell these pages, manuscripts.  Don’t have time to edit 100+ pages.  Need money quick, independence even quicker.  Don’t have time to edit 100 or more pages, I really don’t.  Like what Pac said on time, luxury..  not having it.

Night’s cap, glassed.  Nice voice to this ’10, now.  Showing more temperament, touch.  A romantic surround to its sensory sound, palate pass.  Tired of the words I’m using to convey this wine’s oneness.  Could be how tired I am, but I let class go early this evening.  Just need another sip.  […]  Wow, a lot of wine in this glass.  Is this too much for so late in evening?  Not when you’re studying to be a winemaker.  A writing winemaker.  Not sure there’re many of those.  But I’m not a winemaker, yet.  Need more study, more training.. MANY more vintages.  And that’s to what I look 4ward; I like the fact I’m not as strong in Crafting a wine as I seem in sentence.  Thought this morning that today was going to be one attacking my contiguity.  Quite pleased in concludes with such conviviality.

Starting to tire, slow.  Have to finish this glass, study its development in oxygen exposure.  Was opened yesterday, so it’s had a nice interaction with O2.  Another [sip]…  Remembering my first bottle seriously tasted, that 2000 Merlot, Blackstone, when I lived in San Ramon.  2002, that tasting.  10 year relationship with wine.  Can’t believe.  Just in my appreciation of that time envelope, Time tallies another point pool.  I can’t win, I know.  But I can’t write, warn others of this brevity about our breath.

10:44pm.  Stopping at 11pm.  16 mins more.  Find nose running again.  Maybe I’m too honest in my writing.  And you know what, maybe I SHOULD publish 100-110 pages.  Only print 10-15 copies.  Have to stick to a budget, what can’t I understand that?  No, forget “understanding…” why can’t this writer EMBRACE it?  Maybe I’m 2much an Artist.

Just remembered, three years ago today was my first “wine blog” post.  Cited how I hate the word “blog.” And I still do, no shift.  Where will I be in another 3?  Where does the writer want 2B?  Well, I’ll read 36.. that I can’t help.  Little Kerouac’ll be 3.  See?  Time wins no matter what I do.  But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop writing.

Have to go.  Don’t want to miss the 11 o’clock news, see what their excuse is for their predictions not coming to any kind of fruition.  Would love more time, but it’s slithered under a coward rock.  And I’m targeted by its ally, the hour clock.  I can only laugh, ‘cause I’m still with fingers on keys, as my wine lingers on lees– appreciation, alleviation.

“Another bigger storm is moving in,” they just said [11:01pm].  They’re still on it, these people.  They’re only reporting on the little flooding of day.  They’re calling it “storm #2.”  Still in sensational mode.  “Impressive totals and flood concerns,” she just said.  So sick of this.  Now, they report on a couple homeless people that almost drowned in the creek.  Is that not objectification?  Why am I still writing about this?  Now they’re interviewing children on their accounts.

Oh my, trees fell.  And they promise these next 2 storms’ll pack a bigger “punch.” Clocking out.  Wish I had another glass, to get through this account, this sing-songy testimony.

Back2Work, sipping for more scribbles [02182012]

Saturday.  Slouching.  Beyond tired, but I went to work.  Excited to be in the presence of wine’s world.  And write.  I was more than hell-bent on being a writer today, not having been on a self-assigned mission in a while.  Started in the VIP Room, then to the main bar.  Holiday weekend, all smiles, positive energy.  Characters eager to sip, learn about wine, talk about it.  Jack on my mind most of the day, coupled with genuine, very persistent, exhaustion–it was difficult to concentrate.  But I kept the little notepad close, pen ready.  Was talking with one group about Zinfandel, how its character can at time be almost palate-abusive; too loud, forceful; almost unorganized, no matter what a winemaker does.

Had another discussion about Meritage–its pronunciation, components.  “How is it pronounced?” she asked.  I told her, gently, that it’s a union, or blend, of “Merit” and “Heritage.” We then both made fun of other ways it could be annunciated.  “Thank you for not being snooty about it,” she said, smiles.  I seconds later found mySelf tasting the ’09 Rockpile, scribbling notes, logging its character’s every syllable.  “Sweet assault on senses; deep, dark, deliciously evasive; sexy siamese cat..” I wrote.  And now at home, 9:27am, I mean PM, I again sip.  First wined session in weeks.  Also reflecting on how, for once, the VIP Room didn’t frustrate me, unnerve me in anyway.  It also taught me a bit about my place with patience, with Art, Life.  Jack then came to mind, how his early arrival shows me that assignments need be done (printed, edited, for vend) early, always.  And, how Life, my Life, must embrace Art, my Art, belligerently.

I then tasted and took notes on a 2007 Petite Sirah, Dry Creek.  I’ve loved past vintages of this bottled character, but none have squeezed and enticed my focus like this one.  I called it “Yummy, Inc” in my notes.  Also denoted how it appears in glass, sits on palate, like “Yummy ink.” Can’t help but laugh a little, now at home, looking though this rushed journalism.  And it was frustratingly but energizedly frenzies today.  Pour, sprint, chat, pull from shelf…  Welcome, set glasses, pour the introductory white, move down bar, scribble character notes, capture dialogue…  All over again.

Wrote, “Reds sing more songs than whites.” Remember this stemming from a conversation I had with sippers moderately new to wine pursuit.  They disclosed that they didn’t really get reds, know how to appreciate them.  “What’s the real difference between red and white wine?” the guy asked, leaning on the bar space to the left of his girlfriend.

While one lunch, I just walk around the Wild Oak Vineyard.  That’s it.  Well, not really.  I wrote, took pictures.  A lot.  Of both.  Then, thought that I need to sometimes STOP writing.  Just live, enjoy.  Easily the most memorable lunch hour I’ve ever had at the winery.  I’ll be back on Monday, and will more than likely devote my 30 minutes with identical vein.  I again thought of Jack–his character, what he embodies as a symbol.  He’s more than a metaphor.  He’s telling me, just being there, wiggling and squealing in front of me, or in my arms, that my writing deserves Life.  Real Life; place on a page.  Little Jack orders me to follow through with the chapbook projects.  Done.  Thank you, little Sir.

One of my coworkers commented on how negative people in a tasting Room “feast on you, eat your soul.” I laughed, and agreed.  Still agree.  Wine, as I’ve written from DAY ONE, is meant to be unifying, not divisive.  How could anyone bring negativity into a place of Art?  One social, peaceful, enjoyable?  I’ll never get it.  Another thing I’ll never understand, on a separate but still similar note, is how winery management/ownership can willingly, reflexively underpay their employees.  Moronic.  This is the part of “the industry” that I’ll never stop citing, attacking.  It’s unjust.  And I don’t expect Them to change.  They won’t.  They don’t have to.  And neither do I, so don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut, or pen still.

Not really one for aerators, but I met one today that “antagonizes a wine’s intentions,” as I jotted, again hurried.  Right after my discovery, met a nice couple from LA (Louisiana), who recently relocated to my old neighborhood.  They, exemplary of the positive, friendly, civil, enthusiastic guests that all tasting Rooms/wineries welcome, especially the female character.  Direct gentle questions about wine, its origins, histories, styles.  They made me think about my wine, the project with Katie–how it’s developing, how it’ll taste after bottled for 4-6 months…  They, especially she, more than any other guests today, made me connect to my wine ambitions.  And now, with these deep red sips, think of my barrel again, as it rests up there in the production facility.  What’s it doing right now?  What’s it thinking?  How does it want to attach to palate?

Wrote a short poem in the vineyard, in between pictures.  The two not-so-little Jackrabbits I saw racing between the rows indicated that I need to write faster, more.  There is NO time to be excessively delicate.  Another sip of this Rockpile…  I’m told I need to, tonight, write solely poetry.  Compile more verses.

Back to my notes–”5:06pm. Sipping a sexy Merlot, stocking shelves.” Now, I tilt the glass, working at home.  I’m also envisioning, AGAIN, the travels from this writing.  Would love to return to a stage, read for those who’d listen; those who enjoy listening to thoughts, exchanging ideas, and I WILL be back in the classRoom again, doing just that with willing students.

This wine, Romantic like I remember wine being.  Glad I’ve waited to enjoy a glass.  Going to sip slow, respecting little Jack.  He’s still at the hospital, but still…  Tempering my tilts more than b4.  For him.  Want to be a focused penman, not a diagonal diarist.  So, sipping slow.  Enjoying.  Can’t tell you how annoyed I get when people stumble into the tasting Room just to drink more, accumulate more effect.  It’s disgusting.  I’m not THAT.  I’m a writer.  Now, of immeasurably elevated aim.  Looking through the pictures, as I always do.  They show I need log everything.  EVERYTHING, as time won’t ever slow.  And it doesn’t need to.  The wine tells me I don’t need to, either.  That I shouldn’t.  Sip more, see what else I need do, need not do.  Sip, scribble…  What I now need do.