In the reserve room.  Only a handful of couples, not large groups.  But I love the reactions to wine.  At lunch, topped one of my barrels.  Was surprised how low it was.  Still needs a couple gallons, actually.  Couldn’t believe it.  How did it fall so low?  either way, I know what I have to do.  What wine am I sipping tonight?  SB from last night.

On the way home, stopped by SFW [St. Francis Winery], to pick up some wine, mostly red.  Did buy a Sonoma County Chard for Alice.  That may be my night’s cap.  That bug I had a couple days ago, done.  Defeated.  Deleted.  Need some music.. this TV’s boring me.  Channels, all “reality.” No rain tonight, unfortunately.  For some time, it seems.  Doesn’t help my writing.  Neither does that hell cube, or the social media, even this device.  Want to be free, and when these wired THINGS near themselves to me, I’m of indignant tee.  There.. finally.  TV off.  Room silent.  But no rain like night last.  Getting Self a glass of my sister’s 2011 SoCo Chard, in just a minute.  No.. NOW.  Need to get off this machine.  This monster.  Laptop.  Need poetry.  Painting.  Art.  Canvas.  Something to actually TOUCH.

OFF.

But quickly, by the way…  My drawings, soon coming.  Why can I draw alongside what I write?  Questions not leading me to fruition.  So, just have to act.  That’s my truth: I’m sick of talking, planning, even thinking.

(3/6/13, Wednesday)

For some reason, though, that beer shoved me back in the moat.  But, I pulled Self out, while in that campus office.  Have to keep Self set on my sights.  Lecturing at Stanford, writing position papers, offering them to cadres.  It’s always the grading that holds me, injects the cynic’s stint in my step.  But no more.  Taking a stack with me to work, tomorrow.  So I’ll only write while behind bar, or in reserve room.  Wherever they have me.  Re-situating in my academic ideas.  Tonight, we broached some interesting topics, the 100 section and I, with Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises ms.

Sipping some 2011 Sauvignon Blanc.  Feeling much better, after that unexpected bug attack that kept me home-locked the past 2 days.  Know I said I wouldn’t have wine till Alice’s and my outing next Monday.  But I can’t.  Not with the writer I’ve grown to be.  The rain, sounds dialectic, so colloquial, momentary.  It stamps this session.  Sounds like some type of postmodern, romantic, autobiographical blend.  Noticing my glass emptying.  Don’t even feel like writing, right now.  Just want to listen to rain.. and like I’ve so many times before said: many times the most Literary act a writer can wield is not writing at all.

My city.  Paris.  Remember it raining most of the time we were there.  Gave it a gothically elegant edge, for some reason, to me.  Yes, I need another glass of this Blanc, take me back to my city.  Don’t want to be here, in this redundant valley.  All these wineries, with their “varietally correct” interpretations of French antecedence.  Too lazy to rise, right now.  What do I do?  Rise, for my glass.  Come on…  Back.  This glass may be a little too generous.  Definitely the night’s cap.  Reality, truth, for this moment: rain, surprisingly vocal wind.  Think I’m captivated as much by gust as I am by spating sheets.  They’re telling me to write faster.  Only have till 11p to throw my day’s thousand.

Corkscrews, the rubber floor mats behind the counter so we won’t slip, the random merchandise racks.. need more details for my tasting Room incarcerations.  Read a beautiful article today, written by a New York journalist, on a young woman author, also from Manhattan.  Just the way it was written, all the details from her description of the author’s sleek physique, to the yoga studio’s clientele, to the musty interior air.. had me thinking, of different ways to capture where I am.  ALL my moments.  Right now, black remote next to me on couch, SB glass to left, on end table, lamp over its bowl, pictures of Jackie, wine-themed coasters (all the same– two bottles on table.. one red, one white.. glass of each, house on hill in backdrop, vineyard view.. all painted, not photo’d), hand sanitizer, Alice’s workout water bottle.. two pens: one black, one highlighter.  Highlighter?  What’s that for?  Oh yeah, taxes, which I think are done, thanks to Dad.

Alice’s laptop, over there on the other couch.  Tomorrow, details only, only capturing characters that mesmerize, hook my hand to pen them.  Before sitting to type this, I was watching a show on the Discovery channel.. two guys traveling in harsh cold, in a specified nowhere.  Wonder if it’s still on.  Would love to do something like that.  Be completely away from comfort.  Imagine the material.  As Hemingway was at war, I’d be stressed by all surrounding me.  That’s where marketable manuscripts me ‘wait.

10:32pm.  My book, won’t touch it tonight.  And that’s fine, as I deserve a freewrite.  And this is as close to my city as I can now wander– wine, rain, writing, Art, Life, Love…  Read a passage tonight, to my class, in Sun Also Rises, when the narrator, Jake, describes a view of Notre Dame at night.  Such beautiful expression.  Have to go back.  Should I start saving?  Have to stack tender for family roost.  And I want our structure to be somewhere nice, quite removed.  For son’s safety, especially.  Taking precedence over my affairing city.

Time, pouring itself as far away from me as it can.  Why is it doing this?  Distracting Self with details just to right: Jackie’s teddybear, a panda bear book, his puzzles, pumpkin bucket which he often stuffs whatever he wishes, whatever he can find.  How is it, that this little Madigan is NOW nearly 13 months?  Time, using my own son to assault me.  Notes.. just thinking in note form.  All I have time for.

= This wine, pairing only with rain, for me.

= Memory: first day of college, late to class, as I couldn’t find a parking spot.. walked in with unexpected timeliness, as Professor Scott was passing out the syllabus just as I leaned against the left wall.

***

Love.  Paris.  Obviously synonymous.  I’m in love with a loving city, a city OF love.  Just looked at time, my enemy.  She reads 10:56pm.  Should rewake the TV, again.  Want to be somewhat informed.  How much would you like to bet, the first they address: weather, calling it a “storm.” Humorous shamelessness.  Yes, I have to watch.  I love being right.

If I were a police officer, I’d have some delicious material.  Raids, arrests, shootouts, shootings, cases, investigations…  I need NEWNESS.

= Want this book to stand arborescently.

Watching a writing movie.  Imagining who I’ll meet while on road, in those hotels, at the conferences, at the university.  Not adding to that list document, where I catalogue, mundanely disgustingly, all the standalone’s I finish day2day.  It takes away from the book.  Anything taking from my book must be scalpel’d out.  This just providing ONE example.  Tomorrow, have to get FAR ahead on grading.  Want it all done.  That too can take from book, if I don’t stay on top of it.

Looking at this little piece I Self-published in March 2011.  Huh, 2 years ago.  Why is time passing faster than I want?  Dumb question, especially since I’ve been asking it forever it seems.  “The vessel that was his, unsteady, rattled by postmodern romanticism.” A story about Kelly.  Short, only about 500 words.  Didn’t sell all copies of this work, which saddens me.  Don’t want that to happen again, so I’ll only run 10-20 copies of this book.  I want 200+ pages bound.  At first, only saw Self printing 102 sheets.  But that feels quality low, sluggish, soggy.  And that’s not me as a writer.  I’m fiery, I hope.  I want my work to been seen as rich, abundant, constant.  So I have to stay in chair.  Writing, even if it comes to readers redundantly.

Beauty.  In Art.  Art, everywhere.  That’s what I’m looking for.  That’s what I want to live in.  This footage of Paris, what I’m now watching, orders my return.  There’s freedom there.. more Art than I’ll ever encounter here in wine’s world.  Starting to see ridiculous repetition here.  Vineyard, vineyard.. tasting room, tasting room.. wine, wine…  Exhausted from sameness.  Sick, more so.

Mood, falling.  Could be this bug, getting into head.  Must be.  Proud of mySelf for already typing the two pages I scribbled in Comp Book, this morning.

Reading notes from the blending seminar I hosted a couple weeks ago.  Turned out well.  In fact, I ran into one of the people who attended, a man living close to me, at Starbucks the other day.  He approached with uncertainty.  “You did an amazing job,” he said, at the bar, while we both waited for our morning mixes.

May go for a drive, to get some drawing supplies at a shop in Montgomery Village.  Was talking about it recently, but never stood up straight on my entertainment.  Maybe I will today.  The only distraction I’ll allow.

Woke at 4:45p, about.  Groggy, still sick–light-headed, achy, nauseous–worthless.  After a couple Ibuprofen, I’m ready for light sessions.  Want to go to work tomorrow, redeem Self for material today not gathered.  Thought stretching through day: how energetic Jack is, at 5:30 or :40-something when I go to his room, answer his summons.  Glad I’m not to have any wine tonight, fall asleep earlier, much earlier, than usual.  Focusing, or re-focusing on being healthy, everything from what I ingest to exercise.  To write, I have to be living.. with the living, to capture them as Characters.

No work bag down here with me.  Just this monstrous button batch and screen, little notebook, and Comp Book.  Again, simplicity.  All in my Creative practice has to be simple, clean.. findable!  Just looking through some of the old photographs I “retouched,” uploaded to blog.  Need to play with photography the same way I play with wine.  Not take it seriously.  Another sip of this dwarfed 8 oz Ginger Ale can, I think of all the pictures I’ve taken with my cameras, phone.  Or, PHONES [as a couple of them have died.. devilish tech].  But I don’t want to stray from my writing too much.  Or at all.  Have to find some Equilibrium taste somewhere in that curiosity/imagination cloud.

Was only at work this morning for, maybe, an hour.  Felt horrible leaving my crew.  I’ll make it up to them in morrow, while still satisfying what I need done for this book.  OH that tasting Room, its characters.  Challenging, hilarious, maddening, revolting, encouraging, lovely; innocent, curious, persistent, eager–  There’s nothing I don’t love about them.  Once more, for the WRITING.  Everything comes from them.  They ARE my stage.  Need another pour of these sweetened Canada bubbles.

Symptoms: occurring, recurring.  It frustrates me, as I want to be in a newly heightened health, be “high on life,” trite as it trails from my writing, or typing, fingers.  Alice ordered I cancel her birthday dinner tomorrow night, at Equus here in Santa Rosa, so we can both have the celebratory outing in our best states.  I’ll concede, I was a little disappointed, anticipating I’ll be much better in tomorrow’s intro through conclusion, but it’s her birthday.  She decides, not I.  And, quite frankly, she’s right.  I do look forward to exploring that wine list, menu.  Trying to keep Self from wine, or any artisanal beer I love, till then.  Part of my existence intoxication aim.  And, I want to see how MY character changes when I don’t have a glass of wine with dinner, or beer when I arrive home, or usual sipNscribble sessions.  Like I said days ago, and really have been saying for a time:  I.  Need.  Difference.

I.

Need.

Newness.

Managed to get a poem out earlier.  The little writing I mentioned earlier..  Want to play more with language, do what poetry allows.  I am collecting my prose for book’s sake, yes, but I’ll always love the freedom POETRY demands, gifts.  Think I should have some soup, just to inject some fuel into this writing barge.  Rest of night, cubism, in this Comp Book.  Already looking forward to bed.  Can’t sat it e-bloody-nough:  I hate being sick, to any degree.  Only 7:06pm.  If I fall into dream’s land soon, I’ll be more than ready for that little barking Artist, his newest movements.  Alice and I, today especially, amazed at how fast he’s grown.  Time, winning again.  So I keep writing.  I have to.

8:27pm.  TV off.  Set for bed.  But there’s laundry that needs finishing.  Interesting situation, really.  1 hour.  Of COMPLETE quiet, down here.  So what else would a writer do.  But write.  Know I said I’d hop over to Comp Book, but I want to keep this Room dark.  The keypad: bright, brazen.

Don’t want to stay home tomorrow, honestly.  HAVE to check on my wines.  Maybe top both barrels.  I’ll rack the Merlot on Tuesday. IS their Adventure in this sitting?  Yes, if I fictionalize, imagine mySelf– No, put mySelf in Paris, or Barcelona.  Kelly, probably in some hotel right now, sipping a glass of whatever Syrah’s on the menu.  She never really goes for white wine.  The red, she feels, especially Syrah, fits her moments painting.  She feels that white wines lack the virile nature she needs for her works.  I see her in Barcelona, with a small sketch pad, and camera, trapping what’ll pay her rent, fill her fridge, keep her away from Their clocks.

8:36pm.  Would love to fall asleep right now.  But I have to stay up, to pull our clothes from that dryer.  Alice said that all three washing machines were motioned, and I don’t want another sludge from this complex to take our clothes out, put it on that filthy forsaken table.  I’m infuriated to no limit when that happens.  So, I’m keeping Self conscious.  And I get to write a little, so…

Dark Room writing.  My office, I’m sure I’ll have a number of these sittings.  Know I’m close to Autonomy.  Right.  There.  [...]  But I have some puzzle needing solving.  One I can’t find.  Unfair, yes, but a challenge I’m quite sure I’ll enjoy.  Composition Book, right in front of me, resting on the ottoman.  Should really logoff this monster, get to real writing–  Boring Self, topic next.  But what?  I’m not sipping any wine, which does feel incredible, I won’t lie.  When Jack and I meet in the morning, he may not be ready for my readiness.  I’ll walk into the tasting Room with a sharp steadiness in my scribbling strut.

Distracted again by device, social media.  This stops tonight.  Right now.  I envy the time when these evilly colored trinkets didn’t exist.  The characters enjoying those free days.

Paper, ink, waiting for their host.

[3/3/13, Sunday]

Looking forward to Tuesday’s class, especially with the 100 section.  Love Hemingway’s prose, dialogue, teasing exposition.  Was tempted just now to check my phone.  But for what?  I swear to you, reader…  I loathe these popular items; the buttons, screens, florescence; all of it.  Adopting Mr. Allen’s methods, those Literarily organic.  [...]  Back from distraction, some social media entanglement.  Why?  Why do I let that happen?  Calming Self, taking sip…  Herbal, bright, a big tight.  Reflecting on today, my wine in the reserve room’s spin.  Tomorrow, behind main bar.  Much more material.  HAVE to top my barrels, tomorrow morning.  No fail.  Monday morning, going in early, for racking of Merlot, other blending activities.

Getting everything off this laptop monster.  Like an racking, or–  A withdrawal of forces; this Author’s troop extraction.  So, going forward, no more new documents.  Only new notebooks, after a predecessor’s been filled.  The weather today, Summer-like.  Which I enjoyed, as did the guests on that patio.  But I miss the rain.  That’ll help me, my true work.  Last sips of blend, thinking again.  Need more verse tonight.  Shift, closed.  As stayed total day.  So, alas, allowed to stray.

Time to actually freewrite, reacting to/reflecting within ideas shared with that photographer from TX; how purism is truism.  The more you stage, deliberate, the more disingenuous.  So thankful for today’s guests, helping me finish my collection.

(3/1/13, Friday)

Off to my short story.  Shooting for 3 pages– Three FULL pages.  See you in a bit.  Planned departure: 4:45pm.

4:09pm.  1,223 words.  On third page, and nearly done.  Honestly, I quite like the way this piece turned out.  Focus on tasting Room dynamics, interactions, characters.  Fiction… my freedom.  Not sure what classes I’ll get in the fall, if any.  Not sure I care.  And not sure I want any.  Been quite contemplative, today.  From morning shower till final sips of this 3-shotter.  I’m at a point in a writer’s life where he needs to decide if he REALLY wants to do IT or not.  I vote YES.  Not from thinking it’ll be more enjoyable, rewarding, enriching, what have.  Because I have to.  I know I have to, ‘cause it’s who I am.  I don’t know “what it’ll be.” IT may be more painful than what’s before me now, work-wise.  More stressful, troublesome, degrading.  But I have to do it.  I’m a writer.

Think I’m going to head to campus a bit early.  Just for discussion prompts, activities.  Want tonight’s classes to be more enjoyable for me.  And yes, I guess, the students.  Want to talk about those dominant themes, for the 302.  Also want to do something separate from the text, for both classes.

Tomorrow, think I may be in the TR.  If not, then the VIP room, or “reserve room.” The caffeine, already wearing off.  Wish I could call in.  No, readers, just venting.  Then I wouldn’t be paid.  And I need every penny possible.  Speaking of pennies, paying and/or being paid: I zero’d my CC balance.  First time I’ve ever done that.  Now, time for some serious, angry accumulation of capital.  For our house, one having an office for the writer.  A giant play room for little Kerouac, kitchen for us to cook more.  A REAL home.

My laptop, skipping, balking, hiccuping.  Sick of this tech.  Just had an idea to print everything and anything on this bloody device devil.  Want to be like Mr. Allen, with no electric interaction.  Real writers write, not really encompassed in types.  Think I’ll rise from this little table, now….  Take rest of night, LIFE, into MY hands.  Decide how the movie progresses, eventually ends.

Around me, other characters.  Most, I’m guessing, don’t have to teach to disinterested students this evening.  So, I get frustrated in analyzing them, considering page placement for them.

My fault.  Yes.

4:28pm.

***

10:29pm.  Another white in glass.  Straight Chardonnay.  Great classes tonight, mostly from the character building exercise, where students build a character from the ground up.  Keeping this addition to day’s entry brief, as I want to return to today’s short story.  Surprised how much I liked it, closing in on its end, at that 12 & Mission Starbucks.  Just looked at my list of standalone’s.  Forgot to log some, but I’m not backtracking.  Don’t have time.

Bed, a bit tempting.  But I have to finish this entry, even if I just ramble.  Even though I ‘m not sure where it’s going.

My friend, still in Europe, on his adventure.  Think by now he should be in Barcelona.  Still targeting travel with this Literary traipses.  May need one more glass of this Chardonnay, Sonoma Valley, crafted by my sister.  I’m guessing there’s about 40-50% new French Oak on this project, maybe more, and probably 90+ percent Chardonnay.  Wouldn’t be surprised if there were some Viognier, Marsanne or Roussanne.  Maybe.  But either way, I love it.  Makes me think of that Burgundy tasting in ’09.  Harder to concentrate, only because my mind’s flying.  Away.  To her, my character.  Every author has their ideal figure.  And.  She’s.  Mine.

Wasn’t exposed to much of the day’s weather, but I enjoyed what I could driving Fountaingrove, up then down to Mendocino, window down, where I turned left to head to JC.  Love the homes up there, often envisioning mySelf, my family in one.  I, in my office, Alice with her own study, little Jackie in his play Room.  Spring break approaching…  All I plan to do: write, taste new wines.  Need to detach Self from regularity.  As I said before, I need Newness.  That means, new wines, from new wineries.  The usual only contributes to sequential scribe staleness.

Off to fetch my other glass.  My last.  The wine, telling me something different, like I need to be focused on music, anything but prose.  But I want to write fiction, these expository entries.  Hemingway’s career, one I want.  A house in the Caribbean, not so much.  But his proliferation, certainly.  Feel I already have it, just need to organize the sheets.  Printing everything, starting tomorrow, hopefully.  Have to get everything off this devilish box.  And yes, I said BOX.  Just like that evil employment place on that mountain’s other side.  A rescue mission, consider it.

Maybe I should put my writings in a safety deposit box.  I know it sounds obsessive, but we all are.  WE, being pen movers.  Okay, off to pour for Self…  Full, from the tacos Ms. Alice had waiting for me when back from class.  Too relaxed, here on the couch.  Tomorrow, hoping I’m behind the main bar.  Why do I like that main bar so much?  It’s “the tranches,” and that’s what writers like me need.  And if I don’t write while behind that marble, then it contributes to my collective knowledge, my character.  The news just came on.  That means it’s 11pm, or 11-something.  Time to clock out.  Incredibly successful writing day.  Closer to road.  Promised to sleep contently.

Life.

Literary.

Loved.

(2/28/13)

A poem I wrote earlier, has me wanting to continue down that path, only listen to music for night’s rest, freely frolic in form.  Giving Self only 22 minutes for this entry, or “post” [since it’s headed for blog].  Paris, only thing on this writer’s attention plate.  Panning into usable imagination.  The streets, gardens, the tower, that one restaurant where we all enjoyed our final vacation dinner.. where Alice ordered shrimp but couldn’t figure out how to eat it, soliciting help from my sister.  And that wine tasting, granted not in Paris but in Burgundy region, only having me reflective on everything that stressed me today.  Beautiful weather outside, tearing tumult inside, eating at MY character.  It’s my fault, I take weight.  I’m too thin-skinned, I’m a writer.

Behind on my writings, these “posts.” Again, I blame Self.  I write too fast.  Fear I’m too passionate.  And I don’t care what some in this “industry” have to say.  Instead of being so fulfilled by shortcomings, downfalls, anything of others, maybe they should focus more on what pulls at their life.  Why can’t they see what ails them?  One of my friends at work today put it perfectly.  I won’t quote this character, as to respect confidence, but [pronoun]’s right.

8 more minutes.  Sorry, was distracted by some footage I shot the other day, of the bottling line.  Details around me, RIGHT now: bunched blanket, remote controls, of course the white blend on the end-table, a muted TV, horrible show.  In a judgmental mode, as that’s what many of today’s guests wanted to be: bloody critics.  Like this one woman asking me, “Well, I have to ask, what’s the oak regimen on this one?” Like that would stump me, like I wouldn’t know.  When I told her, this “winemaker” from New Jersey [I know, funny], she just sipped, looked at her quietly aloft spouse.

Looking through these older pictures, I see struggle, repetition.  The wine “industry” keeps us chasing, ‘less we take it by the neck and MAKE it do what we want, for us.  That’s where I am.  NOTE: I have no qualms with any 1 winery, ANYWHERE.  BUT, I do hold specific agitation for industry culture, that of underpaying employees, carrot-holding/tugging.  Everyone’ll have a comment about my stance, thoughts and barbs to what I’m expressing.  But I’m speaking freely.  IS that not allowed in “the industry?”

(2/27/13)

The Cook-Off will be held on Sunday, March 3rd from 2pm to 5pm at Wine World and Spirit’s private ballroom, with proceeds benefiting the food bank.  Tickets are $10 and include your chili tastes plus 5 drink tickets to sample local beers and wines that have been selected to pair with the chili.

Men, that’s probably all you need to read – buy your ticket here or at the door.

Ladies, if you still need a little tempting, this is the part where I get to tell you that the chili will be judged by Seattle firefighters.   And yes, I know that’s a totally sexist comment and I don’t really care.  FIREFIGHTERS.

Wine World & Spirits is located at 400 NE 45th.

Editors, no need to with those slugs deal.  The vineyards tonight, when shift ended.. cinematic.  Above awards, media, this entry, the footage I shot with my friend Sam.  How do we appreciate what’s around us here in Sonoma, adequately?  My Artistry, angular–  Negative, from analysis itself.

Turned off the documentary I was watching.  Now, Channel 7 News.  Poured Self night’s cap.  Would take a picture of glass, for this “blog,” but it’s a logo [glass] from that molded Dry Creek facility.  Seems like so long ago, with that incompetent “manager.” What do any of these wine “industry” managers know?  They’re managers, attempted directions.  If they knew so much about wine, they’d be making it.

Wine, again.  I whine while I write.  A blogged vent.  How I protrude fangs at that word, “blog.” Hemingway never dealt with this tech omnipresence.  He just wrote.  Pen, paper.  Really, I see mySelf as a victim, of my time, the available immediacies.  If I were to be alive in idealized time, it’d be between 1939 & 1969.  Or anytime where there was NO internet.  What happened to BOOKS?  Kindle = DEVIL.  Need another sip.

Loving my wine.

The oscars.  Why do people care so much?  What about independent films?  Projects that don’t need some monster company’s “okay.” Grooming, or re-, my perspective.  Attitude abscission.  Writing my way through–

Weather.  Where’s the rain?  Now, a report on privacy.  Makes me need more wine for my writing.  Maybe for night’s rest I should dock my dialogue, diatribe.. just enjoy the wine.

(2/24/13)

***

2/25/13 — 1,000 words into book.  Tired.  Would love to just vegetable Self into this couch.  But I can’t.  Why, I’m a writer.  Yes, I do this view a curse.  Looking at the page amount, or count, for this document.. 447 pages.  And no book because…

TV, death.  Visual death capsule.  Reminds me of the News, all these reality shows pushing us into complacency.  Separate subject, today’s weather: utterly inexplicable.  Supernal.  Like Spring.  Took much more stills than I ever projected.  And, managed to get in some writing while setting up Mountaintop.  The view from up there…  I should find a way to have an hour’s session on that deck, see what results.  Already fantasizing about tomorrow morning’s coffee.  The afternoon sitting at whichever coffee shop I elect.  More than likely 12 & Mission.  The one on Farmers.. not sure, just an odd dynamic, tone, feel.  Was going to transfer the day’s notes, from Comp Book and little pages, into book project.  But I’m simply too tired at this point.  These old writings, not scaring me anymore.  Wondering why I was ever scared to read past efforts.  And what would I have done with them, if I’d never returned out of fear?  Just leaving them in that plastic box in my closet?  Not tolerating fear, of any of these prior sheets.

One entry, from February 2003: “Grad school.  I’m here.  Finally.” Found this notebook in my desk’s depths.  But, asking myself where this page’ll go.. don’t know.  Why can’t I stop writing, just enjoy the rest of my evening?  Going to.  Now. Not offering Self options.  I’ll stare at imaginary stars, see what happens, see what she says.  Idea rest.

2/26/13.  February’s end, already.  7:39am, up with Kerouac.  Coffee in progress here in condo castle.  I keep Self in futile vacillation over what shape my books should take.  Why am I OVERTHINKING?  No more.

Jack tosses my phone on floor.  Don’t blame him.. I’d love to destroy it altogether.  One less connection, anchor for the writer.  DECIDING…  My first book will be 102 pages.  Again, DECIDED.  I’ll be compiling and writing [adding to] it this afternoon, in between papers.  Just had first couple coffee sips.  Maybe I should pick a different writing spot this afternoon.  Would that would bring about more truth?  Have to break pattern as much as I can.. find all the New I’m able.  Jack, now, right by keyboard.  He’s telling me to stop typing, enjoy my morning with him, my coffee.  To live for a bit, I can always write later.  And I will.  I have to, if I’m to be a writer.  This “blog” not Literary.  Yes, it shows that I’m writing, thinking about writing, my books.  But it’s not Literary practice.

Second coffee cup.  Watching little Jack play with some auto-rolling ball that speaks, sings, circles back to him.  I really should follow his urgency, I’m thinking.  If I feel something should be captured, I’ll trap it in Comp Book.  This morning actually has the feel of a “day off,” believe or no.  Not many characters in tasting Room yesterday, but Sunday and Saturday were abundant; luxuriant, plenteous.  What that Room, the wines within poured, then sampled, does to characters, I’ll always find astounding.  Maybe “astounding”’s too strong, but that’s how I’m reacting right now.

Thinking of my coworker, who’s over in Europe, traveling, observing, exploring, actually LIVING.. can only imagine what I would write with 3 weeks in Europe, with his itinerary.  Looking up pictures of Barcelona, of course my city [Paris], Rome, Venice, Naples…  Just starting at the stills of Barcelona has me even more impatient for travel.  How else am I to experience anything as a penner?  I have to travel.  But those jaunts must be warranted, specially commissioned by some level of success.  So, with this first release, I’m selling all.  Specific objective: not so much monetary as it is familiarity, recognition and reputation.  Tired of being referred to as a blogger, or worse “social media guy.” One lady the other day, someone from 3rd floor, said, “Well I’m not quite the social media guru that you are.” I cut her off, civilly but candidly, responding, “I’m not a a social media guru.  I’m not a social media GUY.  I’m a writer.  I just know how to use social media and make it work for me sometimes.” I’ll soon be known as a page peddler.  Selling my actual pages.  Not worry bout links, or “tags” when I post.  That’s something that’s really been digging into and under my armor: tags.  I just had a thought, how would Picasso’s work have been different if he had to consider all this nonsense, especially tags?  He didn’t.  And he wouldn’t now.  He’d reject it.  He’d find it limiting.  He just created, then released.  Precisely what I see him doing in 2013’s parameters.  This technological, digital, “social” element.. ceaseless in how it me abrades.  So, I change my Creative curves to it combat.  No more reliance.  Only definite defiance.

9:15am.  Still typing.  28% left on laptop.  Now, Jack thumbs through the book I bought him at xmas, containing animal pictures, poetically abbreviated prose, other engaging visuals.  Then he looks over at me, “Did you hear what I said?” I imagine him thinking.  I did, indeed, yes, but this is addictive, this capturing from consciousness, molding into composition.  Jack, tireless.  Tried putting him down for a little early snoozing, but he refused.  so he’s already familiar with persistence.  He’s now on the floor, solving realities, certain innocent cause & effect examples.  Already over 500 words for morning.  Alice, at gym, bringing me a mocha, my usually morning 3-shotter.  Not sure I need it, but I will persist with this capturing list.  Have to put mind in teaching mode, at some point.  Can’t get the Barcelona photos from my sight, what my friend must be seeing there.  Actually, I don’t think he’s there yet.. probably still in Paris.  23% now.  Logging off.  Hate that phrase.  Just closing, for now.

Think I’m at main bar, today.  Hope so anyway, as that’s where most of the best material is.  Yesterday’s characters: British couple, his parents, 4 total; the mother, interested in my writing, how wonderful it would be to write on Mountaintop, where I took them.  The wife, Amber, professional photographer, snapping several stills on our tasting.  Before my 12:30 tour, I was out in the vineyard with Gerry, the vineyard manager.  He showed me several methodologies to pruning.  Everything from where to clip, how to train vines, where to plant, among much else– more than I have time to catalogue with Jack doing touch-and-go’s right before me.  He’s smiling at me, threatening advance.  And here he comes…

This French Roast, better than a mocha.  Well, it’s more suiting to this type of morning, with how early it is, how I bring Self to write.  Or type.  He stands right next to me, now, leaning on the ottoman.  Just watching me type.  I’m honored by his interest, frankly.  There’s several toys just over by the seat providing much more color, certainly more engagement, than my sitting.

Wish rain would return.  Been thinking this for while.  One of the driest starts to a year than I can remember.  The news, promising precipitation, but always mismeasuring.  Need a large sip of this vampiric roast…  Assigned the first pages in Sun Also Rises [Hemingway, case you knew not].  Excited to study this master, especially alongside the fiery 100 crew.

Need to visit my wines today.  CANNOT let Self forget.  May have to top both barrels.  I’ll do so with Merlot, from one of the tanks in the tank room.

At this point, not much to record into journal, as the writer’s day just starts.  My little notebook, need to trap more observations today.  One, right now, however bland: cold downstairs here in condo.  Should have put on pajama pants, ‘stead of just descending in this non-legged uniform piece.  Red blanket over knees, as if to age me decades in less than 20 minutes…  Coffee getting cold.  Remembering espresso in France.  Especially yesterday, watching D at work, going online, previewing possible lodgings in my city.  Would I could write on a 3-week adventure through Europe, or anywhere in the world, I can only hypothesize.  It’s close, I keep telling Self.

Hemingway, seeing so much.  Feel like I’ve seen nothing.  Paris, probably my most prized observation nugget.  I’ll revisit my footage, visual and written trappings SOON.  Have to.

About prepare for day.  Last night, sipped Zin.  Surprised by encounter.  Not as messy as many I’ve before met.  [2/23/13]

***

Making this check-in short.  Have to work on book, writing I can SELL.  Busiest day in some time, today in tasting Room.  Like it were August, or any summer moment set.  Loads of material, so I’m quite thankful.  Forgot to log the last couple from yesterday, the man challenging every bit of wine knowledge I humbly offered to conversation.  Why do people get like that over wine?  I’ll never understand it.  Right now, I’m with the remainder of the 2010 Zin from last night.  Much more melodic, not that it had many flaws last night.  Notes from my phone:

= Up early with Jack,

= Coffee, home…  No visit to dealer.

= Don’t need go go back to sleep.  Too  much in stream.

= Condescending managers.. Thank you.

= tired.  My office’ll have a bed, more than likely.

= Imagining pulling up to my office for work day.  What I’d be thinking about, how I’d envision day; How I could actually enjoy my coffee, blueberry scone.. how I’d feel unlocking door.  I’m almost there.  I know it.

= Long day ahead.  Want bed.

= wine club letters… endless bother.

= Heard someone say, “…it just camps out on your palate…”

= Should be in my office.  Writing.

Used to think that writings posted to this “blog” had to sit in their parental screen for a year before being let to actual page.  I’ve untied that progression knot.  This is all salable.  It’s writing, it’s mine, so I can do with it whatever I see most Artistic.  Need my Zin glass, over there in kitchen, by coffee machine, somewhat ironically.  I remember today calling this a “Merlot lover’s Zin,” because of the soft expansion of its texture, flavor traffic.  Thinking I might have to buy some of this tomorrow.  Just to have a stash on-hand.  Brought home a 2010 Syrah tonight, as we made one of our goals.  Not sure which one.  I just tune-in when I’m told to take free wine to base.

Think the only true block with this writing, Self-publishing, would B ME.  So, in the simplicity obsession, and only seeing writing as my obligation [not this childish blogging], this device’s tenure is tentatively targeted.  MEANING, I may not use it for writing.  At all.  Eventually.  Would love to use 1 typewriter, my whole life, like Woody Allen. Just want to get away from electricity, the tech dependence.. the mechanical tentacle.  Then maybe I just need to change, Mike thought–

He set the screen down, pressing lightly into keys.  Rising from sofa, he skipped to kitchen.  Another Zin sip.  Needed.  This was big for him, no laptop typing.  He could taste it.. that Autonomy he’d always forcibly hallucinated.  Showing up to his office.  Only job: WRITE.  1 page, 3.  10, more–  Didn’t matter.

10:41pm.  That was another thing: He hated the clock.  Time.  It only made all shrivel, age, decay.  Grim view, yes.  But quite stooped in truth.  Papers, not even touched, in bag.  He told his students it took about two weeks to get through them, didn’t he?  He couldn’t remember.  Didn’t want to think about it, the tired writer, his overlapping narratives.  Readers had to get used to it, he thought.  Was he wrong, in his separatist song?  Kelly’s counsel, not available.  He could only sip, scribble in that neglected Composition Book.

= People saying I’ll be famous someday, from sharing my winemaking aims.  But few share enthusiasm such for the writing.  Odd.  Wine is consumable, easily forgotten.  The page, ETERNAL; a collected forever.

= Drying glasses.  Don’t know where to start.  Try to look for Art in everything.  But this…

= Letters, to certain varietals, have to be written.

3:28pm.  Done with papers.  2 minutes ahead of Top Chef-like time table.  Annoying man, leaving.  He was at one of those larger tables I prefer.  But I have the corner table, smaller and circular, here on the long cushion.  Thinking I’ll write till 4:45pm.  1hr, 16min.  But for what?  The BOOK, of course.  But I won’t be typing.  Not anymore today, after this entry.  Already donated 1200+ words to its content.  Want to see my scribbles, like Kelly watches that paint fly across whatever her most recent blankness.  Wonder what she thinks when she sees her blank canvas.  The blank page has never scared me, as it does many writers.  Not sure why.  Look at my fingers fly now, across the keypad.. I always have something to purge.  Not sure if that’s necessarily a positive quality, but that IS me.  Another sip of the mocha…  Not one drop of stress about me.  Feels incredible.  All grading, away.  All I have to do is WRITE.  Soon, I’m hoping, this 2B my Life.  Don’t know why I say it like that, with that word arrangement.  I know it will.  And in many ways, it already is.  Looking at the cars rush south on Mission.  Makes me think of the drives to Oregon, there and back really, as a kid.  Miss Sunriver.  The writing I did there in ’09 was some of the most atmospherically-influenced material I’ve ever produced.  Paris, too.  Need the road–  I know, I know.. the wish list.  Topic next.

Yes, this seat, this café, calls for pen, paper.  Not a device.  That’s certain.  Especially with what I’m listening to, on this Pandora station.  Peace, much attributed to no one sitting near me.  I’m in need of this isolation.  Time to just react.  Class tonight, simple.. consistent with my consistency obsession.  302: collect essays, assign reading, dismiss, more than likely early.  100: rough draft workshop, office hour, dismiss.  I’ll pass back what I graded for both sections, of course.  A little startled, as today actually felt like a day off.

3:42pm.  Time to leave device.  One last reflection: time, it’s catching me and everything I do.  But I think it lacks the Life I put onto page.  So, it can’t win.  It can only get into my head, disrupt vision occasionally.  Not now.  Not at this table.  And then someone sits to my left.  Not too close, but I’d rather he not be there at all.  Two women, where the odd man was, sitting with blueprints between them.  I imagine them opening some shop, in L.A.  Or San Fran.  Seattle maybe.  I’d go, support their venture.  I support all entrepreneurs, I’d like to think.  Anyone who doesn’t have some pigeon-liver’d pig of a “boss,” manager and/or owner, over them, I support.  Especially if they’ve left of their own volition.

Then, I’m stuck.  Maybe I should leave, write in my temporary “office” on campus.  But do I want to be there already?  Yes.

Some woman just sat right next to me.  She could be reading this, actually.  She sips a juice box unnervingly loud.  Now I’m annoyed.

And leaving.

(2/21/13)

Had a tasting in lab, today, of five wines.  At first, I was told to just look for some type of common thread between the pours.  There was commonality.  And contrast.  Made me think of my writings, these standalone pieces.  I want there to be consistency, of course, but variation as well.  Bored with this topic and thought stream.. just thought I’d let you know what happened today.

Tasting Room, for the most part, quite busy.  Met two Canadians, an older couple from British Colombia.  The woman, discrete, a definite listener, whereas the husband refused to stop his sentences, questions.  Have to re-read something I wrote really quick, a letter of recommendation..  Be right back…

There.  One less item off writer’s plate.  My life has to be simple, if I’m ever to travel.  My friend told me he’s not checking even 1 bag.  Traveling light.  I would do just the same, on such travel.  The most prized artifact would be the journal.  And even that would be light, in note-form.  Just as I did when in Paris, in ’09.  I’d probably use device, in such instance.  Keep a photo log, or something.  Ideas bubbling, now.  Have to see world, write about it.  Going away to write for a couple weeks, as my Dad went away for his trips, then back home to my family– my little Artist, Jackie.

Without specificity, there was another reminder meteor that collided with my existence, emphasizing how cannibalistic this industry can be.. how NO ONE can be trusted; How you have to look out for Self, 1st.  And that’s what I’ve always done.  As Dad urges to me, “You work for YOU.” True.  I’m a writer, maybe a bit of a winemaker.  But I’m no one’s servant.  I say, sipping Chardonnay, 2nd night rowed.  When was the last time that  was written, typed, or even said?  Everyone knows I hold aversion to white Burgundy.  But, unexpectedly, I’m consistent, two nights, in its sip.

Most of today, in tasting Room, I simply thought, daydreamed about future, potential direction.  What I’m still doing, here in kitchen nook, at bow of dying roses I bought for Alice on Valentine’s.  Each head, pointed down, at tables crumby surface, garnished in Kerouac evidence.  Think they’re offering keys to road.  But I can’t translate.  Not right away.  Need to write out.. brainstorm, like my students.

Frustrated.  Just tried locating book efforts, and couldn’t.  I’m too scattered, on this evil appendage.  Done typing for night.  Off to paper.  This has seriously been happening for the past.. I don’t know, 14 years or so, since that first SSU term.  Maybe longer.  It stops tonight.  I need to see my city.  Again.  Soon.

And more.

On.  The.  Road.

(9:06pm)

Haven’t sipped the Chard, yet.  Wonder what terms it has for my somewhat-particular palate…  Definitely a California Chard– creamy [not buttery], pear, apple.. more acidity than I’d expect.  On the finish, a curious perfume or floral nudge.  Not sure how to take this white Burgundy.  Usually, as I tell people, I deplore Chardonnay.  Not saying the grape doesn’t have place.  I just don’t like it.  But, this one hold my senses, tells them to calm down, open themselves to renewed note arrangement.

With new honesty skate, I’m thinking of pushing letters into my books.  What kind of letters?  Not sure.  But to everyone, everyTHING– devices, wine, California, the ocean, this laptop monster.  Want to write more letters.  To my character, Ms. Kelly.  I need her to just tell me to start drawing.  To stop thinking about it.

Script sparks, tasting Room–

CHAR1:  I don’t get this one.

CHAR2:  What’s to get, it’s wine.  Are you saying you don’t like it?

CHAR1:  No.  I like it.  I just don’t get it.

CHAR2:  Huh?  I think you’re over-thinking it.  Seriously, this is wine, not cosmic calculations–

CHAR1:  How would you know what cosmic calculations are?  You failed Astronomy, didn’t you?

CHAR2:  I did, ‘cause I didn’t get it.  But I GET this.  It’s just wine.

[2/19/13]

Still feeling symptoms.  Light cough, intermittent sniffles, rare sneezes.  Combatting it with a 2008 Decoy Merlot, that my winemaker sis brought in her supply of wine for Kerouac’s gathering.  This is just the type of Merlot I want to produce.  Poured night’s cap just over ten minutes past.  Quite full, that bowl.  Notes– blackberry, licorice, mint, mocha on nose; palate: syrupy cherry, lingering licorice, mint, thick and slow progression; finish, all notes remaining with generous tannin dispersal.  Can’t find anything to critique, really.  And why should I?  I’m writing about it, writing alongside it.. I love it.  Why do we insist on complicating things– moments and matters in Life?  ESPECIALLY WINE?.?!!

This blog, beginning to get traction.  Significant readership.  So what do I do?  “Monetize” it?  Did Hemingway have ads on the sides of his pages?  I want this to be a gallery of Life.. MY life.  Not a forum for soul selling.  So that issue’s anesthetized.  Glad.  It’s.  Dead.

Back in TR, morrow.  These evidences of slowness need to depart, already.  Need another Merlot kiss.  ’08, again my vintage of interest.  Katie and I didn’t get to talk business today, and that’s fine.  BUT, our bottling’s right around the corner.  Need to ask her about aging potential, final fining, or blending.  Last minute edits, possible adjustments.

Honesty, in this prose: calling in sick, tomorrow.  Don’t think I’m sick enough, thankfully.  Would rather be in that Room, talking to people, listening to their demands, be they wine club members or other.  Domestic, abroad, interstate…

On mind: poem.  Cubist standalone’s.  Still have quite a bit of the Decoy left.  Sipping with melodic murmur.  This writer can’t afford to be “sick.” Writers like mySelf, Mr. Hemingway, don’t get “sick.” We have a certain power that makes illness unknown, even symptoms’ thick.  Just looked at clock.  8:52pm.  May be right behind Ms. Alice.  Tomorrow morning, on way to Estate: buying sketchpad, colored pencils down the street.  Cheap as I can find, to be sure I do something with them, so there’ll be no pressure.  Either I do it, or I don’t.  Just going to blend colors, color intensities, blending on top of other blends.  Was interesting today, Troy telling me to look at a translucent glass sheet, tell him what colors I saw.  He told me that’s how you deconstruct what you see as an illustrator.  Going to try this, FINALLY.  Write what I find, or don’t find.  Who am I doing it for?  ME!

(2/17/13, Sunday)

4:57pm.  When I walked through this corporate coffee kennel’s doors, all seats were taken, notably the bigger tables that I prefer when I write, grade.  I sat at one of the “tall boys,” those uncomfortable tall tables.  Then, the older fellow at the bigger table, just at my 12, began to pack.  So now, here I sit.  Still set on getting a Merlot for tonight.  Going to Oliver’s right up the street.  Need to get this grading done, stay ahead of the student.  Five more items, whatever they are.  Just going to pull 5…

Done.  Quick because it was in-class writing.  Surprised how well my Eng. 100 students progress.  All have this unusual fire in them.  As do I, here at this table.  About to jump to newJournal.  Need to actual paint my words onto tangible canvas.  Listening to instrumentals, me feeling especially lyrical.  I’ll type later tonight.  Want to write as Hemingway did.  Woolf.  Plath.  I want to actually WRITE.  This is typing.  Device-dependent.

9:23pm.  Tonight’s Merlot, ’09, Alexander Valley Vineyards.  Nice fruit on mid, but a bit hot on nose and finish.  Just think it’s young.  Bottle’s been open for a bit over an hour.  The rest of tonight, about song’s rhymed line.  Want full-on ART.  After the quiche Alice made, I’m in a relaxed Parisian pose.  Can see the tower, highlighted with its own presence.  The next morning, getting coffee with Alice, at the shop, metro station just by the hotel.  The lady, in her glossy pitch, “Bonjour!” Paris, the only city I ultimately want to see, within which immerse Self, before I expire.

My glass, in the kitchen, about 3-5 yards away.  Probably closer to five.  Just imagined a football field’s lines at laptop’s 12.  About 3 ounces left in bowl.  Thinking of the first responses to wine, from 1st blog, the characters I encountered in bottles.  In this ’09, I find something finding its voice, or trying.  It’s playful, but disorganized.  Not going to “score” it.  Just think wine deserves better than some contrived number.  On the flight back to Paris, which should be soon, I’ll be writing.  No wine, no imported or domestic suds.  Just Literature.  Pen on paper.. INK.  No device.

A stayed color net, this day.  Well, all hours since that beer last night.  Don’t want to forget what spurred this new, renewed, momentum.  A Racer 5 I had down the street, a little over 24 hours ago [2/13/13].  My mood switched.  I came home to write.  And I did, quickly.  In tasting Room tomorrow, as I always am Friday.  Goal for Self: 10 characters.  Dedicate them to page, REAL page.. paper.  Looking at the Merlot, in that glass right by the sink.  Wonder what it’s doing, if it looks back at the writer.  And if not, I don’t blame.  I’m entertaining “judging” it, scoring.  It’s Art.  How dare I, another artist.  And I don’t capitalize, I don’t deserve.  Not now, thinking as I did.  This wine.. I’m drinking it.  So it’s brilliant.  It’s bottled, sold, at a store.  And I bought.  I’m still looking for buyers of my pages.  So I don’t deserve to EVER judge, anyone or anything.

(2/14/13)

1:17pm.  No class tonight.  So, grading, lesson planning, writing.  Have to stay ahead of students, that’s how I’ll have a prosperous quarter.  I mean semester.  Must have Stanford on brain.  Was in a cynicism mist, early, this Valentine’s Day.  What pulled me from, Jack.  Of course.  This little character, to be 1 on morrow’s turn, has an odd power that shifts my shape with only seconds of interaction, minimal contact.  Need as much of him in day’s intervals as allowable.

Gorgeous outside.  Low 70’s, I want to say.  Going to coffee shop on 12 & Mission.  What do I want done?  1 target [in this new hyper-obsession with simplicity]: BOOK.  That’s all.  Analyzing my character Kelly, my Self, whomever’s around me sitting.  And focusing on older entries.  I’m starting to see them as THE key to getting on Road.  Jack, asleep upstairs.  Me, down here, with only this monster, its cranky keys.  Looking at beginning entries, where I link Literature, Writing, with wine.  The energy on those screens reminds me of how I am now with winemaking, with a carnivorous passion jog in my efforts, small or grandiose.

Speaking of winemaking, I need a new wine for tonight.  What, what…  May actually buy one at store when picking up groceries for this V-Day dinner.  What varietal?  Cabernet?  No, tired of the Bordeaux bull.  Surely not Zin.  Pinot, maybe.  I do love that Moshin Sonoma Coat bottle.  Think the last I had was an ’09.  Still thinking about the man from yesterday, from Montana, who made blends from fermented berries and cherries.  Another just sprung to memory tarmac: the lady from Florida, writing down everything about each wine I poured, reading aloud her descriptors, several times with each wine vocally noting “the bouquet.” And I thought just now about my winemaking aims, how what I want to do with making wine will influence my “career” moves in “the industry.” I want to make wine on my won [yes, I intentionally wrote “won” instead of “own” ...] terms, for mySelf, and a potential future label.  I don’t aspire to be on a winery’s winemaking staff, in lab or cellar.  Not yet.  Unless I knew the offer would truly do something significant for me, for MY wine.  Think I may stay with social media, blogging, sales, some VIP tours, the like, for now.. all while saving for my future crushings.  I can’t afford a pay cut, that’s for sure.  And, I want to make wine how I want to make it, translate varietals how I want them to be seen, tasted.  How I think they–the varietals, their parental terroir–want to be portrayed.  And since I have a Merlot in barrel, in the winery’s cave, I should probably pull a Merlot from Oliver’s shelf.  Decided.  But what vintage?  Want to see how they age, so maybe an ’08, or a REASONABLY priced 2007.  No more than $35.  OR 30.

Older entries, “reviewing” wines I was that night or a night recent sipping, giving me story ideas.  Magazine ideas.  How does a wine get formally “reviewed?” Can you be formal in reviewing wine?  Something else with which to toy this evening– or on 12 & Mission, in BOOK.  Needing coffee right now, actually.  Had a couple cups at Omelette Express with Jack and Alice, with my eggs, “country potatoes” [or whatever the owner calls them], two bacon strips.  Which is different for me, outside regular character, as I usually have Diet Coke.  But that’s a beverage I’m looking to remove from my Now.  Why?  Simply, I’ve found it to be poisonous.  Jack needs me HERE, and I can assure so not just through career efforts, but ones nutritional especially.  Need to do some blog maintenance before working on book, in this sitting, on couch here in living room, as both J and A upstairs slumber.  I need to keep adding to my catalogue.  In the “All List,” I’ve recorded 15 standalone’s.  Wonderful, but I need SALES.  Much as I’d like to Self-pub a 100+ page ms, I simply haven’t the funds.  SO, my brand, MIKE MADIGAN: one of 50 to 60-pagers.  Releasing one every month.  Want this to be steady stream.  Thoroughly Picasso-like, completely Cubist in habit, shape.  ~2/14/13, Thursday

Blending seminar, went better than I thought.  My vote, turned to be tiebreaker between 2 competing groups.  Vintage focus, 2010.. varietals, all Bordeaux, except Petit Verdot.  Glad it went so well, as a coworker and I spent most the day setting up, preparing for our alchemical frolic.  Again, looking at clock, wondering what I should do in this chair.  I’m thinking about wine, obviously, making wine, the wine I’m sipping…  My character.  And what else, but the Road.

But I think I deserve to enjoy a glass of wine.  In my home.  Away from tech, some device noose.  Right at this scribble, I’m in my teaching Comp Book, as the monster flashed 4% battery.  This pen-mover’s a sent doer for TRUE freedom.  Financial, technological, other.  No brick bag in my skip, swag.

Want to focus on Jack.  His 1st birth celebration.  I’m too Selfish, truthfully.  But it syncs with this “style” or voice of mine.  Lost my elaboration to that oration, but I’m circled; prey to my own anxiety, self-doubt.  Yes, I know, I say to Self, “Kelly would say, ‘just do what you want.’” Since that beer at the pizza place, I’m unblind.  This posture, new for me.  Sure I’ve written this before, too.  But I’m in my honest branch.  What else can I do, conveying writer struggles.  Memory: 2006, in that FT-er’s house, San Leandro, during my 1st teaching gig at Chabot, some “professional development” activity…  While another FT-er was speaking, I was writing about writing, what I wanted to write.  Wasn’t strangled by a phone, its apps, “social” media.  I was a writer, imagine.. to that past, I’ll sip slow, not at all fast.  Time, not defeating me.  Can only write letters to Kelly, hoping she’s even remotely compelled to respond from her levitation.

I’ve become obsessed with simplicity.  And adventure, after reading another blogger’s exposition, today– tonight, really, while waiting for that veggie pizza.  Tired.  Blaming day.  And yesterday, my shoulders, arms, still quite sore.  But, in full-circle scream.  I was acknowledged as A winemaker today, during those blends being made by guests.  If I’m to stay in “the industry,” this’ll be my path.  And I’m writing all of it.  But what if I keep it a hobby, just enjoy making wine.  And write about it.  Think that may be more enjoyable, actually.

Deserve another sip.  But, against MY character impulse.  Cork, re-inserted.  Removing Self from grape’s coast.  If I didn’t have that Merlot, sipped anything with caffeine instead, or even water, I’d have more speech to spill.  Now, a depleted mess.  My shores, now guarded, aiming at potential vintage invaders.

(2/13/13)

Leaving the winery, I did a quick tasting with winemakers, on a 2010 wine (red) with a mid-palate dilemma.  One of them suggested a small addition of sugar.  Want to research sugar in wine, its relationship with mouthfeel.  Deeper into the winemaking world I wonder, the more motivated my revolution.  Hearing E, the cellar master, talk about barrels, aromas, wine aromatics, tastes, blendings, even sanitizing, has me convinced my topic is there, on the crush pad.  Watching Jack, now, enjoying how he throws the small wooden balls into the kitchen, both the yellow and blue ones.  I can hear them roll to the nook’s table.  He pushes the yellow towards me…  And here he is, trying to collaborate.

Not as prepared as I’d like to be for tonight’s classes.  But I don’t need that much time for what I want to accomplish tonight.  Just turning those brainstormings into paragraphs.  And again, Jack attacks.

Watching him play, just a couple feet away, between little books and a talking alphabet drum, I see a character more complex than I thought I had.  His curiosity, daring nature, enviable.  He just tries, where as we “grownups” ponder and further reason reasons WHY we should hesitate, not simply leap.

A little tired.  Should try to eat, something.  I do have that blueberry scone in the kitchen, from this morning that I never got to.  Going to need another coffee later.  May have straight black.  As the cellar master said this morning, when we were stomping down the production corridor of cave, “I drink black coffee, straight, cause I want to taste coffee.” He later connected the taste of coffee, in the morning, to the wait wines sit on your palate.  E taught me a few kegs worth today.  Couldn’t write it down, but it’s part of my experiential ottoman, where upon I rest part of Self, if that makes sense.  It does to me. I think.

I then thought about my older blog entries, how the blog serves as barrel.  They eventually need their bottle, bottles.  If over a year, they need home, stemming from that question I a couple years ago penned, I think in ’08, “Where do these pages go?”

IN> A> BOOK…

2:15pm.  Should start getting ready soon.  This morning, though, my newly barreled blend, dominating all cognition.  And, that quick tasting I did with the winemakers in the lab, right before I left, between a ’10 Cab, its predecessor ’09.  Mid-palate, the sugar connection.  Going to research that really quick, one more winemaker step before switching to professor mode.

10:15pm.  8 hours later, precisely.. I’m exhausted.  Both classes tonight took my tank’s remainder.  Sipping a glass of last night’s ’10 Cab.  Will be my only for the night, just bet.  Tomorrow, forgot what time, my blending seminar.  Should be in bed early.  What would that mean?  Any time before 11.  Right now, I’m on couch, right side.  Or left, if you’re looking at it.  Not sure what’s going through my head.  Reflections over today’s barreling of my blend, the cold A.M. temp, what I’m sipping now.. my book.  Life, my son…  Which path does the writer next select?  I’m overthinking, maybe.  Is that what I need to do?  Only 9% in this device.  Mood, falling.  I don’t want to subject anymore would-be readers to this latest inner-skirmish.  Not in mood to write.  Just want to live, leisurely enjoy my night.

Thinking of my former student’s question the other day, “What’s your prime project?” Not sure.  And why do I have to have one “prime?” Why can’t my curve continue kaleidoscopically?  I know she wasn’t surging interrogatively, but it ruffled me.  Why can’t the process be my project?  Not sure…  Distracted, here in house, with all these floating objects, nebula nudges.  So what does a writer do, to get on the Road, to see his beloved city of Paris again?  Keep writing, I guess.  I mean, really, what else can I do?  When I think of my city, how far away it is, I fall through optimism’s thin glass sheet.  And now my mood AGAIN descends, seeing the power of this laptop.. 18%, battery’s fill, red.  Sick of tech’s neck, its rip.  Need another sip.

The views from that mountaintop, again in sight.  Need to do tour on day off, as tourist.  Immerse Self in others’ role.  That’d be platter silver for writing’s liver.  Need difference.  And with deconstruction in my current octaval obtrusion, I can only see growth in doing everything opposite.  So by that rationale, I should stop with these ’09 sips, no?  No.  My excuse: studying to be a winemaker, catch my sister, start my own label, write about it.  ALL.  That would be my “prime” project.  It’s much bigger than this page.  It’s all leading to…  And as I’ve said:  Many times the most Literary act is not writing at all.  ‘Cause it’ll slingshot you into fruition.  You hold it interiorly for so long that you have to rush a manuscript, purge what suppresses you, haunts your progression.  I’m probably not making sense, so I’ll go ahead and blame this cubist Cabernet contortion; its giddy palate impromptu architecture; Why would I NOT want to make wine?  I’m an Artist.  I have to.  Bottled contents serve as annex to my journaled hurdles.

Tomorrow, my “pseudo Friday,” as I say to Mary.  Class Tuesday night, all about how to turn brainstorming into paragraphs.  How do I know that I have the answers?  I don’t, honestly.  I only have suggestions.  But what if my suggestions hurt them down line?  Part of the reason I think this might be my last semester, ever.  Well, till Stanford.  Down to 8%, so I have to turn off this little rodent convenience.  Off to newJournal.  Only rhyme, the most disorganized efforts I can separate, scribe.  That’s Art, all in which I hope to ever live.

10:09pm.  The ’09, having me think about MY varietal.  It has to be Cabernet.  What else would it be?  Definitely not Chardonnay, or even SB.  Syrah, Merlot.. don’t know.  Have news turned on.  Mood changes.  Can’t take this seriousness.  My character, she’d turn it off, listen to music, paint.  When can’t I step in her clef?  Think I sipped that Cab too quick.  Waiting till next.  Me, statue.. trapped, glued.

Want my objective flown before 11p.  But why these limits, or even “goals?” This nature, surreptitious.. they see me suspicious.  But I just record what’s observed.  Qualm curved.  I might be exaggerating, the paranoid writer.  If I were in battle, it’d be appropriate.  What if I volunteered to “ride along” with patrols in Iraq, Afghanistan, for the writing?  Would the people around the penner approve?  No.  And they shouldn’t.  I have a son.  So what should I do?  I guess research.  And yes, this provoked by Mr. E.H.  I’ve never been TRULY tested.  I need to be.  Outside character.  But I’m just doing the wish list thing, again.  Creative affray…  End day.

If were at war, I’d only have memory.  I couldn’t sit, scribble as I usually do.  Just what I need, really.. to not write in moment, then later scribe solely from recollection.  The tasting Room, war sometimes.  I mean, with my perspective, world view, which I suppose is somewhat sheltered.  It’d inject discipline, valuable habit.  Feel like now, even with “responsibility” of a son, I glossily wander.  Shame, another.

But maybe I should do something with this cozy front.  What?  Make something up, right?  Isn’t that what fiction writers do?  Isn’t that what she, my character, Kelly, does with her paintings?  Wanted to stay simple, but I get complicated, too quick.  IT’s okay, this thought drum’s warranted, fiercely, honestly.  My wine, future tasting Room, speaking to me.  Feel like it’s disappointed, this vision, with me, its abetter.  “That’s unfair,” I want to say.  But I’m a Self-slay.  Especially with this social media.  No games, this I flag a true struggle.  A new juggle.

12 minutes till 11p.  Haven’t sipped the Cab in a bit.  Should I, now?  Not sure.  Should be studying French, as I was a couple days past.  Okay…  Lutte!  All I know, these days, especially as one of pen.  But the still I just saw of Mr. H was him connected to legal sheets, it looked like.  This typing, bastardly, I feel.  This, a device.  Not happy with what I feel pushing these buttons.  Let it be known, in this session:  I hope I wake hours before I usually do.  4am, would be incredible.  Record only notes.  That’s more Literary than these bloody screens.  Think I AM at war.  With what I love most.  The process, the act of Creating.  Why can’t a manuscript materialize, already?  Why can’t this be as formulaic as making wine?  And yes, I just offered that.  Has to be the hour talking, now.  But I fall into date’s closure thinking about war, trial, what shape this writing would take if I were truly tested, if I had survived something.  Find Self watching war documentaries…  Stalingrad, Verdun, Basra.  Feel like this writer hasn’t contributed to causes mirrored.  Would have loved to fight against evil, at any point.  Me, here, still on couch, writer–  er, typing.  Cabernet, gone.  Good, the writer need sleep.  Eager, another 4shot mocha.

7:33pm.  Twelve hours from now, I’ll be there, crush pad, blending.  The wine has to have a uniqueness about its skips.  A blend, yes.  But just as well, its own varietal, collectively.

Haven’t logged yesterday’s standalone’s.  Only 2, as I recount.  Can’t think clearly with this child-centric item swarm, all sides.  SB in freezer, bringing it to summer’s parch temp.  Just thought, I may be in more of a Cab mood tonight, as I need fire behind me, to get this book done.  And, no joke, I’m accessing my notes, from the little notebook I’m always carrying, brandishing when needed.  One note from today, a lady on my second cave tour saying she “loves Meritage.” Less than twenty seconds later, “I don’t really like Bordeaux’s.” This was right after her friend said, “…but she’s the real wine connoisseur…” I just laughed, or wanted to, as this was another case of someone wanting to be seen a certain way, in wine’s wake.  I of course stayed silent like I said, but as soon as I was back in the Room, it was scribbled, recorded.

Opened ’10 Cab.  Only been de-corked for a minute or two.  Already alive.  Dark earth, pepper, sweet oak, vanilla, cherry alongside leathery plum– but I don’t want to dumb it down to clusters of descriptors, simplistic marketable speak.  Texturally, it’s soft, expansive, genuinely wooing.  Want to site “balance,” but that’s a word that wine people, consumers as well as industry clones, use in nauseating multiplicity.  What I’m sipping, sings sensory music, provides palate poetics.  And I’m sure my “wine lingo” will annoy some, but that’s how I talk, being from the Literary world.  Origins of vinoLit..

9:06pm.  Should probably try for bed early, this evening, as I’m to be blending rather early.  Just thought of all these standalone pieces I’m producing.. where are they going?  I always complicate this broach, especially after the entertainment of “prime project.” my answer:  INTO.  A.  BOOK.

Glass empty.  One more glass, I’m thinking, before closing session.  All these pages, my advance toward Autonomy, what I wrote about all those times sitting in Napa’s Roasting Company, with my afternoon mocha.  Almost miss those days, as they were the most honest, true to my character’s character.  Was more charismatic, then, writing from pure hatred for that office across the street.. the box.  Still have those notes upstairs, in that plastic tomb.  Not the larger one, holding gallons, but the smaller, slender file-holding mini-structure.  Morning: had to be at desk, making calls by 8.  Meaning, if I wanted a coffee, or have some form of breakfast, I’d either have to do so before touching down, or arrive early.  No more details, as night would only be soiled.  Time for last Cab glass of sitting’s vast.  Imagining Paris.  Need to start language studies.  Had an idea to visit bookstore, tomorrow, while on campus.  Pretty sure I get a discount.  Want to speak to random people, best I can, record in my journal, in French.  Change my character for subject matter profit…

(2/11/13)

another section to pass

same dream, i’m not passing

try to reshape, i try fasting

cloud, contain more molecules

but how, when i’m only fooled

(2/9/13)

Ah…  My readers, much better.  Freedom.  And when I’m on ink, sheet, even more aflight.  Looking at this blog’s “document,” here on monster.. 429 pages.  I’ll be honest, I’m a little aback at that.  And it’s not even really a significant sliver of my entire written body.  Need to start compiling.  Not mattering how unrefined.  Want everything to have some semblance of title, and a page–may be shared or sovereign.  Want to start a list.  Going to call it, my “All List.” Will include everything, even efforts written on this “blog.” And I want every piece more or less dated.  This is a monumental declaration for me as one of pen.  I’m in meaningful re-shift.  Written culture, MINE, inventoried.  By me.

Haven’t had a sip yet, of this last SB glass.  This morning’s tasting with winemaker, still on mind.  Quite heavily, really.  Not sure what my final reaction is.  Some offerings I embrace, others I leave.  That’s my right as one in “the industry.” But I don’t want to talk about “the industry” tonight.  Want to enjoy my wine, my Art.  That’s what she’d tell me to do.  That’s how she arrive where she is, in true Equilibrium– just enjoying, doing what she wants.

Scattered thoughts.  When in doubt, blame the wine, right?  May be busy in Room tomorrow.  Tasting.  Room.  [...]  Love those words when blended, the concept, stage, Art it represents.  Just had a memory from the box, sorry have to note it: the flyer from winery, promoting all the owner’s winemakers, the new releases they’ll bring, talk about, on some cruise.  I just thought to mySelf, “HIS winemakers?” Artists are NEVER owned.  That’s why I proudly Self-publish.  No publisher owns me, my work, has “rights” to a bloody line I’ve lit in any of my Lit.  Just feeling that many times winemakers could do more if they fully believed in their releases.  It’s a shame when some marketing team, or manager death squad, or know-all-about-wine-production owner steers the true creator.  IT maddens me, actually.  Dangerously.  And I’m a free writer, so I have no hold in throwing these thoughts.

17% on this machine.  Think I may early close.  Tired of chasing power.  The journal, needeth these moments.. random poetry prisms.  Imagining where this session, this disciplined sequence’ll take the penman.  Only imagined, at this point.  Closer to my office, well as the Road, as I’ve ever been.  Thankful I remolded my earlier mood.  Needing another sip, now that I have something worthy of toast.

In the blending seminar, I want people to have an appreciation for experimentation, whimsicality, knowing what they like.  And with my Literary entrenchment in rectitude, I can only report what’ll transpire with this seminar.  Maybe it won’t happen, but I WAS asked, meaning someone sees me as a wine somebody [was going to say “talent,” or “authority,” but I don’t see Self as deserving those tags, not yet.. Katie does, but not the writer.. again, not YET...].  Have some Zin in the kitchen, opened a couple nights ago, that ’08, but I don’t think it’ll have the heft it did the other night, the musing musicality.

10:27pm.  How did the day pass as it did?  Time, with another gain over the writer.  But I’m still writing, so it hasn’t advanced, totally.  Want to turn on news, but that would rob this sitting of a few seconds.  Just going to type, tell you what I’m doing, and what I AM TRULY doing is thinking of tomorrow, all the information I can collect on the wines I’m pouring.  Another question I’ll have is how long is the blending session..  Don’t want guests to get bored, or have too much2sip.  Concentration’ll be lost, if so.

War.  Thinking about my thoughts from the other night, if I had seen war as Mr. Hemingway did.  Have more stories, obviously, but only after seeing so much death, suffering, horror.  Not sure I want that subject matter, if I could handle it, adequately channel it, but it’s still something to entertain, how it would change my voice, style, subject address if I HAD seen such sights.

Tired, suddenly, and I want to have just a small sample of that ’08 Zin.  It’s been open 2 days, though.  Going to do it, anyway.  Be right back…  It has lost a little of its initial prominence, but the anchoring notes are still there, with the black berry, herbal minted transitions.  A nice Zin, aging surprisingly well.  It still has an orbit about its vintaged uniqueness.  Now, motivated.  Can’t wait to see where this seminar possibility goes.