C—— had the last glass of Rosé. She thought about opening a bottle of the blend Rosie made a couple vintages ago, but thought about the meeting she had in the morning, what they wanted her to present; budget, projections.. How do you “project” how many people are going to visit the website, buy wine.. visit the tasting room, join the wine club, which was becoming more and more humorous to her. Whenever she had her own wines, or tasting room (which she was more and more against by the day), she would be that label that didn’t have a “wine club”. She hated how that sounded, the whole idea… Wine club. Rubbish.

“So are you gonna quit?” Mikaella asked.

“No. Not yet. I’m a ways from that, but eventually I have to leave. This is just too much for me, all this pressure to sell, the constant threatening.. it’s ridiculous.. this isn’t wine, the wine industry.. this isn’t why I got into this business,” C said.

“Are you headed home after this?”

“Yeah, I have to study..”

“For what? Are you trying to be a sommelier?”

“Oh, no. For making wine.. I’m just looking into different wine styles, yeasts, oaks, and whatever else I can learn.”

“You don’t want to be a sommelier?”

“Uh, no, not really.” C poured the rest of her SB into the sink behind the bar. Everyone else saw her dismiss her wine, and thought she would say something, but she just walked out the front doors. Why was it so odd that she wanted to make wine? Her own wine… What did anyone know, especially Mikaella. She’d been in the wine industry for what, two months? Once home, she’d study like she were going for the bar, or something else.. no, she wouldn’t compare, because there was no comparison. This was for her.

many mine modus

UP.  Feeling more alive than I have in days, this early.  7:22am.  Don’t want to make coffee, 1) I don’t need it, and 2) it’d take from the sitting.  Probably up to five minutes.  A bit surprised I ordered two espresso shots last night in wine’s stead.  Either way, it’s contributing to this A.M. manuscript greeting.

Should be nice today.  Don’t think I’ll get to a run, after work, as we’ll be kept late– or, no.. we have a wine club event  tonight, I’m pretty sure.  Maybe I should shoot for a morning run [morrow].  Would love to be in that habit.  Tonight: isolationist.  Finally clearing, cleaning, desk, and writing.  Actually, the thought of drinking any wine tonight, bringing any uncomfortable state tomorrow morning, makes me anxious.  I shouldn’t plan, just see how all sings to me.

Posting the piece I gathered over the last couple days, ‘Copper Hours’, when I get home.  Makes me think of that 1,000 word piece I wrote one day, after working at the box, the one I called “Tremor’d Lecture.” Remember Carl saying, “Yeah, I noticed you wrote in fiction.. not sure how I feel about that.” Such a mud muscle.  Think I do need a little coffee, be back…

-Buy print cartridge for tonight’s printing.

Changing my mind about coffee.  Don’t want to tremor in my inner lectures, today.  Steadiness, key.  Dinner tonight, something I wouldn’t usually do [probably Monti’s].  Wine, something I wouldn’t regularly open.. maybe that Cab Fran Katie gave me.  What’s on the Monti’s menu these days?  […]  Too much to list.  And I don’t want to plan.  No plans.  That’s not poetic.  That’s responsible, inartistic.  All about tonight, whim’d

Chords, breezed.. more ease–

larger pours

revolutions in fern gullies, for

species other.

Ramble, cook it, serve

rare.  Lay in sentence blanket

under irregular

grammar moon.

(5/25/13)

scratch track

This morning, much more intense than I thought.  And by, “intense,” I allude to all Self-educating tremors positive.  Everything from antimicrobials to “referm” [re-fermentation], to blending RS tanks with dry lots.. blending trials with citric and tartaric, then discussing symptoms of bottle shock, origins thereof.  Getting closer to my label, “whoso,” launch.  Was hard to concentrate on tasting Room obligation, duty commitment, today with winemaking–wine itSELF–on mind, in sight.

Met another writer/blogger today.  She was with her friend/industry colleague.  Always nice to meet another writer.  Especially one loving wine.  She reminded me that fun, genuine enjoyment, has to pour prominently in “the industry.” So many get stolen by sales goals, wine club signups, metrics, revenue challenges, marketing, branding, that ever-annexing interactive gargoyle opiate “social” media, that they forget about THE WINE.  Reminds me, totally actually, of what’s happened to books, publishing, music.. its industry.  Not me, nor the poetry I’m electrically galavanting.  Wanted to go taste my barrels, after meeting my new writer coadjutor.  But then I remember the sulfur addition that I–no, one from the skeletal cellar crew–made the other day.  Will have to wait a couple weeks, at least.  May not rack for another week or two, as well.  Or maybe I should do it sooner, let oxygen introduce itself gracefully.  Another thing I learned, in winemaking’s sermon: oxygen’s always there to help.

Have the ’10 Meritage open, here in condo castle.  Tasted it today, alongside a ’10 single-vineyard Cabernet.  Everyone loved the Cab, I nodded Bordeaux blend.  Again italicizing separated palate proclivities.

This palate amalgamation, ambient alloy, one pleasurably ployed, plying.  Romancing rain.. layered vision vein.  Need another glass, so I can further SELF-further into this book.  She summons, tempts.  And as Author, I can only answer, follow, hook snap.  Fish, me, freely.  How many of my wines will be moved by her reaction.. probably all.  She’s barely-visible comfort enclosure.. but immediate.  Hard to write about her tonight, from day’s stretch, trials.. blended or no.  Sipping ’10 blend, again, thinking further.  Can’t plan my sentences.. not my voice varietal.  My truth, held in id-inked inclination.  Spontaneity, whimsicality.. wonderfully warped reality.  From her, Kelly.. magically manuscript mayhem.  Only able to haphazardly capture my compositional cure.

Conspiring a run, early morrow.  Knowing I’ll only design, re-confound Self about her spell.  I know what she’s into, now.. her work, in her studio.. seeing what blends with– just like winemakers, but with immeasurably more depth.  She doesn’t stifle Self with social media, blogs, anything industry’d.  She’s SHE, solely.  When tasting from those tanks this morning, doing my cave tours, looking up at “the Syrah hill,” I only saw her efforts, travels.. primrose poetry, flown.. thrown.. from bristles.  She smiled–  No, saving for novel.  Tempted to work on it a little tonight, but I want to enjoy freedom.  In writing.  I know, quite the concept: FREEwriting.  Need to “revisit” that Meritage, again.  Starting to notice a salty dark chocolate note.  But maybe that’s from all the salted dark chocolate squares I today snacked.  Biased, barely believable.  […]  Just remembered, more grading into which I’m imbibed to 2morrow dive.  Why?  Why is this such a struggle with me, these paper marks, evaluations?  Becoming embittered.  But won’t let it print me receipt.  Fall, ’13, my most Literary term2date.  Anti-assignment, pro-learning/Literature/response/Human.

***

Hours watched, more dance.  He tired of his own paragraphs, forced himself into hallucination, her, image, revamp, recur, rampant realization.  There were three paths to her, maybe more.  He’d take them all.  In sipping his blend, he thought the character even more self-manipulated.  IT was playing with him.  Perhaps trying to message.. something.  He was too tired to decipher day’s details, responsibilities, even where he’d run tomorrow [alarm set for 5:15am].  Writing, only panel.

She was probably out-of-state, again, selling her work.  Mike envisioned himSelf in far’s bar, selling both book AND bottle.  Dreaming, what that mind would only allow.  But, sooner, never any type of later, would that center demand material.. much like publisher, winery owner, corporate partner in familial wine forums.  Struggling mental sidewalk stroll.  Nothing poetic in this, Mike thought.  He wished he had her for counsel, finding his own pages annulling.

“So what’s wrong, why don’t you like them?” she’d ask, sipping her Syrah, looking over at the manuscript of his she just set down by the small book stack, by the beige ottoman.

He noticed her concern, how she sipped her singular Rhône.  Thought involving wine, fermented his fumbling descent.  Stutter cover, all vocal cords–  “I.. I don’t…  They’re just diseased, to me.  I’m never going to sell this thing,” Mike said, lifting his glass, seeing it blank, drained, racked into his root.  He forgot his last sip, thought he’d ought to stop.

“I met some guy on my last trip, one of those critics, just mentioning everything he probably read on wikipedia.  Most annoying pig I’ve met so far on the road.”

“Did you say anything to him?” Mike asked, pouring himself, then Kelly, a little more.  “This is amazing, isn’t it?”

“I just listened.  What else could I do?  He then started talking about wine, then I thought of you, wished you were there to shut him up.”

“You thought of me?”

“Yes.  Why?  You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised, just…”

“Loving this weather, since I got back.  Must be beautiful at your winery, huh…”

“It’s gorgeous.  The vines are going crazy, so much to write about, so many people coming in with their questions, answers, stories, what they’ve read.  IT’s a goldmine for me, really.”

“You know what, I was going to ask you if I could come onto the property and paint, or draw, just for a couple hours, from that mountain spot.  Can I do that?”

“Yeah, that’s not a big deal at all.  You just have to give me credit, when you sell it,” he said, laughing, walking to the captain for another bottle of…  “What do you want?”

“You know what, Mikey, I think I’m okay.  I have to get up early and touch a couple pieces, then drive to some unknown gallery in Sausalito.”

She’s incandescent, iconoclastic to him.  Spangling, turning.  Not sure what this entails, now that I’m closer to book’s finish.  But I’ll find out, I’m sure.  She makes me want to edit, what I don’t exactly enjoy.  Everything I today did, with these notes in the little flipbook pages, for her, somehow.  I see that smile, I’m trampled by possibility’s elevating optimism stampede.  Observation’s lecture, stirring my curve.  But after three glasses, my passes blurred.  I’m pleased, a third, from Her.  IT’s fiction.  OR maybe NOT.  Either way, a writer caught.  Tomorrow morning’s run, has to rack-and-return thought.. like blending the RS tank with others more forward.  Bottling only TRUTH, in my books.  Booked.

(4/24/13)

bottledaux, taking shape.  Never losing any Literary contemplativeness.  Today at winery, met another camera-carrying character much like Self– snapping blocks, rows, clusters just as I do.  Made me think of my novel, how time dissolves, and it [that bouldering novel] just has to be done.  But, I know I’ve written that before.  You know I’m thinking about time, acknowledging its attack.  In the writer’s glass, ’09 Meritage.  Finally starting to settle in its sequences.  Just like I.  The Self-publishing stash, to checking account, to be responsible.  Hate Self for that, but it’s what I honestly feel’s best for this blog, its “business” potential.  And I don’t want to be too much of a “business man,” too much of a record-keeper.  Just want to write.  I’m an Artist, that’s what I want 2do.  Test me, I dare U.  So is it right to view these screens in ways I am, of late?  Yes.  Just won’t let the Literary curves ever be lost.  In fact, had a thought this morning to use all bx entries, potentially I mean, from 1/1/12-6/30/12, for book’s sake.  I’ll see.  Another sip…  Definite musicality to this bottle’s momentum.  These Merlot clusters I shot, just after work, gorgeous, tempting my pen’s pulses.  Actually, I took these shots driving out the winery’s driveway, just before turning right on 12 towards Santa Rosa.  Looking at my little pages, not many notes, only a quote from one guest on the wine club patio, from Nebraska, where she said just after nosing the Chardonnay: “Oh my, what a lovely bouquet.” I thought about laughing internally, but offed such compulsion.  I think it’s simply my revulsion at that word, “bouquet,” that made me contemplate interior elemental tremor.  Tonight, my Friday night, somewhat, as I’m going back to winery early in morrow’s morrow for internship.  Learning.  Whatever I can.  I don’t care if the winemaker’s there or not.  If anything, I’ll write, snap more stills.  On the crush pad, in vineyard, wherever.  Don’t at all care.  I’m going to make it work for me [like Dad always says], my winemaking Ambitionz.  And shame on me for ever doubting Self, reconsidering my winemaking Ambitionz, or thinking of quitting.  ESPECIALLY when my label’s name is “whoso.” As in,  Emerson’s quote, “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.” Denoting, connoting, REBELLION.  Being, staying, forwarding TRUE to one’s truest of SELVES.  I’d be a hypocrite, not merely contradictory, if I elected any other push.

I’m not surrendering.  Ever.

I’m making wine.

By mySELF if I have to.

I’m a writer, making wine.  So that’s how I’ll do.  Another sip of this ’09.. honestly, it lacks a little weight, gravity, presence.  I like the flavor sequence, palatable properties.  But it seems timid.  Maybe it’s the wine’s youth.  Don’t know.  I’m just responding to what I’m meeting, this night.  People often get too carried away when responding to wine, like there’s only one answer.  I remember one tour I did on the mountain.. 2 couples, one from Texas, the other from Southern California.  The man from Texas–and I may have shared this already–stole the moment from me as a guide, wanting to lecture the other couple on what constitutes a “good” wine.  Just jumped into thoughts, tonight.  With all the wine thinking I’m doing, the wine I’m enjoying.  Will everybody love my wine?  Of course not.  Like Katie said, “If you second guess yourSelf, you’ll never make wine.” Well, I’m making wine.  I’ll worry later about what consumers think.

Maybe.

10/7/12, Sunday, 10:59pm

diarism prism

9/29/12.  Plenty notes today.  Piecing all together.  That spot, in the Hood Mt. parking lot, unpaved, still in/on mind.  Off to dinner with Alice.  5 years, a married character, me.  IF you were to ask me ten years ago where I’d be in 10 years, I never would have projected here.  Jack, focusing this penner.  Tonight, I’m going to take a close look at the wine list, targeting Syrah.  Took home some $ from wine club room shift.  Promise to write–er, I mean TYPE–more, later.  Peace … [6:48pm]

9/30/12.  My Friday night.  Interesting, that on my Saturday, I’ll be getting a cavity filled, working in evening.  Well, lecturing.  Tonight’s varietal, if you can believe it.. Zin.  An ’09, from the winery.  I don’t plan on ever making Zin, but I’m deconstructing it for character, and just as a standalone wine.  Everything in its stature, structure, stride continues quite level.. Love what’s on palate.  Again sipping…  A humble voice conveying assurance.  Returned to the book Katie bought me for Christmas, the winemaking text.  Still in winemaker mode, especially with this harvest’s pace.  Kazzy told me by phone today that our fruit could be arriving any day.  He’ll let me know.  Katie picks our Chardonnay tomorrow.  And I would be there if it weren’t for my bloody appointment.

On Self-publishing– still using the other night’s quote, from my students’ reading, to get novel on shelves.  Right now, looking at content scribbled on little pages.  Well on way, especially with the character today that said the nose of the Syrah reminded him of fish.  He laughed, as if to inform me that his opinion’s immeasurably valuable, that I should pay attention, let someone know.. Right away!  I didn’t know how to react, honestly.  And you know what, I’m glad that–  Sorry, readers.  Have to save it for book.

Feel like I haven’t written in some time.  I mean, really sat for a meaningful sitting, beyond my usual posting from phone.  Which HAS TO STOP.  Typing on this monster device, bad enough.  Posting from a phone, lower than any feared Literary landfill.  Don’t know why I capitalized, as no post from my devilish phone’s “Literary.”  Moving past, I think about the heat, what that means for grapes.  Not sure I’ll be in the vineyards early this coming week.  May be a good thing.  Should get some footage and stills of the Chard, or SB, being pressed, that juice surging from that nozzle.

Ms. Plath’s entries down here with me.  Remembering the class I saw on the Stanford website, including her work, analyzing her as a Literary celebrity.  Been going to my campus’ site quite a bit, lately.  Still in sight, but how will that blend with the winemaking efforts?  Maybe it’s okay to have winemaking as a hobby.  NO.  Want it 2B more than that.  I want to be a “professional” winemaker, like Katie, but keep/perpetuate/boast/promote my Literary practice, standing, roots.  What other winemaker has that elemental composition?  2nite’s session, looking to do 500 words here, for the “wine blog,” then 500 in novel idea.  May postpone novel’s .5k for morrow’s morning.  Setting alarm for 5am.  “Vineyard shoot time” I call it.  Want 1000 words in book, actually, from past notes, entries, pages, whatever.  Before little Jack wakes.  This wine, this Zin, of all varietals, tells me to do what I want as a writer.  IT urges me to follow Kelly, how she separated from clock.  And the Syrah I had last night, know I could produce one more enigmatic, more artful.  Just have to study more.  Thinking I should submit some of these pieces to contests, or competitions, after hearing the winery’s reserve Zin won a gold medal at the harvest fair.

Papers to grade tomorrow.  Leaving castle at 4p, headed for Starbucks on Farmers.  Know I’ll finish early, but the mocha’s muscle assures another thousand.  I’m hoping.  Also need to start running, again.  Maybe I should do that tomorrow morning instead of writing.  What?  How dare I write–I mean TYPE–such.  Writing first, all secondary.  Maybe I should one day craft a Zin.  No?  This is the Zin talking.  IT rewrote me.  Pushing me2POETRY.

I swim in Zinfandel from dim wells, never under critics‘

thin spells.  Pen’s perspiration, the way gin smells.  My sin tells

memoirs afar; scribbler scarred.. at concerts with a wand curved.

I’m gone, stirred.  All statements, articulated, hardly

inferred.

artist self-harvest

Back from first day of “internship,” if that’s what you’d call it.  Sampled some Zinfandel barrels, vintage ’10, as well as learn from the oenologist about acid levels, whole cluster pressing, and other phenolic attributes.  Want some coffee, but don’t want to risk waking Jack.  Tomorrow, project R launch.  I’ll copy syllabus later in day, from my own pocket.  Looking at it like a Self-published work, that’s the level of pride I’m taking in this class.  Oh, which reminds me.. there are some notes in my back pocket, in the little pages, that I need for day 1’s lecture.  So excited to be back in the classRoom.  My student blend, what will it render in character, collectively and individually?

Just looked through little notes, and found a dialogue snippet from a coworker.  J said, “It smells like a penny in here.” Not sure how meaningful the line is, just thought it was interesting, random, strangely funny.  I remember I was standing behind the counter in the wine club member room, towards day’s end, when he said this.  Going to be a long day tomorrow, but it’s going to work for me in a number of ways.  Well, one way.. for the writing.  Bought two new Comp Books on way to the winery, this morning.  1, for winemaking notes [Tuesday mornings, and otherwise], and 2, for this Kelly novel I keep dipping in, out of.  Already posted to both blogs today.  Little spoken word to bx, and a photo I shot yesterday [with phone] to 1Stop.  Hoping for 1 more post [at least] per site before day’s end.  Was reading a friend’s blog just a minute ago, how she’s in Vegas on a business trip.  I’m almost there, to the road, to my motioned pages, all in another new Comp Book.  Or, no.. just the one I have upstairs, the older one.  Vegas, an interesting stage.  Is it Literary?  Well, with my perspective, yes.  So many characters, so much temptation, so much motion.  Had a guest in the tasting Room the other day that said he retired early ‘cause he hated all the travel his job demanded.  How could you hate travel, those strange hotel Rooms, dinning out [or in, your Room]?  He’s not a writer; He doesn’t have my sensitive sense of space, place.  And that’s not a fault of his, I just understand why someone like him wouldn’t like being on the road.  Of course, I don’t want to be mobile too frequently.. I have a little boy.  And I hate being away from him, my Little Kerouac.  But, in same, I need travel.  I need difference.  I need unfamiliar.  Excess domesticity will kill Artistry.

Quiet in castle.  I just think of what I would write on the road, from a hotel Room.  Probably about what I’m seeing from that floor.  Or, what’s around me in a restaurant in earshot of slot machines, casino ruckus.  Or what if I was in Miami like my sister was a couple months ago?  Would probably just write to the ocean, explain how this moment’s peace persists unique, holds me without speech.  After running on beach, return to Room, write about sights, what I saw, heard, what white I’ll start with.. Sauv Blanc?  Chard?  Maybe a dry Gerwurtz?  Depends on when my evening pouring is.  I’ll wait till after, have a Pinot.  Would love to pour out-of-state, like my friend, help my wine grow as a “brand.” Ugh, still hate that word.  BRAND, sounds so mechanized, so commercial, so soulless.  Just want to make my wine, travel with it, write in those legs.  How is that unreasonable?  Oh wait, is it?  Dreams, caressing best of me.

10:14pm.  Finding many of my former students support and wish me well on tomorrow’s re-entry.  One of my formers, A.C., stated that she was glad she experienced my whole “Let the monster expose itself for what it is” lecture, as she was recently confronted with a bit of bigotry.  Humbled I’ve positively rippled in certain capsules.  My syllabi, at ready.  Even a full lecture typed, copied.. and a page from Plath’s collection.  This semester, sure to put me on Stanford’s campus.  I don’t even know how to begin2thank my former students.  They still support me, have my back.  I need to be a soldier this semester for them, as well as these new seated sights.

Sipping some ’11 Sauv Blanc.  Still in winemaker mode, after today’s lab visit.  Thieving those Zin barrels had me thinking of authors inspired by other scribes.  I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, as long as some integrity’s paginated, crystalized.  I know me.. all tomorrow in tasting Room, or on mountain, I’ll be thinking of my first lecture.  What a great sales angle, I realize.  Or maybe I should keep it to mySelf, be “low-key,” as Dad has always urged.  Think that’s what I’ll do, just envision what’s hours ahead, back on the road to Stanford.

Last sips of this SB, reflecting on amplitude of days summed.  I’m 33, and I think finally at Equilibrium’s border.  What would Kelly say?  “You deserve it,” probably.  What would Little London say?  “Good for you, Papa.” If anyone ever thinks I’m Self-centered, egocentric, they surely don’t know degrees to which I value opinions of ones loved.  Taking smaller SB sips, hoping it tells me something different.  Thinking I might do mine in ALL neutral oak.  But I don’t want it TOO neutral, as I learned today the perils of bacteria.  Have to call Kaz tomorrow, find out when my our Blanc’s touching down, as I’m finding more and more are pulling clusters now.  Seeing Self as cluster of Artful, Literary, POETIC activity, ready to be picked from domesticity’s dungeon.  It’s time, for me, my pages, words.  Edgy?  Maybe.  No, definitely.  And I’ll approach the classRoom with the same rattle.  At the end of day’s thousand, I think of travel, lecturing at out-of-state campuses on student empowerment through writing, journaled persistence.  I’m near my pick from normality’s, domesticity’s cordon.  Thinking of her comments on the monster.  They’re out there.  But writers aren’t timid.  Not in the least.  You’ll not only be exposed.. you’ll be thrown from your boastful throne.

(9/4/12, Tuesday)

wine entry, wined-out — 9/1/12

Tired, still, from last night’s tasting.  Night in.  Have to remain fortified, and write.  Was compelled to leave domicile, be out on this “holiday” weekend.  But no.  Only studio’d.  Dinner, done.  Now I can focus on sitting.  Sipping: 2008 Cabernet.  Which winery, not important.  Feel as though I haven’t written in so long.  Hate that feeling.  project R, my first taught section in nearly 2 years, only 4 days distanced.  Am I ready?  Think so.  Will copy syllabi with own funds, as I want, would rather have, a certain paper type rather than the JC’s generic regenerated sheets.  Now, 8:42pm.  Planning on writing till 2am.  See if that happens…  What do I want from night, this session, this quiet to Self?  Spoken word, I’m thinking.  But then, I think I want the chapbooks addressed.  I would, could, write rhymes for those shortened collections.  The blogs, bugging me.  Why do I have to have a target, stress Self like I am?  Why can’t I just write, enjoy?  One of my writing movies on, making this night count, matter.  IT has to have value.

Busy day at winery.  Didn’t have a single spare second, in that wine club member room.  Met incredible people, characters that’ll keep the material motioned [should probably open that document here on the monster, now].  Feel like I have 2 much going.  Real Artists embrace simplicity, a minimalist approach to their canvass, whatever it is.  So why do I take on as much as I do?  With this social media, pictures, film, atop the paginated pulses?  I can do all that, I’m thinking.  Just have to be organized.  How many writing movies will I be able to screen, 2nite?  hoping to have 1k up on “blog” by the time this film’s finished.  Should go upstairs, fetch my mobile office– Plath entries, comp book, semester’s texts…

This Cabernet, reminding me of last night’s development– Katie informing me that we might make a Chardonnay this harvest.  Talk about a gift, ON TOP of the bottle she brought back from France, for me.  A 1979 Chateau Haut-Batailley Pauillac.  Could not believe it.  But what I do know, this’ll be popped with family.  Such an enjoyable night last night, with everyone.  Again reiterating that wine is about family, laughs, occasion.  Not prestige, self-elevation, status, like those puffy pigs at the box, believe.  Looking at the bottle right now, wondering what the wine inside’s doing.  What is its character type?  Can’t wait to find out.

Tomorrow, on mountain.  Need characters, so I hope I get some, just 2 or 3, that’d be fine.  My novel, or short story sequence, starting to take shape in these chapbooks.  And this coming semester, just what I needed to cement salable material.  Poured Self another glass, smaller than one full, more like a wine club room pour.  This wine, with its dark smokey shouts, soft presence and swagger, telling me “relax,” enjoy my night, writing.  Pictures from last night…  How, why, did it pass so fast?  Was looking forward to it all week, now it’s gone.  Time, upping its assault on me, again.  Have to counterattack, revert to rime.

Almost to day’s 1k.  And Kelly, not at all stressed like me.  She’s more than likely just painting in her studio, be in on wine glass or white surface, or on wood as she occasionally will.  Is she sipping a Cab?  Probably not.  More than likely a Syrah, or Chardonnay.  Think that’s the biggest reason I want to make a Chard.. for my character.  Just looked through a couple lecture notes I jotted the other day, in my new comp book [dedicated to this new class], thinking I need to share this consciousness stream with students, as it’ll embolden them to embrace theirs, especially in the brainstorming stages.   Going to write something down…  Much better, now that it’s in the comp book.  Hate waiting to write.  Yes, I had the little notebook in my back pocket today, but didn’t even have an eyelash’-worth of scribble time.

9:17pm.  No more social/socialist media distractions.  Paying attention to this move.  The Artist, struggling, just wanting to be heard.  And he was, as he refused to not be.  Taking Ms. Plath’s book from my bag.  Just poured Self a full glass, convincing mySelf I deserve it.  Dark as oil, night, vampire attire.. speaking of poem, rhyme, also brandished poetry Comp Book.  Just noticed it’s Sept 1st.  I mean, I knew that at work today, realized it, whatever.. but just really appreciated it, here on the couch.  Time, scoring another missile hit against the penman.  Want to watch some footage I shot the other day, but I’m not getting distracted again by this device-grounded material.  I don’t resent what I’ve done with cameras, but it’s not writing.  It’s not ME, as this page is ME.  The wine, beginning to slow me, again.  Not getting to last night’s peak.  Can’t.  I have work 2do, here in these journals.  As  a diarist, my moment’s of dire fire.  Made another note, almost distracted.  Slowing my sips, ‘cause I’m a worn writer, 2nite.  Can’t even remember what I tasted last night, at Katie’s.  And I wasn’t aiming 4 that state, I just arrived there, being with family, surround by love, positive energy.  And that’s precisely what I want little Jack to see, unconditionally.  Love, conversation, memorable moments, REAL Life.

My baby sis, and winemaking professor…

9:28pm.  Thinking that 2morrow might be busier than 2day.  Is that possible?  Of course, it’s a holiday.  Need another sip, just thinking about it.  Where’s my glass?  Not by side, but in kitchen, so I have to rise, stroll to counter 2 sip.  Will make me drink slower, appreciate this St. Francis Russian River Cab–  Whoops.  Well, it is important, as that’s my family’s base in Sonoma Valley.  Yes, I work at Kunde, PROUDLY.  But, I’ll 4ever represent St. Francis’s presence, philosophy, wine style, second to MY OWN.  Sometimes–no, many times–I feel this industry has a problem with me, my fiery free speech.  And, truthfully, at day’s end, I’m fine if it does.  I don’t need “the industry.” I have a page, a pen.  If anything, it needs me, my love of wine, love of wine lovers.

 

 

city sentence stretch

Last couple days’ entries, going to book.  Restart.. we can do that as Artists, Writers.  Last night’s Cabernet, already forgotten.  Nothing about it really did a palate display.  But it was open for two nights, twelve hours ago being the 2nd.  Should be busy in tasting Room today.  I’m stationed in Wine Club Room, with two others.  Shouldn’t be too bad, not that it really ever is.  Last night’s fiction, has me thinking of innumerable directions to take the pages, for Kelly.  Need more quiet, seclusion to think about it to any valuable beat.  Day hasn’t started, so I don’t have much a Literary load to disclose.

Jackie, quite vocal this morning.  Need a mocha, I’m thinking.  Right back, readers…  Winemaking in radar’s wraps…

7pm.  Home.  2011 Reserve Chardonnay, cheese & crackers.  Tonight, writing till I fall asleep on this couch.  All to bottledaux.  Uploading footage to other blog, as well.  Brand building.

8:40pm.  Jackie, just put down.  Writing whenever I can.  Now, with Racer 5.  Can only drink so much Chardonnay.  And, frankly, this writer’s more in a beer dip than wined slip.  Tomorrow, Friday, though Sunday.  project R, getting all this writer’s attention on my off days.  Tonight, throwing every thought I can at this blog.  Speaking of blogs, I thought it was reprehensibly unprofessional of that group of wine bloggers not to show, today.  This is precisely why I don’t want to solely be label a “wine blogger.” Still confused on what that title, however significant [mostly insignificant, self-tagged], entails.  Writers, we show when we want, yes.  But, if we say we’ll appear, and I’m speaking for Self here, we do.  I do.  Interesting character set all around, in day’s hours.  Tonight, thinking of scenes.  Ones designed for me, the obsessed writer.  Seriously, I couldn’t wait to come home, sit in chair, any chair in this condo, and just type.  Yes, I said TYPE.  I wanted to push keys–want to push them.  Not move pen.  More later, when I’m sipping sparkling berry water.  Only a couple beers planned.  Need to be late in awake state.  I’m forecasting well over a thousand words to this “blog,” tonight.  Want the world, especially this spineless wine world, its reptilian “industry,” to know what this rattling writer feels, sees.  Fangz…

Is this truly a restart, or more of the tape’s loop?  Kelly, on mind, from those pages I yesterday wrote.  She’s telling me to finish the novel, already.  …  Sipping this Racer 5, I’m thinking I need to be completely unfettered in these writings.  All of them.  I know, so many have advised I tone it down, or exercise discretion, or be more “professional” with my wine writings.  “Don’t burn bridges,” they’ve said.  “By what?” I’d like to know.  By thinking/speaking freely?  That’s how I’ve always communicated, Created, where I’m from–  The Literary world.  Was telling June yesterday, after work, while having a glass with coworkers at the counter, that the wine world and its industry is utterly hypocritical for the most part.  But not where I am now, there in Kenwood.  Finally found grounds that mutually abound in my manuscript mound.  Need to follow this, what I’m feeling, watching this writing movie on my Thursday night.

[8/18/12, Saturday]

cover written

Still tired from yesterday.  And today, was in wine club room.  Nothing too frenzied, though.  Do have notes in little pages, but saving them for book.  Met another Artist today, completely to my surprise.  I told her I was a writer, then she quickly, with her honey-honed humble smile, told me she was a singer/songwriter.  She went out to her car, to get a CD while her husband paid for their tasting.  Usually when this happens, I don’t listen to a single track.  I know, that’s wrong.  But this time I did.  The ENTIRE CD.  A full album, mind we.  I LOVE her soft-spoken tenor, progression through message, musical support.  Not too loud, and not in any way gutless; an admirable balance of fortitude and vulnerability, much like one of the wines I poured for them.  Easily the highlight of my day.  And now, here in my Creative cavern, writing only in verse, with exception of a brief break to log these reactive–or maybe reflective, or both–fibrillations.  I can only thank–no, PRAISE–her.  Thanks, Risa…

Wines from last night that stood out…  That Malbec, the Super Tuscan.  And a Zin, believe it or not.  As I age, I’m more and more annoyed with Zinfandel, its jammy joker of a palate jig.  “Rear Window,” Hitchcock, the featured lawn film.  Wish I could write a script like that.  But, again, don’t think I’m that type of writer.  And, I don’t have time to play with screenplays, or stage scripts.  I have a son who needs a strong, PAID, Artistic father.  Not one who fails to earn while sacrificing minutes.  So, when I’m on the Road, soon, it’ll be for manuscript generation’s sake.

Right now, sipping a Merlot blend.  Much better than my last visit to this ’09 bottle.  It continues to enhance itSelf in posture, palate presence, anomalously.  What I love about wine, one aspect anyway.. its Autonomy, its growth, vigilance.  I’m learning from the wine I’m sipping, not necessarily the winemaker credited with its crafting.  But, with my writings, 2nite especially, feeling especially separatist.  Not aiming to be a friendly poet.  Just want 2B honest, as my Dad has always suggested.  Tonight, definitely, nonconformity in me.  sipNscribble

one last note,

5/3/12

Was going to post a poem I wrote today, to this blog.  But that’s like throwing it away, I feel.  And yes, I’m standing by that statement.  I post journal entries to this “blog,” rushed writings.  Poetry, paginated Art, need a book.  Performance.  Maybe it’s above a simple binded paper brick.  I’m “cutting & pasting” it to another “doc.” Deplore all that tech talk.

 

5/4

Working a wine club event at St. Francis, tonight.  Excited, honestly.  Haven’t poured there in some time.  Tomorrow, at Lancaster, want to get there especially early, to shoot some footage and snap some stills for the other blog.  Want to start a Lancaster video/photo journal…  Ideas still fermenting…  Tomorrow, looking not just for growth in the buds, but development, new “nuance” [overused as the word continues to be], in what we pour.  Thinking of Paris, listening to this new station.  Want to walk along the Seine, over and over.  It needs me.  Well, maybe not.  But I need its views, bricked paths.  On the flight over, I’d finish a short collection.  Then, when there, write until I had more than I wanted to edit [which always seems to be the case anyway, like now..].

Had a dream last night about being in a maze with old coworkers from the box.  Everyone around me was in costume, as if it were Halloween.  One character, can’t remember whom [although I have a pretty good idea], was dressed in devil getup.  I remember him dropping his pitchfork, and me having to leap over it.  Was following “friends,” but I lost them.  At dream’s end, I encountered someone dressed as Mel Gibson from one of his movies, one set in the 18th century, or something.  Not sure if Gibson was ever in a film set in that period, as I can’t stand him as a human being.  Either way, the dream had me waking to thoughts of deception, industry and societal guises, rouses.

11:39am.  Had two cups of coffee, made in-house, this morning.  Energy, still very much with me, makes me think, with this station’s songs, that I should research places on my travel list.  If I can’t go there, to any of those there’s, now, I can certainly research, learn, immerse Self with Self-education.

 

5/5

Stirred this morning.  Thinking about last night’s wine club even, wine club members as a collective character, wine itself…  Off to AV early this morning, to clock in early.  No 128 session.  This all needs a new shape, I’m realizing.  Travel, new views, sounds, languages.  CHARACTERS.  Maybe I should rush-write my novel, just see what it does.  Need coffee.  And a new little notepad.  Will stop by drug store, pick one up.  Mocha, or home cup?  Wish I could just write the rest of the day, that a chair, ink, were my only commitment.  Today, only jotting notes; Think in whole sentences, write only partials.  Tonight, work from memory as best you’re able.  Don’t scold yourSelf if not every scene is “adequately” captured.  You’re writing for yourSelf, not some pompous wine industry magazine rack resident with a polished cover…  Artistry only from me.  Not predictable journalism.

Think I may need a mocha.  I’ll use some of the biz stash; I’ll have to, as I don’t want to use debit, disrupt my funds.  Besides, I’m well past my saving goal for the business, anyway.  Out door.  Clocking out to clock in, up there…

 

10:20pm.  Sipping the Petit Verdot/Malbec blend from last night.  And as I suspected, its structure has further settled in the bottle, and now on palate.  Today in AV, shadowed a trade tour with the owner, winemaker, and GM.  Learned more about the winery, which I appreciate.  And, probably even more substantially, more about their terroir that creates that Cabernet character; the more subtle, composed, musical Bordeaux.  Touched down on winery grounds at 8:30, left at 6p.  Long day, on paper.  But passed more than fast, in mind.  Tomorrow, I’m leaving as early as I can for a 128 session.  All to be typed, in standalone’s, for some Self-published effort.  All day, thought of poems, sovereign prose pieces for reading.  If only that were my commitment.  But then I thought, only minutes ago, right here, on my downstairs couch (one of them, the one directly in front of TV screen), “It can be, right now.  Just change everything.  Right now.  Just write.” Thinking wishfully.

Need more money for publishing bigger works.  Have to start with small.  And I want to start my research on other countries.  Today, thought of Austria (probably ‘cause Dad’s there), and the Czech Republic.  It’s the history, the developing value sets and thought patterns of Man that engage me into travel, carrying nothing but essentials; pen,  notebook.  Today someone asked me, when I told them ‘I’m a drinker with writing problems’, “What do you write?” I told her that I write about 60% prose, both fiction and non-fiction (then qualifying the latter with the tags “expository prose” and “erratic entries”), and 40% poetry-and-spoken-word-poetry.  Should have just said, “Diarist prose and poetry.” Even that I don’t like providing.  Why should I have to place mySelf in some category?  Why do I have to tell people WHAT I write, in a language they find acceptably plated?  I write, EVERYTHING.  I’m a WRITER.  And I write what I feel like writing, when I feel like writing it.  Maybe my attitude’s in the way.  Again.

 

When on tour, I will not allow Self to carry a laptop–  Stopping there.  No more saying what I’m going to do, promise lists, similar.  But, one thing I AM going to do–well, DOING–is my Sauvignon Blanc with Kaz.  Thought about quite a bit today while listening to Jesse, Lancaster’s winemaker, talk about the various projects at the Estate.  Was also triggered by owner Ted’s emphasis on the winery being non-corporate, independent.  Autonomous, able to manage every block and micro-block in the vineyard, having total control over the fruit going into the bottle.  Could only think of my writing.  My characters…  Kelly.  But I’m not sure I want total control over her.  Want her to tell me what to write, how to write her.  Is that excessive in demand?  She paints, even on oddly warm nights like this one.  I think of all the Cabernets in the lineup for tonight’s event, vertical tasting, at AV.  Left before it started, but I walked to my car thinking how all those other wines, and ours, are heralded so strongly.  My writing can only have paralleling prominence if I put it out there.  Which I will.  Now…

Details, for new pieces:  1) Cave, in AV, 2) Barrels in cave, 3) Buds, 4) puddles of wine on back counter, 5) lids on glasses set for tasting [containing aromatics, notes, character of wine], 6) vineyards I’m not familiar with, 7) traffic on 29, Napa, 8) corkscrews [not sure why, I just they’re neat, and serve such a loud purpose], 9) a microphone, reciting into it, people listening, 10) Petit Verdot/Malbec blend, darker than dark in my glass– Gorgeous.