Tag: wine industry

autre

Heard, in Rounds

Back from errands. Hoping to be in campus office at 2:30p. Or maybe 3. Writing lectures today, certainly. Again tempted by drawing, colors, but once more I hold off. Want this writing to work first, get me to Road, my own office. THEN, I draw, paint. Did a free French lesson, online, this morning, with Jack watching. Did pick up some new knowledge. LOVE that language, its arrangement, congealed syllables, pervading tonality. Also, downloaded new songs from my French Café Pandora station. Jack approved of them, as well.

Have a little cash on me, from check I cashed today, earlier while on these “Errands.” [Why did I CAP that?] Thinking of starting a stash for NOTHING. Don’t want to dub it “petty cash,” as it sounds too office-environment. Just money to have in reserves. At ready, for days rainy. Maybe for my first Paris trip– I mean, trip BACK. What’s with me today? Must be all the caffeine. Home-brewed cups this AM, followed by the morning manuscript mocha Alice brought, coming home from her workout [spin class]. Confining Self to this Writing mold, making me rattle, beneficially.. closer to it– AUTONOMY.

Looking again through pictures. Starting to present stinging redundancy. Barrels, crush pad, wine, vineyard, clusters, harvest, REPEAT. Precisely why this writer needs the Road. No materials, no special setting, no isolation, or perfect positioning. Just me– the WRITER. Pen. Something I can write on. Doesn’t even need to be paper. For example, MEMORY: an office hour at SRJC, 2007, writing poem on a napkin–yes, that was clean–when no students visited. Loved that odd canvas, the napkin’s contours, shape, up-cropping features.. sure I have it, still, somewhere up there, in that closet of dead scribbles. Soon, however, to be resurrected.

Class, when I’m back, different than the first part of the term. How? More Literature, Theory, more WRITING from ME. Writers need to be in the presence of other writers, I’ve heard all my writing life. So if I want my students to consider themselves writers, if only in my class, then I need to show mySelf as more of a writer–

IDEAS.

Clocking out to enjoy.

***

5:47pm. Cleared a bit of desk, since returning from a walk up challenging hills, in upper Bennett Valley. Started writing lecture for class on Tuesday, but holding off, as I’m compelled to plan rest of day’s, night’s really, writing. 1) Book contribution, at least five pages, new and/or “old”; 2) Letter to fellow Artist.. been meaning to begin my letters, but with my streaming writing strand, it’s incredibly difficult, as you might guess [and if you follow all these rants..]. Went looking at new[er] cars with Alice, Jack. Not exactly the cars I’d like to be looking at, but with our caches, what else can we do. Similarly, I couldn’t help noticing how lovely those structures are, off Woodview. Would love to have an office up there, overlooking fairway. Soon, I’m sure. Just have to keep writing, finish this book already.

Down to three piles on desk. One, the papers from last semester’s end, which I can easily stash somewhere, now. The other, some old writings, magazines, topped by an SRJC check stub.. should probably inspect that pile. And the other, for bills, two of which I just payed. Should probably dump a couple more units into house fund, just to keep chipping away at that downpayment.

Haven’t written at this desk in a while, I’m just realizing. Not sure if it’s significant, probably isn’t, but that’s what I’m deconstructing right now. Not that far from 1000 words for day. The ’08 from Loxton, last night, may have its remainder dumped for an ’09 Merlot, St. Francis of course. Need to research Merlot, as that’s set to be my varietal for 2013, if all in line falls. Want my Merlot to be smooth while still ardent, artful while still precise; Romantically stern. How will all that be worked? No idea.

Tomorrow at winery, hoping for more activity. But then, it was raining yesterday, and I did enjoy it, quite a bit actually. Need more lively and layered characters in the Room, like that editor yesterday. Finally, a Literary figure in my Room. Reminded me to keep everything simple, stay on my path, one more precise as I’ve aged, so I can travel, have my work in publications like hers; followed, meaningfully; read, meaningfully; truly part of the Literary WORLD.

Thirsty. And hungry. Time for break. Will write later. With Merlot, its palate performance. What descriptors will come to mind?– Did I just type that? How could I say something so moronic? I do use descriptors, but not obsessively, surely not in premeditation, like above. Shame! I’m just looking forward to nice red wine, simply. And wine, at end, is ALL about simplicity. It’s yours. Your glass, your moments, your Life. And LOVE.

9:18pm. Sticking with the ’08 Loxton. Didn’t have heart to toss it to disposal. And, its song is much more convincing tonight. Jack’s evidence, all around me, reminding me that Time’s watching. Blanketed in future, that’s why I need to keep everything simple, in singularity’s stack. My Life, swooningly easy: Writing. Books.

But I’m not writing any highlighted sweet, cotton candy compositions. It’s not how I was learned. If this is a stage, this Literary Life, I’d rather write my own story, dialogue, transitions, settings, travels. Talking to mySelf about all the jobs I’ve had, all the resumés I’ve submitted.. all the interviews, applications. I’m done. So again, stressing focus in this new book.

My French studies, more enjoyable today with Jack next to me, watching and listening, making his codified remarks. Downloaded a couple more songs in French. Hopefully that’ll help as the salsa tracks did when I taught Self Spanish so many years ago. Need quiet. Would have so in hotel Room, on overnight in Florida, listening to ocean, while writing verses on their logo’d napkins.

Admitted admissions.

Clouds raining time, to desolate

present. Charged to return, shelves.

(3/21/13)

autre

dance

1:48pm. Back from first walk/run in some time. Was beautiful. Overcast, a little rain, intermittently. The whole time I’m thinking, “What would it be like to run in Paris, Barcelona, Prague, Vienna.. come back to my hotel Room, scribble, then walk some more?” Need to separate from this laptop, but it’s hard. I type, and it’s there. All I have to do is edit, PRINT, then vend it.

Jack, still in his tireless tide. Me, quite wiped from that hike up Woodview, by the golf course. Need to keep this habitual. Looking into races…

3:53pm. This laptop, frustrating to the point of spilling this mocha on its precious pretty keyboard. No– I’d rather throw it in its face, at the screen. So many stalls, so many indecisive responses to my commands. But that’s my fault, for having any faith in these wired rodents. The café, all but empty, here on 12 & Mission. Have one of my bigger tables. Leaving at 4:45pm to head to campus. Obviously, no class tonight. But today, I’m seeing as simulated. Need to get remaining grading DONE.. and plan these new lectures.

And here goes this laptop again, with its antagonistic spurts. Should really be adding to book. Why am I uploading some old photo of barrel lines, while they’re being racked, from that putrid Dry Creek Winery? Bad usage of time, as a writer. So let readers learn: only write, if you want to write, especially for a project, book– distraction’s DEATH.

See a waitress, I think that’s what she does, ordering her coffee, before work. Or maybe she just punched out. Telling from her demeanor, her seemingly rushed strut, she’s on her way to clock. Makes me think how I do enjoy my “jobs.” Winery, classRoom. Could be in much worse positions, that’s certain.

Suddenly blocked. Would revert to my studies, but I’m even too tired for that. Have to get to Paris. Soon. Before I’m in a padded cell. Would love to walk around the Luxembourg Gardens with Alice, little Jack. Or by mySelf, on some writing trip. I remember walking around the gardens with Mom, Dad, Alice on our last day. Couldn’t believe the Romantic quality to everything I saw. Need to think a minute.. something’s hitting me.. not sure what.. Art, Orsay– Not sure what it was. I think just the memory of being there. But that’s just my point! I have to get back. These obsessive thoughts, recollections, reminiscings are completely disruptive. “When good Americans die, they go to Paris,” Mr. Wilde said. I’ve been nothing but good, diligent with my writings. Of course, I have no hope of leaving mortal terrain. But I DESERVE to be back on Montparnasse..

A coworker just walked in. We’ll sit and have a cup, some conversation. Writing interrupted. Oh well. Have to leave at 4:45pm. Told her I was researching Paris, going back later this year. That’s the truth, right?

***

7:20pm. Back in home. Went to campus, but merely drove by building. Saw only one other car by Emeritus Hall. Decided to come home, see more of little Jack. Sipping a Racer 5 currently, listening to falling rain. Only for short stay. But either way, it’s here. For me. My book, characters. And now I hear nothing. Think I’m set to open that new ’12 Rosé from the winery.

Can still feel today’s run. Would wake early for run in morrow, but I think rain’s supposed to continue.. see how I feel. Volume increasing, with drops. Imagine mySelf walking past Musee Marmottan, scribbling in a little notebook, maybe bumping into a fellow Parisian. “Excusez moi,” I’d say. My pages, only getting slightly damp, but I don’t care. I’m in Paris. And I’m a writer. So there.

9:25pm. Small glass, thinking about tomorrow, pouring outside, under that tent. Should provide strong material. It is change, newness. And that’s what I’m always saying I need. Fiction, my key, if I can’t escape anytime soon. My characters… Seeing the novel developing, my character in transit– reading, speaking, moving. What service provides the stationary? None. It’s moratorium. That’s what I combat through composition.

Taking a conversation I had with one recently, spinning into material. Some would say that’s unethical, or even immoral. Just wrong. But is it, if it’s what I NEED to do? I write fiction.. so this character’s story, and their subsequent character legitimize my reasoning, alongside the character’s existence.

If I could write a story about something different, something I’ve never experienced.. something in which I’d have to “immerse” Self, or research, that would keep the writing awake– What am I saying? No. That’s against.. everything I have set for Self. Never mind. I want to write ME. Pouring a little more to get into book mode–

The box.

What it did.

How could anyone take pride in a position like that? Being ever-stationed in a BOX? I’ll never get it? And one of the managers would always warn against “drinking your own kool-aid,” when that’s all they wanted us to do– drink theirs. Assignment to assignment, just moving down a moldy call-list. I’ll never forget the day I was let go, walking out to the parking lot, feeling free, like so much promise was ahead of me. I do miss the sessions downtown, writing on my lunch break at the Roasting Company, but I can have that here, in a different, more preferred shape.

This Rosé, putting me on the road, back in France. Makes me think of that brunch we had in Beaune. Omelette with Rosé, that was preceded by some hors d’oeuvre, closed with a discrete sweet set and espresso shot. My office, the Road, my BOOK.. all sitting on mind’s tray, listening to remaining rain. Night’s rest, to pen, paper. POETRY. These paragraphs, exhausting. Feel like I’ve drowned in my own consciousness stream. But not.

Luckily, I can swim.

Especially in ink.

9:48pm. Looking at the Rosé, and thinking about grape skins. What they do. Their role in winemaking. Because Rosés deduce harshly minimized contact with these lovely outer-layers, I wonder how seriously they can be taken, what kind of oenological prominence they can ever have. Or maybe that’s not fair. Okay, I’m drinking. Shutting up.

(3/19/13)

autre

3/20/13 [journal]

Again, I’ll ask, “What if I just divorce these muddy devices?” Only my daily thousand to this “blog.” I know, someone’ll say, “Well that’s a lot of writing for just one sitting.” For me it’s not. Not at all. Met an editor from the Huffington Post. I’m humbled by how she welcomed my interpretation of the wines, in that small Room during our remodel. Tonight, I’m opening a wine I “shouldn’t,” one I “should” save for some occasion. But, like what? Tonight’s an occasion. I’m alive, with the day off in morrow. Might go upstairs, to my more top-shelf collection, snag something like one of those ’09 Lancaster Estate Cabs. Not sure what I want. But I will tell you this.. my mood is a targeted fang at this hour. Not just with wine’s industry, but with certain communal constituents. Not wasting this freewrite on such pollutants. Continuing in my free-witted prose. What wine do I pull? Love how THIS is the writer’s sole problem, in this eve’s brief streak.

Not sure if Kerouac’s asleep, yet. He continues to grow, and time taunts the writer with reality that I won’t win.. he’ll no longer be my baby, soon. Not to worry. I’ve captured this moment, both in sentence and still photo. So time’s already lost. The rain, gone. Made for supportive setting at winery, today, looking out at those stacked empty barrels on the crush pad.

Didn’t want to wake the little Artist, in his gentlest of sleeps. So I confined Self to the downstairs mini-cellar. Pulled an ’08 Syrah from Loxton, where my friend Luke’s one of the winemakers. In the field of winemaking, such stretches.. an issue of WineMaker magazine arrived at the condo castle today. And, I checked on my wines, today, with one of the winemakers at the estate. He said to stay put, for now, that we’d taste them next week. Really excited about ’13, the two barrels of Merlot I’m set to do. This’ll be my 3rd vintage making wine. That went fast. Guess this would be yet another score for time, against the writer. But as long as I’m writing about it, I won’t falter.

Sipping a Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial [IPA]. I won’t hide, I feel a little funny. But that’ll help the session, all the fiction I’m to spew into book after this blog installation. Looking at a photo of a French Chateau, wondering what the wines taste like there.. what goes through the winemaker[s]’[s] head[s] while in blending trials, or racking. OR, especially, watching the full bins come in. Need to work a harvest, FULLY. Not just take pictures as I did this year. I mean REALLY be part of the war.. be with that fruit from carousal to crush.

The quiet in this house, now.. its own chapter set. I’m supposed to further consolidate, rack down.. take words from this barreling blog, bottle into book. I need to taste through library, entries past. Answers there wait. For me, the writer. BookMaker. Vision! Alas.

Now, for dinner. As there was none planned. What suits this progression? Something with body, depth, persuasive push. At loss.. Need thoughts. Something to pair with that Syrah. Think they make Burgers up the street, at that golf course restaurant. Don’t they?

And from this separatist strand, especially in this 20th’s dive.. verse. Poem. Anything combatting formalism, institution. Saving for Book, though.. something I can sell. Haven’t had Loxton’s wines in some time. But from what I remember, they’re nice. Subtle, somewhat. Went there on mission, I think, for 1st “wine blog.” Met Mr. Loxton, and was more than congenial, merely furnishing. He explained each pour, which I liked. Frankly, this wine deserves something needing note. But what? Monti’s? No, maybe when the writer can afford. Need some pairable plate.. deliberation. Hate sommeliers, but I could use one right now– Pause. Go with gut, as Mrs. Barrett said in our 2010 interview. Didn’t put in quotes, as she doesn’t need MLA formality.

And on the “professor” front: Hemingway vs. Fitzgerald. Will have to see. I’m siding with Ernest, obviously. Tomorrow, dedicated to the lecture, my return to classRoom on Tuesday. First note, offering: a poem by e.e. cummings, a poet I otherwise don’t care for. Okay, time for the penner to pocket meal. Be back–

10:03pm. Into the ’08 Loxton. Like the frankness of the note arrangement, the vocal aromatics. Went with a mushroom-swiss burger, from Legends, up the street. This wine stands as a certain serenade, in seductive stammer. Left my glass in kitchen, as to space my sippings, make each glass longer last. Tomorrow, grading everything, finishing lectures. Already have my cummings poem chosen, which is interesting as I’ve always dismissed his work. I remember one past student, Elyse, who loved his words. She always used to remark on his efforts, style, and I always chose to convivially with her skirmish. And now, he’s in one of my directives. Interesting. Changed the background picture on this laptop to an obscure Parisian scene, intersection. Look at me, citing tech.. shame. More than parted by this wine, its Dogfish predecessor. But I’ll continue to write. At 12 & Mission, tomorrow, at 3, latest. Grading, writing, more writing.. digging into past page post. On “blog,” more notably, crucially, off it. I want to see what I’m able to excavate in documents completely forgotten, before days of these devilish blogs, or during.

Need a couple more sips. But that kitchen, so far away for this comfortable, entrenched writer. True, I’m not ACTUALLY at war like Mr. Hemingway. But I feel so, mirrored; echoing stroll, precipitating progress, colliding with actuality’s terrain. Bring that glass into this Room, author! Writing like I need WINE.. especially bottles like this, by Mr. Loxton.

After another sip, I’ve decided to keep my glass by that sink, the paper-towel rack.

“I’m not sure I like this one,” she said.

“Why? What don’t you like?” I said.

“Are you making fun of me, like the people in your stories, that come into the tasting room?”

“I don’t– No! I just want to know what you don’t like.”

autre

In Play

Watching Jack play. Today, a total day off for me. But I am going in later, to grade, plan semester’s remainder, write lesson plans alongside Mr. Fitzgerald’s text, other ideas. And, make significant progress on this bloody book. Rain expected, but only a little. Jack over there, dancing, to his little songs. How can I be as optimistic, smily, fearlessly inquisitorial as he? Doing more research today on France, its History, Literary Theory. Logging all in that newJournal.

One thing I discovered about the French Revolution: the focus on the individual, and all before that Contributed to its ignition. Want to know more about Picasso’s Life in Paris, where he painted, how he painted, some of his Creative philosophies.. may be able to incorporate that into my lectures, to stir students. And I’m comfortable with that word, now, “lecture,” as I don’t take it seriously. That’s just what I dub my typed offerings. It’s just a word. If I were to use a monicker true, more than simply a word, then I would use “session.” As I did last semester. Want there to be more of a cross-disciplinary stream to these sessions.

Time for coffee. 9:09am. Already? Yes, we all slept in.

Now, to look for music. Need some new tracks for my writings. Jack, still quite content playing with his puzzles. No stress about this little one; no angst, anger, attitude. He just plays, sees what happens if does something. How is that not admirable? Why can’t his nearly-34 year old father enact similar steps?

All of this knowledge search, attributed to my academic back ground, but also to this new friend of mine, taking classes, just planting vines in his back yard, learning French.. he’s in constant study. Again, something I’m quite bent on enacting, practicing.. the forever-student. That’s the father I want Jack to have.

Listening to a Pandora station I set up when I worked at AV Winery. Titled, “Smooth French Café.” Now, a beautiful song, “Sous Le Ciel De Paris,” by Duo Gadjo. Puts me right back in my city’s downtown, on the bank. And just bought another, right after Gadjo’s piece. I’m close to my city, this morning. Jack and I. I sip my home-stirred café mocha, thinking of that view from the Arc’s top. Watching the traffic, glad I only have to observe, write about it.

Now, “J’aime Mon Lit,” by Kad. Third straight song, stuff into cart. There should never be a question where my writing flames find their go-ahead.

A friend of mine, Amy, on vacation. In Hawaii, after leaving her job. Just posted that she’s “up with the birds,” with an accompanying sunrise still. I could even use a plane ride of that “brief” length, five hours, to meditate, capitalize on he difference. That’s what this book has to show, that writers need difference, the New. This is how Kelly paints, and how all us writers should write.

Friend from old neighborhood, blogging about her career, about her thoughts on Love. Incredibly interesting, consistently engaging. This has become part of her business. And she’s completely Autonomous. She sites her travel to Bali as the spring that sent her to her career, insight, present place. Again, more evidence that travel’s needed for this penner.

Jack, standing, hands against sliding glass door, looking at our dismally plain patio. I promise him a house one day. Soon. So I can open door for him, let him play, out there, enjoy air.

(3/19/13)

autre

crushed pad, 2011

autre

Awake, Late

1373 new words to novel. To my blogger friend who asked, “How do you write so much?” Again, that’s what I do. I’m. A. Writer. Sipping Merlot. ’09. And slow. Not in any mood for the level effect mirroring Thursday morning. Actually, I’m already fantasizing about my morning mocha. Alice, babysitting her friend’s daughter. Little K, asleep upstairs. Should go check on the little bull. Need poetry written this evening, no fail. And, in mood to sip some vino. AND, need to research typewriters…

Buds breaking, in other valleys. Time, with another victory. But I’m starting to think that’s the wrong way to look at all this. Just poured night’s cap. Tempted to have a bit more Merlot, but I’m set to let it go. Think I’ll take my small video camera tomorrow, to capture what I can in the Room. Need more activity. Today, frankly, too tame. Another Merlot throw…

Listening to music, some “Wine Bar Beats,” as I used to call them, during days at the box. Already 11:24p. Interesting, I guess. If I were on Road, in some hotel, I’d be doing just what I am now. Writing. Not at some party, or gathering. Not networking, meeting “important” people. I’m a writer, all I need are readers– So, I’ll stay in my Room. Sip, scribble. That’s what I do, as my brother Steve once reminded me.

Not sure where I am tomorrow. Reserve room? More than likely. That’s fine. In fact, I hope I am. I could use the tips, really. The copies won’t copy themselves. Publishing, about budgeting, as is winemaking. When my sister said, “Give me your budget for 2013, then I can give you advice,” I really appreciated the budgeting reality. No matter your genre, or form.

Done with night’s wine. Now, for sleep. But quickly returning to my Djuna Barnes notes, how she’d do anything for a story… Hmmm. Now inner pens perpetuate…

Rimes from today: “…still through milieu…” “…annulated late, but I pulsate…”

(3/16/13)

autre

day’s phase daze, away in ways

Post author By mikemadigan
Post date March 16, 2013
No Comments on day’s phase daze, away in ways

3/15/13. Friday — Loved how at the end of shift the vineyard manager, a friend of mine, came into the Room, had his stainless SB, talked with a couple guests, mySelf. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have a Merlot in that cave. One of the two last guests I had, also a writer. She wondered how a writer who blogged could put their Self into space, into consumption’s open invite. Astute question, as I often the same wonder. Another question to me posed, by a fellow blogger, on how I write as much as I do. To both poses I similarly–no, identically, respond–it’s who I am; I’m a writer, and that’s just my voice.

Tired. And I won’t fib, I’m with a Lagunitas Ale. But sipping quite slow. Time, 10:04p. TV off, enjoying quiet. Even the slapping sounds of these keys. While waiting for our takeout, I did what I usually do.. write, really type, a verse to phone. Saved as “Draft,” currently. Need more poetry, song. This prose, exhausting me. And I’m not letting Self get to 1k. Not tonight. Topping at 500 words. Not a nugget more.

16 days to finish this book. I’ll get it done. For once. 206 pages. How many copies run? Thinking 15, at first. Maybe 20. Really small. I’ll print on request, I guess.

Tomorrow, barrel tasting in Sonoma Valley AVA. Ready for whatever… Just have to stay in writer mode, get ready to capture characters. It has to revolve around character, all fiction’d efforts. Again, the drunker, the more unruly, most riotous, the better. I want arrogant, bubbly wine snobs, from random states, like South Dakota, Kentucky, or Iowa. So glad the TV’s off. Love this silence, no distraction. And no inspiration. Which is fine with me. Have to find finds within head.

I’m just running, not sprinting, just healthily trotting, along the Deschutes, in Sunriver. Staying at our house on Circle 10. When home, I’ll shower, then write for a couple hours. Not really focused on a particular project, manuscript fruition. I just want to write while I’m up here. Someone said there was a black bear roaming around the area, that we should be abreast. I hope he stops by, has a glass of this random Sterling Cab I found in the house’s collection. An assertive air, without notice. Could be one of these high desert storms coming in. Love being up here by mySelf. Only a mile or so left in my run. Think these clouds are chasing me. See a couple men down the path, fishing. Wonder if they’ve caught anything. I imagine them editors, piggy publishers, fishing for writers to trap, live from their leans, poaching all their pages. Good thing I’m Self-published, so they’ll never catch me.

My friend at work, back from his Europe travels. End of word limit. Just know, reader, I’m in envisioned roam. Competing with Self. Certain civil word strife. Interesting. To ME. Next week off. Finish this thing, finally [BOOK].

autre

reworded

Two years ago, went barrel tasting. Blogged the whole thing. Can’t believe that mission with Jon was that long ago. Time, enjoying another victory over me, obviously. Kelly, telling me not to buy into time.. anything about it.

10:37pm, 3/13/13… Particular palates just left. Mom & Dad, that be. And I’m a bit affected by bottles poured, I won’t lie. Sipping night’s cap. Think I may be already a bit too curved, to slashed, forward. Fighting in my stumblinh state to hit 300 words. Maybe I do need a hit of this Lagunitas Ale. Difficulty writinbg… so what uf I stipped…? Not making any sense,, so I pause, watching film, … blsst this wine, making the night nine [mine]… I’m a slave, it seems, to this artistry…

Impeded, by the wine. Kunde, St. Francis…. reporting on now.. just want to relax, not write–

***

12:27pm, 3/14/13. Nothing more unattractive than a drunk woman, some say. I say there’s nothing uglier than a drunk writer, then having to read his liquored lines. Hate drunk writing, above. I know, Mr. Hemingway said “Write drunk, edit sober,” but I want all these entries to be from Equilibrium. And I was just thinking, while retrieving the laundry from the dryer, left there overnight [luckily, none of the mongrels in this complex removed it, threw it on that table like that one time..], that I need newness in the form of antithetical regularity. Against compulsion, opposing habit, the usual. So… No wine. No artisanal beer. Not even so much as a sip. Want to see how this changes my character. Almost certain that this is what I need to do, in order to taste Kelly’s level of Artistic/Creative Autonomy. I’ve always asked Self: “What is the one thing I need to do, that I’m not doing, to push me into ‘professional’ writerdom?” I think this is it. And I’ve entertained going dry for some time, not because I have a problem, or think I have one.. just to see how I change, how much more I write. But, this morning, I realized that this may be that bridge toll I’ve so long sought.

4 shot mocha this morning, thanks to Alice, to rid vessel of vino symptoms. A little sparkling water as well. Had my winemaker friends at the Estate taste both my wines. They liked them both, thankfully. Zach, the head winemaker for Kunde, said the blend [New Dad Cuvée] could possibly use a little Chardonnay to soften and fatten the mid-palate, but it’s too early to tell as the lees may be blocking some of the wine’s intended suggestion.

For 2013, I’m probably just going to do a Merlot. Two barrels. Simple, straightforward, specialized. That’s how I want to be seen as a winemaking Artist: doing few things, but doing them well. Should probably correlate that with my fiction. But don’t I, already?

Spring break next week, for JC, thankfully. But still, probably will take off for a couple hours, both Tuesday and Thursday of next week, to do some planning, assignment drafting. And on the teaching topic, I may again assume multiple sections in Fall, if I have such opportunity. No more than two, though. Or should I try for 3? Think of all the money I could save.. for the house, my writing, blogging business… A little left in the 4 shotter, just reheated by Alice before she went upstairs for a quick nap.

Already at 400+ words. Not sure what I can write about, other than I’m distancing mySelf from wine & fine beer to get my novel done; to have the career and Life I’ve always envisioned. And with regard to drinking problems, as I above cited, mentioned: I WISH I had one! Humor, a bit.. but alcoholics do seem to have quite the marketable story, struggle. They’re always published! Hemingway, Joyce, Poe, only to catalogue a couple. I’m going to shove mySelf into this sober spectacle, to see what happens to a wine-loving writer/burgeoning winemaker when he’s no longer allowed [of his own volition] to have even a single sip. I think this will put me more in Jack London’s shoes than ever.. becoming a true Barleycorn.

Someone whistling outside. Annoying. Yesterday, in tasting Room, met two bloggers from San Jose. The nicest people I’ve met in quite a while. Their blog, capturing their world travels. I’ve never before been so envious while concurrently, even more so, impressed. They went everywhere, it seems. That’s what I want, for these pages, for my next book, the one after, and after. That’s what the dryness will bring me.

Write sober. Edit soberer. Need more caffeine. Would love a nap, mySelf. But I have to leave rather soon. I’ll try working at the coffee house, but it’s been bothering me lately– all the noise, chatter, passing people, especially when they bump one of my elbows. But I also don’t want to rush to campus, even though Tuesday night, after my early dismissal, I had one of the best writings of my life. Maybe I should go straight to campus. That would be against habit. I’ll get my 2nd mocha, then go to that isolating office. And I’ll definitely need that second cup. Oh, but I have to stop by the bank, Schwab, and deposit the check to start the house savings. Can’t wait till we have a standalone home. No HOA, no annoying whistling neighbors, nothing around us but our grounds. And this new shift in MY character will get us this dwelling even quicker. Tonight, when home, just a Coke with my late dinner. Yes, it has caffeine, and that will probably charge me a little. But that’s fine. I need energy to write, right? Right.

Want a typewriter. Where do I get one around here? Sick of this blasted laptop. What is a laptop, anyway, but a distracting devil device. Online, social media, shopping, music, movies… I want to hear the old slapping keys. Not these little square receptors, these pretty colors. Remember a student in Fall ’09, at the Petaluma campus, an English 1A section for SRJC, called these laptops “pretty,” as I told the class I was about to buy an Apple. I have no regrets in getting this little critter, but I want to be as much a writer as I can. And this mechanism isn’t part of such paths.

Tempted to delete last night’s drunken delivery, more-than-tipsy types. But I won’t. I can’t, if I’m to be completely honest in my writing. I don’t blame Mom & Dad, at all. I do cite the wonderful conversations, however, they always bring to dinner. I can think of no two people, no couple certainly, more motivating than my parents. Mom, with her love, gentle insight, reflections.. Dad, with his profound knowledge bay, aviation experience, travels, money strategies; he’s the one who told me the best way to get your own house is just “cold hard cash, saving.” 1:13pm. What if I could get out of here at 2, or a bit before. That’d ensure progress on this book.

Again, DUE DATE: March 31, 2013.

LENGTH: 206 PAGES. FULL PAGES. No sheets with only one or a couple, or just a few, lines. That’s cheating, I think.

So many notes from yesterday’s shift. Fellow co-workers, guests.. goldmine, this winery. This industry, really. Wonder how people will react when they learn I’m not drinking, not even so much as a sip. Or even a half-ounce taste. Now with my wines, I will allow juice to prance on palate.. but I will spit.

Should get into mobility’s mode, soon. But I’m so cozy on this couch. Don’t want to move. Have to use restroom. But I’m so situated, and I just passed 1,000 words.

One of my notes from yesterday: “Arrogant wannabe photographer, ‘I’m an artist’, she said, adjusting something on her big, fancy device.” She was so snide, dismissive, vocally judgmental with our wines. Who did she think she was, is? I’m not saying photographers aren’t Artists, but…

autre

Waking Up

9am. Teaching tonight. Staying with spirits positive. Already graded a bit this morning. Changing the way essays factor into grades, both 302 and 100. Watching little Kerouac, so not much time for sentences. Planning on 2pm coffee shop arrival. Want all grading done by 3pm, for two hours of manuscript carving. Still looking through old material, stretching back even to the San Ramon days, my work weeks in the insurance office. Couldn’t imagine working in an office, anymore. Less it was my envisioned office, with all the amenities needed for creative momentum. This discussion came up yesterday, when on the mountain with a large group of members and two newlyweds. The bride said, “This is amazing, I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s beautiful,” just before getting into van, having one last taste of the scene surrounding her. I could tell she didn’t want to let it go.

Paid yesterday from SRJC. Much of the money, already allocated. Setting some aside for 2013’s whoso wines. Thinking I’m only going to do 1 barrel. Chardonnay maybe?

Making mySelf go by that Art supply store in Montgomery Village. Going to play with colors, like Troy, my friend Melissa’s husband suggested. Want my life enveloped by Art, knowledge. Started researching some things yesterday, about France, its history. Didn’t know the country has experienced– But if I go to that store, that takes time away from my book work. And the money I’d spend, away from Self-printing.. still undecided about my prospective drawing pieces. But in these lines, I’m forever assured. I never question whether I should write. I’m always writing. Right now.

Little Jack, close to walking. Difficulty keeping up this morning, only as I needed just a brush more sleep [interesting I used “brush”..]. And, the writer hasn’t had his coffee. But, Alice is bringing me, ever kindly as she is, the famous morning mocha, so needed by Mike Madigan’s manuscripts. Wonder what would happen, how my character would change if I cut out caffeine. I keep saying I want, NEED, newness. Maybe that’s a place to start. Should definitely do so with wine…

Topped both my barrels, yesterday. And relating it to the drawing, or painting.. I’d devote funds, energy, to winemaking before I would Art, drawing, I feel. Is that wrong, or is that what I should follow?

***

Not overthinking. Illegal in my writing’s immediacy. If there’s no bigger table available at 12 & Mission, I’m heading to the office. I do like the isolationist feel of that little enclosure. My number one objective, today: ADD to BOOK. Could be doing that right now, with little Kerouac finally down for his afternoon siesta. Time, 12:35p. Was just thinking about the vineyards, where they are in their stages. We have seen some buds breaking around the estate, higher elevations, western and southern facing. Definitely some of the buds pushing, at the very least. Again, relating this to my life as a writer, just as I did last year, at AV Winery, with their estate coming to life. Heading up there Thursday, to pick up shipment.. 3 bottles of ’10 Sophia’s Hillside Cuvée. Not sure where I’m going to put these newest bottles. Space for my collection, thinning. Yet another reason I need a Room of my own.. my office eventual.

Thinking of what to log next. Here. Stuck. Still– OH.. my photos from the silver memory stick, from when that gentleman on Santa Rosa’s west side retrieved–really RESCUED–hundreds of Jack photos, and other captures, from my deceased phone. Need to go through those, for writing’s sake but also for the albums I want to put together. And that, takes time from my manuscripts, these books. So where would I have time to “draw?” I do want to, if anything just play with colors, pencil and brush movements. I’m just derangedly protective of my time with page.

Character from work, his intellectual pursuits, motivating me. Researching France, Art, Wine, Winemaking. And logging my findings, for example: in researching the Hundred Years War, learned that “chevauchees” translates to “plundering raids.” So much to France’s history, culture, different regions. And my French word of the day: une friandise, meaning “treat.” Need to intensify my French language research. Truly immerse mySelf in it, well as the culture. Still hate that word, “immerse,” though. “Immersion” as well. Used, misused, over-misused at the box. But I don’t want those oozing warts in this entry, or around my Art and cultural concernments.

Paintings, from Orsay.. on brain. Loved walking through those halls, seeing all the Monet’s, Van Gogh’s… Missing my city. Time for lunch.

Monet, his obsession with light and objects, possibly relating to this paragraph practice. Possibly.

Between classes. Why not write? Sent 302 to library to research Autobiography; what it entails, how it brings both story, message, meaningfulness; I want them to see it more than just a “genre” or style of writing. Going to do the same with the 100 students, as they close up “Sun Also Rises.” Adding Hemingway to my research list. I remember in one of my past Comp Books–the green one I think, from ’09, the one I brought to Paris.. the one I called “Green Mead”–I had an envelope, upon which I had vertically listed interests, or intense interests, or goals. Can’t quite remember, but I had quite a bit on there. Starting another, on one of the copies of a past typed lecture. Done. Has 4 items. Only writing on 1 side.

Starving. Should have had more to eat, today. Had Alice’s leftovers from last night’s restaurant. Felt a little anxiety for last class. Not sure why. Had a couple sips of water and it was done. How odd, though.

Visiting my wines again tomorrow. Want to meet with winemaker on his thoughts. We had such a great discussion yesterday, tasting the 2012 Chardonnay as it went through filtration.

8:53pm. Just put 1029 words into novel. New words that I just wrote. What just happened? How am I not writing for a living, selling my work? Why aren’t I? What’s wrong with me? Never done that before. Started, 8:20p. And I just finished. Over one thousand words in just over 30 minutes. Kelly, very much to credit for this burst. Love the quiet of this building, the latter hours. No students, no snobby full-timers. Love.

8:55. Leaving in 5. Love sittings like this. These are the ones I remember, that keep me writing. Walk away from my body, my body of work, knowing I love writing. The language.. the chase, in my own thoughts, for BOOKS. Hungry.. extremely. Need a beer. To celebrate this session, the 3 pages I just injected into my rebuilt book.

NOTES: wines, visit tomorrow; taste through what’s poured in TR, see if there’s some character type you want in your ’13 wine(s); write in Comp Book when home, spoken word.. MORE POETRY; download music, new songs for office not that distant; go through little pages, look for gems; return to 1st blog, look for gems; keep “the box” in scope.

autre

Lost Taxi

Tired from day. One mountaintop tour. Couldn’t believe the elements up there. Would have just picked a plot, my own spot, if I wasn’t on tour. Had planned to go straight to the Art supply store in Montgomery Village after work. I actually skipped my usually post-shift SB glass to get there with timely tune. But, just before needed turn, from Mission, I took left on Summerfield, back to castle. What it is, as I see.. I don’t want anything, even another Art body, potential portfolio, to take from the writing, this book. Not till it’s done. Not till I’m on road. No writing in book tonight, as I need to just freely hover. As one penning.

Memory: Walks Dad and I would take through Big Basin, I think it’s called, when we lived in Boulder Creek. This whole day, pulled by memory hands. Never see them coming. They just shoulder tap. Only tour to top, with a young couple celebrating an anniversary. 18 years, they told me. Hard to believe, as they looked about my age. Probably younger. They were from DC [Daily City]. I couldn’t help but think of Palo Alto, San Mateo, Redwood City, Burlingame.. everywhere I used to stomp. Then, for elemental story seasoning, a man from Menlo Park, in tasting Room, just before we close. If I were one to read into progressions, this shift told me to look into past days. But for what? Need another beer. Maybe the rest of that Cab, a little less than a full glass. […] Just opened another Little Sumpin’. Giving Self deadline tonight. 11pm, in bed. What’s my enterprise with 2nite’s sitting? Just to enjoy the quiet downstairs.

Didn’t grade any of the papers I brought today. Shame. And even more critiques of Self as I submitted to urges in way toward Kenwood’s Market. I’ll concede, I’m a pupil of the chicken salad sandwich. And I write that with a bit of humor, but that’s not the writer I want to be. I want to be fortified in all realms; existentially well-rounded. I should be balanced with all angles– financial [which I am], health, occupational, social, family… I’m not accepting compromise with Self. And this is all ME, acting as supervisor, or combatant with Self. That’s why I have no urge to “go out” anymore. But if I ever do, I’m always in writer’s wheel, gathering material.. content for these books. Oh, and the new length: 206 pages. As I’ve written so much, and with this goal of having EVERYTHING published by Self, BOUND, before I leave Earth, I need to chisel away at these pages stacks in 200+ page rushes.

Tomorrow night, Ms. Alice and I off to her belated birthday dinner, delayed as we were both injured by that viral invader. I do plan to examine the restaurant in our revisit– Shouldn’t say “examine,” just survey, or evaluate– No, hate those words, too. I’ll just be recording, either for blog, book, both, who knows. Either way, this writer looks forward to a lovely meal with Ms. Alice. Could use another sip from this bottle…

TV, muted. Should just turn off the cursed thing, already. Looking through these photos, their collective account. Time, mounting a respectable ambuscade. But I’m still writing. And these 200-page unloadings will only help. Time.. devil. Saw a man walking out the winery’s doors today, just as I returned from cave tour: quite old, needing assistance of a woman at least 20 years his junior. Thought how I’ll be there one day, maybe. But I don’t know if I want to be. Not something upon which I necessarily want to dwell, but it’s blipping more on my compass these days. I forces me to draw Self in two shapes, for two worlds. One saying “yay,” while the other knows only nihilism, the nay.

Need a ride. To Cabernet’s land. Need to see my wines, tomorrow. Too busy to touch them today. And I fall into slowness. Present’s inoculation in past.. impasse. But I only have 47 minutes left for composition, or any reading of former sittings. Makes me think of how I used to write papers at the last minute, when on campus at SSU.. and when I lived in San Ramon, for my grad classes. Speaking of, moved to take some classes at the JC, French and Art, after my friend telling me of his new mental endeavors. He’s always researching, Self-educating in something, always active. His French studies, the brewing, winemaking, gardening, Astronomy.. always studiously steady. About 8 years MY junior, helping me as that lady did the man.. to stand cognitively straight. All these papers I have to grade, only getting in a writer’s way.

Always want to be studying. And this returns me to a category I left out of my well-roundedness mention. The mental activity.. have to be studying. French, French History, French Wine.. ART! Thinking I should have gone to get those colored pencils, the sketch pad, pads.. if only to play with colors.. blend them and see what happens. Want what’s left of that Cabernet. Only about a half-glass. And one wine, have to pick up allocation from AV Winery.. my 2010 Cuvées.

Wine, glass. Capping night for speeded day. Had a memory from last year, while at AV Winery, arriving to grounds during a vicious rain, hearing that all the downpour, accompanying storm, moved one of the vineyard blocks with sliding land, and pushing down a 200 year-old oak tree across the street, close to a cottage the winery owns, rents to special guests. All these memories, like complimentary profiteroles. Well, no, I’ve paid for them. With Life.

10:36pm. If I could, I’d go to Paris NOW. Just for a couple nights. For a fix of sorts. I’d walk with my notepad, as I did in St. Francis‘ vineyard that one day, on lunch break. I don’t even think I’d eat. Or even have any wine, if you can believe that. I’d just write, take pictures so I could write more when back here on Yulupa. Paris, becoming my genre, my totalitarian topic. Still listening to that Parisian Jazz song set I downloaded a couple weeks ago, envisioning me, back on Montparnasse, walking out of the hotel journaling whatever I hear, smell, see. All around me. Soon.

Need. A. Ride.

Don’t know if I’ll go to painting, drawing. I see dependency.. in the materials. Can I afford them, are the items in stock, is it the right color, or what have. With writing, I could journal my inner vocals on receipt paper, if I needed to, as I’ve done in past. This form, forum.. so FREE. And that’s what this pen pusher just needs. New truth phillumenist. >3/10/13, Sunday