Dark, complicated, and consistent. As the phantom falls from the bottle, the eye can’t resist but indulging in the ravishing siren of a shade. Not a predictable or facile character. This ghostly muse, one of many channels and harmonies, flavors and potentials. Nose conveying the floral shade, in soft sensual strokes, gently augmented by rich berries. When the 84% Cab Franc, 16% Cab Sauvignon, 2% Merlot leaps to your lips, the complication blossoms, revealing inveigling character in the notes of dark chocolate, persistent espresso, and rich, savory, damp soil. Her chocolate fervor carries for more than a cluster of minutes on finish.
Ingenious approach to an otherwise difficult wine. No dryness, just diligence in character and flavor. It has a certain haunting effect, a playful presence which begets the lasting impression I hope for my wines to have. Flavors layer and interact admirably, consistent character with a salve to each sip. So I sip, sip...
Friday, April 30, 2010
100 During Hours of Office
That no student attends. A little more awake, now. Was dying while the students were engaged in their exams. First thing when home, into the literary cellar. Enough of this procrastination. See what varietals, genre blends, craziness I bump into.
Writing a lot of poetry. A lot. Manuscript idea: ‘Poems, Entries, Responses’. Can’t afford to spend years on a novel and not do anything else, not now. Write and release, as the hardest working author in the world. I don’t want to be the richest, necessarily. Definitely don’t want to be the most “famous.” I simply want to be acknowledged and respected for my ethic.
Writing a lot of poetry. A lot. Manuscript idea: ‘Poems, Entries, Responses’. Can’t afford to spend years on a novel and not do anything else, not now. Write and release, as the hardest working author in the world. I don’t want to be the richest, necessarily. Definitely don’t want to be the most “famous.” I simply want to be acknowledged and respected for my ethic.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Room Notes: Shackled in Calculation
Will sweeping. Offered to help, but he’s in a distinguished swoon. Don’t want to interrupt. As the bristles against the tiles scrape, dust is projected, like ash from battle-blanketed streets, or a tomb, disintegrated bone. With such ethereal elements on the other side of the glass doors, we are trapped in here. In this tomb. Maybe I need a sip. Sauv Blanc? The breakfast bottle, as Auggie calls it.
Older couple. Laughed when I said “When times are tough, people drink,” referring to the tough economy. They asked how we were doing in such financially uncertain scenes.
Someone just used the term “foodie.” Hate that word. Look, some enjoy wine with food, some don’t. It is truly that simple. No tag necessary.
Tired. Cranky. Too much of that ’05 Cab last night, and Katie’s Chardonnay. Damn this wine!
10:49a. Long day, Mike was sure. His limbs, even language, process of thought, felt twisted. He was unable to untangle. Still, he managed to record a couple items in his little book. How was he going to make it to 5p?
“So what else is new, man? How’s your teaching going?” Will asked, setting the broom aside. “How is everything for ya there, Bob?” he said, imitating that Chris Farley skit where he enacted the obsessed super fan.
Mike laughed. He could never hold in the reaction to Will’s hilarity. “Everything A-okay, Bob.” They laughed, continued with the Chicago-staccato’d improv. “School is on my last nerve. There’s no work.”
“Yeah, that has to be tough,” Will added. “Sorry, bro.” Guests approached, their postures pushed into the collective professional.
Growing disdain for this Room, its invaders. No peace. I should be outside, walking around that vineyard, vineyards. Writing. Those mountains, talking to me, urging a flee.
Will and I just saw a semi turn around, alarmingly close to the first row of Syrah grapes. The driver managed to maneuver his I-don’t-know-how-many-wheeled monster on just a slice of gavel path. Will and I are going back for with this puzzling moment, reality. How did he do that? What an odd event to witness from the Room. Trying, in my head, to calculate this driver’s performance. Horrible at math, don’t try. Part of me wants to go out and tell him to back off. I love Syrah, and want to protect it. Okay, now I am getting deranged, delusional. Where’s that breakfast bottle?
4 from NC. Funny, kind, joined the club. They spoke to each other with such a smoothness, Southern slang, strangely elegant, sophisticated. Would love to visit North Carolina. Counting the money I have, in my account, in my head. Calculating this possibility. My math skills, remedial, child-like, at best. Whatever. I’m sure I can’t afford it.
Outside, Heaven. The Room, a punishing Purgatory. Refusing to sip the Sauv.
More San Diego people. Was there a memo?
Just when I was beginning to open myself up to club members, I’m greeted by a pig. Group of 4, Mark helping them at the other end of the bar. He went into the VIP room to fetch some artisan bottle. I approached, with discretion and humility. “How’s everything going? Mark treating you guys right?” The piggish club member said, “Well, he’s a manager, what do you think?” Get me out of this box. Put me in the vineyard, in the sun, away from these pretentious clowns.
Shackled by this shift. At least Will persists with the Chris Farley bit. Can’t get enough of it. “How about a nice pork product sandwich there, Bob?” He just reminded me of the meeting immediately after the day. Am going to be here even longer. At least we get dinner, free wine. Fair middle-ground. I suppose.
Two friends. Male from Green Bay, WI, woman (older) from southeast Alaska (can’t remember name of town; it was a “town,” she said). She, very artsy, featherish with her descriptors, but somewhat bitter and snappy. She asked for some water, complained when I gave her a wine glass with water from tap. She lectured on how water shouldn’t ever go in a wine glass, and how tap water is full of toxins, and evil things the corporation “vomit into our streams,” she said. What?
Just found a red dot, a couple of them, on my shirt. Damn puddles on the wooden edge of the counter. The dots, on the abdomen portion, and yes, they are red, dark red. Must be the Petit Sirah from Dry Creek.
Sipping the SB. Need it, in order to extinguish this claustrophobia, eagerness to leave, coping with the Now, that I’m going to be here until at least 7p. It’s just after 12p. That’s a galaxy away. Sip, sip...
Trying to calculate exactly how much time I have left in the shift. Take away the 30 min for lunch (which is ridiculous! Moronic, menial PAST management), the cleanup/promo-ing of bottles...forget it. No more math.
A guest just tried our ’05 Merlot. “Pretty good for a Merlot,” he said. What’s that supposed to mean? Poor Merlot.
1:02p. Time for lunch. Should I tough it out till 2? Just asked Mark if that’s okay. He said “1:50.” Traffic is increasing. Wouldn’t be shocked if I don’t get out till 2:30p.
Nice couple from Salt Lake City, UT. “4 of 4, all with 4 stars,” the man with an amazing camera said. He showed me the pictures he took, how his professional device functions, the options, modes, etc. Inspires me to get my few pictures developed. Makes me realize I need a new hobby. Why not photography? That’s art, fun, a healthy hobby, right?
2:51p. Back from lunch. Will doing aroma workshop in VIP room. He remerged, approached me with an intoxicated gaze and glaze to his eyes. “The fumes are making me nauseous, man. They’re strong. Come back and check it out.” No thanks, I said. Went back there a few minutes later to make sure he was standing, lucid. Found he had acclimated. Should have sampled the scents. Would have been an interesting experience, valuable for my pages.
Some jerk limo driver just yelled at Cara and I. He complained about our phone system, how no one would pick up, and how our winery needs better arrangements for his passengers. I asked if he was from California Wine Tours. He said, “Don’t ever say that in my presence! They’re the enemy!” He then arrogantly shot his business card onto the marble, more or less in my direction.
Couple from AZ likes the ’05 Cab, the paramount culprit in this morning’s sluggishness. Part of me wants to dislike them, the other praise their taste in wine.
Closing register, calculating totals. Hope I got them right. Day finally past. Now, the meeting. Good, I need dinner, a free dinner.
Older couple. Laughed when I said “When times are tough, people drink,” referring to the tough economy. They asked how we were doing in such financially uncertain scenes.
Someone just used the term “foodie.” Hate that word. Look, some enjoy wine with food, some don’t. It is truly that simple. No tag necessary.
Tired. Cranky. Too much of that ’05 Cab last night, and Katie’s Chardonnay. Damn this wine!
10:49a. Long day, Mike was sure. His limbs, even language, process of thought, felt twisted. He was unable to untangle. Still, he managed to record a couple items in his little book. How was he going to make it to 5p?
“So what else is new, man? How’s your teaching going?” Will asked, setting the broom aside. “How is everything for ya there, Bob?” he said, imitating that Chris Farley skit where he enacted the obsessed super fan.
Mike laughed. He could never hold in the reaction to Will’s hilarity. “Everything A-okay, Bob.” They laughed, continued with the Chicago-staccato’d improv. “School is on my last nerve. There’s no work.”
“Yeah, that has to be tough,” Will added. “Sorry, bro.” Guests approached, their postures pushed into the collective professional.
Growing disdain for this Room, its invaders. No peace. I should be outside, walking around that vineyard, vineyards. Writing. Those mountains, talking to me, urging a flee.
Will and I just saw a semi turn around, alarmingly close to the first row of Syrah grapes. The driver managed to maneuver his I-don’t-know-how-many-wheeled monster on just a slice of gavel path. Will and I are going back for with this puzzling moment, reality. How did he do that? What an odd event to witness from the Room. Trying, in my head, to calculate this driver’s performance. Horrible at math, don’t try. Part of me wants to go out and tell him to back off. I love Syrah, and want to protect it. Okay, now I am getting deranged, delusional. Where’s that breakfast bottle?
4 from NC. Funny, kind, joined the club. They spoke to each other with such a smoothness, Southern slang, strangely elegant, sophisticated. Would love to visit North Carolina. Counting the money I have, in my account, in my head. Calculating this possibility. My math skills, remedial, child-like, at best. Whatever. I’m sure I can’t afford it.
Outside, Heaven. The Room, a punishing Purgatory. Refusing to sip the Sauv.
More San Diego people. Was there a memo?
Just when I was beginning to open myself up to club members, I’m greeted by a pig. Group of 4, Mark helping them at the other end of the bar. He went into the VIP room to fetch some artisan bottle. I approached, with discretion and humility. “How’s everything going? Mark treating you guys right?” The piggish club member said, “Well, he’s a manager, what do you think?” Get me out of this box. Put me in the vineyard, in the sun, away from these pretentious clowns.
Shackled by this shift. At least Will persists with the Chris Farley bit. Can’t get enough of it. “How about a nice pork product sandwich there, Bob?” He just reminded me of the meeting immediately after the day. Am going to be here even longer. At least we get dinner, free wine. Fair middle-ground. I suppose.
Two friends. Male from Green Bay, WI, woman (older) from southeast Alaska (can’t remember name of town; it was a “town,” she said). She, very artsy, featherish with her descriptors, but somewhat bitter and snappy. She asked for some water, complained when I gave her a wine glass with water from tap. She lectured on how water shouldn’t ever go in a wine glass, and how tap water is full of toxins, and evil things the corporation “vomit into our streams,” she said. What?
Just found a red dot, a couple of them, on my shirt. Damn puddles on the wooden edge of the counter. The dots, on the abdomen portion, and yes, they are red, dark red. Must be the Petit Sirah from Dry Creek.
Sipping the SB. Need it, in order to extinguish this claustrophobia, eagerness to leave, coping with the Now, that I’m going to be here until at least 7p. It’s just after 12p. That’s a galaxy away. Sip, sip...
Trying to calculate exactly how much time I have left in the shift. Take away the 30 min for lunch (which is ridiculous! Moronic, menial PAST management), the cleanup/promo-ing of bottles...forget it. No more math.
A guest just tried our ’05 Merlot. “Pretty good for a Merlot,” he said. What’s that supposed to mean? Poor Merlot.
1:02p. Time for lunch. Should I tough it out till 2? Just asked Mark if that’s okay. He said “1:50.” Traffic is increasing. Wouldn’t be shocked if I don’t get out till 2:30p.
Nice couple from Salt Lake City, UT. “4 of 4, all with 4 stars,” the man with an amazing camera said. He showed me the pictures he took, how his professional device functions, the options, modes, etc. Inspires me to get my few pictures developed. Makes me realize I need a new hobby. Why not photography? That’s art, fun, a healthy hobby, right?
2:51p. Back from lunch. Will doing aroma workshop in VIP room. He remerged, approached me with an intoxicated gaze and glaze to his eyes. “The fumes are making me nauseous, man. They’re strong. Come back and check it out.” No thanks, I said. Went back there a few minutes later to make sure he was standing, lucid. Found he had acclimated. Should have sampled the scents. Would have been an interesting experience, valuable for my pages.
Some jerk limo driver just yelled at Cara and I. He complained about our phone system, how no one would pick up, and how our winery needs better arrangements for his passengers. I asked if he was from California Wine Tours. He said, “Don’t ever say that in my presence! They’re the enemy!” He then arrogantly shot his business card onto the marble, more or less in my direction.
Couple from AZ likes the ’05 Cab, the paramount culprit in this morning’s sluggishness. Part of me wants to dislike them, the other praise their taste in wine.
Closing register, calculating totals. Hope I got them right. Day finally past. Now, the meeting. Good, I need dinner, a free dinner.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Reconnecting With Merlot
2004 Merlot, St. Francis, from their Behler Vineyard. Soft, composed, gentle yet stern. Dark berry flavors with speckles of smoke. Been a stretch of life since the last Merlot that shifted my sense of Self. I know many are on the “hate-Merlot” cruiser, but this bottle, its character, will pull them back into subscription. I didn’t plan on composing a response tonight, but I can’t be immobile while sipping such Merlot mastery. Mint staccatos from nose to the fulfilling finish. This wine’s essentia, opportunistically erotic. Each sip, spellbinding. Me, powerless in this reconnection with the Bordeaux sedative. My reflection, wonderment and euphoric imbalance. Sip...on a cloud. Enamored in Merlot, for the second first time. Feel like I’m on a stroll, with a lover, a mistress. St. Francis created an immortally extraterrestrial wine. Another sip? Yes, yes.
No Conundrum at Kunde.
Why do I say this? It’s brilliance. I am certain of my reaction to this sanctum. Hospitality exquisiteness, winemaking mastery. Tantamount to Sonoma Valley perfection, and what is unrivaled in tasting experiences, honestly. Another family winery that stands up to the most reputable of corporate big whigs in Sonoma, or Napa, Valley. Everything today in their tasting Room, from the Sauv Blanc to the Cabernet, delivered structure, complexity, and continuity. Notable notes that insure my revisits. On the tasting menu, I must say, though, I was most impressed by the Primitivo. Fruitful, forward, and impressive in the delivery of deep chords, and reflection. A complicated character, that I had difficulty in tapering tastes. This winery’s character, one that pushes the story forward, comforting, and captivating the subject with elegant confusion. Like me, as I ask myself, “Why haven’t I visited this harbor of enjoyment, savor, before? And how did they make such an amazing and distinguished Gewurtztraminer?” Never tasted one I liked. Till today.
The vistas: matchless, divine. Hospitality: any winery in the valley would envy such practices. From the caves, to the pond, to the tasting Room, to the Primitivo, to the Cab (that even Napa folk would envy, adore), I’m reflective, replaying my moments on the grounds. Don’t forget that Gewurtz’. Lasting impression, multi-layered. When can I go back? No conundrum, or confusion about my state following my sojourn. Sincerely dazzled, impressed, seduced. Going back. Maybe tomorrow. Why not. Yes, tomorrow. Kunde, hope you don’t mind my revisit, and adoration.
(Sat. 4/24/10)
The vistas: matchless, divine. Hospitality: any winery in the valley would envy such practices. From the caves, to the pond, to the tasting Room, to the Primitivo, to the Cab (that even Napa folk would envy, adore), I’m reflective, replaying my moments on the grounds. Don’t forget that Gewurtz’. Lasting impression, multi-layered. When can I go back? No conundrum, or confusion about my state following my sojourn. Sincerely dazzled, impressed, seduced. Going back. Maybe tomorrow. Why not. Yes, tomorrow. Kunde, hope you don’t mind my revisit, and adoration.
(Sat. 4/24/10)
Friday, April 23, 2010
Kelly
She’s not speaking to me. Why? Is she perturbed with the way I her depict? Frustrated, hating all ideas. She deserves better. I want to imagine some resolve to this session, but can’t envision one. With only a handful of breaths before sleep, I’m near a weep. Defeat. Want to push ‘delete’. Looking through my notes, on her. She deserves better.
She’s the notion I can’t deliver. If I could, I’d be rich. But that’s not what I’m after. Seeking to respect my character, be honorable in her ubiety. She’s my literary deity. Her entries, swirling in my circle. But I can't execute neither written nor verbal.
She’s the notion I can’t deliver. If I could, I’d be rich. But that’s not what I’m after. Seeking to respect my character, be honorable in her ubiety. She’s my literary deity. Her entries, swirling in my circle. But I can't execute neither written nor verbal.
Midday 100: Mayo Family Winery and Vineyards
What to say about Mayo? Go there, now. Selection, quality, agreeability. Delightful staff and wines. Where do I begin with this extended selection of delectation? Yearly production of about six to nine thousand cases, and 35 different wines. Comfortable tasting Room, ushering a memorable moment, tasting experience. Find the main Room for tasting these robustly rich vinos in Glen Ellen, right off of 12 (take a right on Arnold into Glen Ellen), and the Reserve Room in Kenwood which offers wine and food pairings, as well as more reserve wines and other surprises. Each location, like a step into a familiar structure. Reliable, both in quality and interaction. My Mayo favorites: 1) ’07 Kunde Ranch Barbera, sweetly concentrated and bold, 2) ’06 Russian River Valley Alicante-Bouchet, balanced, firm and fruity, 3) everything else, especially their Pinots. And Zins!
This Family winery is sincere, and an experience impossible to forget. Come to think of it, I need to get back. Thinking about their 2007 Ricci Vineyard Zin, a must-taste. Could use a sip of that. Stop by. Visit, either location. No, both! Now. Flavors, dependability and delight. Family entails occasion, and celebration, to me. My friends, your friends, at Mayo will agree. Call soon to find out more, 707-938-9401. Cheers!
This Family winery is sincere, and an experience impossible to forget. Come to think of it, I need to get back. Thinking about their 2007 Ricci Vineyard Zin, a must-taste. Could use a sip of that. Stop by. Visit, either location. No, both! Now. Flavors, dependability and delight. Family entails occasion, and celebration, to me. My friends, your friends, at Mayo will agree. Call soon to find out more, 707-938-9401. Cheers!
Thursday, April 22, 2010
2 Entries, for Self
Me, the Character, the Pacific
Even in my heavy, gelatinous trench, I find time to type, think of the character. I’m convinced she’s the one for my pen, for me. She’s been having these dreams, about love. They include a male figure, absent of definition or any other mortal specificity. Kelly occasionally takes out the paper, and with descending lashes struggles to draw this figure. She’s never able. She always hopes to see him, learn about him, hear him speak. But the deletable delusions are infrequent, at best. Where was real love, another enrapturing in similar passions, in art?
Kelly turned the key. As her car crawled to consciousness, she realized how desperately she needed the ocean. “At least I have this love, now,” she thought. (4/21/10)
Reflective Positure, 4/22/10
Long day, meeting afterwards. Upon what am I reflecting, deliberating? “Proper conduct” in the Room. Just as art, wine, and Literature are subjective, I offer that properness, and “professionalism,” are as well. Reminded of one of my preferred master manuscripts, what the author delivered through his prolific pages, lines. Me, not Winston. And the Room, shouldn’t be Room 101. Professionalism, a facade, consisting of ubiquitous don’ts. How is this reasonable, Human? Visitors to a winery intend on enjoyment, not a pretentious and sterile puritanical posture. To ask for such is unreasonable, and laughable.
Proper. That word alone is coated with subjectivity and ambiguous constituents, rationale. And do you think the guests care? Hospitality entails sincerity. Not disingenuous dialogue. How can you ask anyone not to be themselves, or have fun, to be Human? Like someone tonight said, “If you’re not having fun in this business, you’re doing something wrong.” Agreed, quite astute. One could extrapolate this conception and infuse it into existence, universally, or they should. It’s healthy. It’s Human.
I’m reflecting, additionally, on anyone who would have the intrepidity to heave such a toxic logic. “Be professional,” the suit says. “Make sure you follow procedure,” it might say. Agreed, the job must be done. However, when a slicing sacrifice of Self is demanded, an incongruous picture cements. Candidly, I’m sick when I hear such conformist rants, ordering employees to remain robotic, to play a role, vocalize lines. If I were a guest, or customer, in the Room, or anywhere, I would be appalled and disgusted. I want to interact with life, not machinery!
Wine is an occasion, and I would think occasions entailed some degree of, how should I say it, fun. The problem with any suit making tyrannical impositions is that they reveal agenda. There shouldn’t be agenda with coworkers, or a coat of supremacy. Conversation is Human, is it not? Humor is as well, so it is rumored. As I continue to reflect, I realize I’m reflecting too much. This ridiculous and demonic dart cannoned at my Humanness, in no way a menace to one of the pen. Wine is Literature, Life, and we are Life and Lit. But, how dare I expect a Human to accept other Humans acting like Humans? Rather, they should act professional!
“Professionalism” should be predicated upon common sense, not recital. You could argue that is subjective as well. True. But exercise sensible judgement. And if lines are crossed, managerial intervention is altogether warranted. You know, I’ve always abhorred those tags, “professional, professionalism.” Reminds me of orthodoxy, from Orwell’s 1984. There is a line that reads, “Orthodoxy means not thinking--not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.” Big Brother is more inane that I estimated if it sees me swallowing its puritanical pill! I will never be unconscious. I am too alive, too Human.
As I cork this reflection, this response, I sip. In my Room. Safe from orthodoxy. “DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER!” Refusing to speak Newspeak, and that’s just what it’s asking one to do. I will not contribute to the embodiment of poison. It’s probably expected that I the Self cork, halt in my advance, my free speech, my pen’s parade, my Humanness. False. I’m prepared for fallout. And the thing is, I don’t want conflict. I simply aim to continue, as a Human. I guess some have a problem with that. That’s their problem. I’m not Winston.
Even in my heavy, gelatinous trench, I find time to type, think of the character. I’m convinced she’s the one for my pen, for me. She’s been having these dreams, about love. They include a male figure, absent of definition or any other mortal specificity. Kelly occasionally takes out the paper, and with descending lashes struggles to draw this figure. She’s never able. She always hopes to see him, learn about him, hear him speak. But the deletable delusions are infrequent, at best. Where was real love, another enrapturing in similar passions, in art?
Kelly turned the key. As her car crawled to consciousness, she realized how desperately she needed the ocean. “At least I have this love, now,” she thought. (4/21/10)
Reflective Positure, 4/22/10
Long day, meeting afterwards. Upon what am I reflecting, deliberating? “Proper conduct” in the Room. Just as art, wine, and Literature are subjective, I offer that properness, and “professionalism,” are as well. Reminded of one of my preferred master manuscripts, what the author delivered through his prolific pages, lines. Me, not Winston. And the Room, shouldn’t be Room 101. Professionalism, a facade, consisting of ubiquitous don’ts. How is this reasonable, Human? Visitors to a winery intend on enjoyment, not a pretentious and sterile puritanical posture. To ask for such is unreasonable, and laughable.
Proper. That word alone is coated with subjectivity and ambiguous constituents, rationale. And do you think the guests care? Hospitality entails sincerity. Not disingenuous dialogue. How can you ask anyone not to be themselves, or have fun, to be Human? Like someone tonight said, “If you’re not having fun in this business, you’re doing something wrong.” Agreed, quite astute. One could extrapolate this conception and infuse it into existence, universally, or they should. It’s healthy. It’s Human.
I’m reflecting, additionally, on anyone who would have the intrepidity to heave such a toxic logic. “Be professional,” the suit says. “Make sure you follow procedure,” it might say. Agreed, the job must be done. However, when a slicing sacrifice of Self is demanded, an incongruous picture cements. Candidly, I’m sick when I hear such conformist rants, ordering employees to remain robotic, to play a role, vocalize lines. If I were a guest, or customer, in the Room, or anywhere, I would be appalled and disgusted. I want to interact with life, not machinery!
Wine is an occasion, and I would think occasions entailed some degree of, how should I say it, fun. The problem with any suit making tyrannical impositions is that they reveal agenda. There shouldn’t be agenda with coworkers, or a coat of supremacy. Conversation is Human, is it not? Humor is as well, so it is rumored. As I continue to reflect, I realize I’m reflecting too much. This ridiculous and demonic dart cannoned at my Humanness, in no way a menace to one of the pen. Wine is Literature, Life, and we are Life and Lit. But, how dare I expect a Human to accept other Humans acting like Humans? Rather, they should act professional!
“Professionalism” should be predicated upon common sense, not recital. You could argue that is subjective as well. True. But exercise sensible judgement. And if lines are crossed, managerial intervention is altogether warranted. You know, I’ve always abhorred those tags, “professional, professionalism.” Reminds me of orthodoxy, from Orwell’s 1984. There is a line that reads, “Orthodoxy means not thinking--not needing to think. Orthodoxy is unconsciousness.” Big Brother is more inane that I estimated if it sees me swallowing its puritanical pill! I will never be unconscious. I am too alive, too Human.
As I cork this reflection, this response, I sip. In my Room. Safe from orthodoxy. “DOWN WITH BIG BROTHER!” Refusing to speak Newspeak, and that’s just what it’s asking one to do. I will not contribute to the embodiment of poison. It’s probably expected that I the Self cork, halt in my advance, my free speech, my pen’s parade, my Humanness. False. I’m prepared for fallout. And the thing is, I don’t want conflict. I simply aim to continue, as a Human. I guess some have a problem with that. That’s their problem. I’m not Winston.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Yesterday2day
Her prose emboldened his pen with curious fury.
Kelly’s character in my chambers, echoing like strange but seductive calls. Sipping a Carneros Pinot. In Joyce mode again, with a Hemingway sprinkle. Tomorrow, my only goal, write. Type like there’s no day, night.
Left my little flip-pad at Mom and Dad’s. As I drove back to this meek fortress, my cell jolted the leg right. Mom’s message was so molded: “U left your little note pad here..I’ll bring it to U on wed. Xoxo”. This is not acceptable, leaving a record anywhere, even if the stage is safe. Did I drink too much there? Don’t think I did. Had Mom’s artisan cheeseburgers with carmelized onions. Unbelievably savory. How does she do that?
Just checked the word count. 115, like Bayview, the street on which I resided in San Carlos. Interesting to me, all the inexplicable connections, coincidences, correlations. What am I to do? Right now, I’m determined to do something. More than just writing. On the tip of tongue, but unable to articulate.
Kelly stopped, looked at her sketchpad. She wanted to bring it with her to Biology, but decided it was safer at the apartment, no chance of her leaving it in the classroom, like the incident of last semester.
Can’t get this character out of my head. Who the hell is this gem? She’s stretched and entangled my shell and spirit. Sipping this Pinot, in hope of sense, or some semblance of spirit, sanity. Another sip, strong. Mephitic and baneful. Why do I get like this in some sessions?
Wanted to discuss my Room notes tonight, but I forgot the little pages at Mom and Dad’s. Interesting people, for a Monday. Many from the South. One group of four, all in their 60s, were bugging me about the price of placemats. Forgot where they were from, and I don’t care. One of the men, was trying to lecture me on wine, how the ’04 RR Cab smelled. Such a moron. I mean, what did he want me to say? Getting tired of the Room, all its dynamics, districts, dimensions.
11:01p. Feeling rebellious, confrontational. Why does this always happen during sessions? Love this solitude, peace, still. Is it this Carneros Pinot? Said I was in Joyce mode, laced with Ernest. They weren’t like this, were they? Not much poetry about me lately. Worried. Don’t believe in Astrology, at all, but I think my inner-Gemini is bending unhealthily. So, again, what do I do? The Room, still on the brain. Shouldn’t be writing, not now. Too tired, too affected by this Burgundy bomb. Hating Facebook, Facecrook. I’m looking at people’s pictures and profiles like a mindless puppet, a noodle, an outline of cognition, no substance. Hate myself when I do that. Need a break, already. What is my plan for dealing with this inner-infection? Intrigued, disgusted. How can I fight back, or even lace these entries with useful or healthy logic? Is this imbalance what causes the forgetfulness that put the log on the counter at my parents’ house, that pushed me out the front door without it? This Pinot may not be helping. Me, sipping Pinot? Why did I pull this from the little fridge?
Think it’s starting to rain. Yesterday was beautiful, no clouds, drops. Just a famed day of CA sun in wine country. The drops..muting the TV. More musical than any instrumental I could tie upstairs with the equipment. Tomorrow, I’m planning on returning to the editing of BOOK ONE. Looking forward to the morning mocha, as much as I delight and fly with this Pinot.
Would I make a reliable politician, a respectable one? One loved, even? Do they work days as long as this semester’s Mondays? I’ve been up since 5:26a. I know because I sharply recall, can, those numbers on the Weather Channel when my lids lifted. Now, the Self slowing. My poetry for the evening:
This life, a fist fight. Keep the list light. Simplification
before unnecessary complication.
I bleed, before eyes see my seed. Accounts in drought.
No concern in clout. This story, what about? Three bouts...
11:29p. Sipping again. So who am I, Hemingway, or Mr. Joyce? What, am I Joyce because I’m Irish? No I’m Joyce because I’m joyfully imbibing this wine. Need a break, truthfully. Need to read something, someone, come morrow, the new Now. When in doubt, Mr. Capote.
Not worried about critics, anymore. And why should I? Like my sister said about wine critics, or “professional” wine judges, “Those that can’t make wine judge those who make it.” Many of the guests in the Room act like they’re “professional” wine critics, or judges. Need to keep typing.
Writing to awake stay. Gamboling with phrases and arrangements. Language, my opiate. BOOK ONE, need to arrange, speaking of arrangements. Why is it so hard to execute productiveness? Van Gough, would he stop sipping? How about Mr. Shakur, or Mr. Poe? Shouldn’t matter. Need to listen for the drops outside. Can’t hear any, now. So excited to have the day to me tomorrow. Need to turn the heater off. One breath...
11:42p. My structure, in this Carrollesque prose, not at all foreseeable. My character, Kelly, probably is annoyed by these alignments, provisions. I see her writing in a journal, drawing. Thinking about her days, her Now. She’s a perfectionist, to fault. It keeps her awake. She battles with Self to sleep. Her papers, the toll of the English major, hover like starved beaks. Even I, as the author, don’t know what bounces in her log/s. This Literary Life, a sedative and stimulant. Don’t want to be like that guest that came into the Room to return corks he wanted to use for some artistic arrangement, sculpture, something. He told me he was returning them because “it’s way too late, I missed my chance.” More than sad, depressing. That sunk my entire shift. I won’t be in that reality. I’d rather die never, create 4ever, preferably.
The curious fury, still trampling about my inner streets and streams. Journalistic warrior. 1k reached, but I’m still sprinting like a startled stallion. (4/19/10)
4/20/10, Tuesday. Finally back from my three errands. Wine club letter at winery, picking-up of little notepad, and PG&E bill. The PG&E base, on the west side, quite stimulating in terms of creative sparks. There was this impressively hyper child, who kept jumping, then crawling, then jumping again so his jean-covered knees would slap his palms. Can still hear the sound. Was in line for a good twenty minutes before I saw the auto-pay kiosk, or “self-serve quick-pay” station. Discretely stepped out of line, to the little machine, but this gray-haired older male character took forever. From what I saw, his balance was $20, and he inserted a $100 bill, then having trouble receiving his owed change. I went back to the main line. Just as the gray-coiffured fellow resolved his disparity, another character from the front door rushed to the screen, a tall, huge, bald, angry male, walking with a limp or injury of some kind, breathing heavy, laboriously. Other characters, most of them, were arguing tirelessly with the Customer Service Reps. Most had outstanding balances, or turned-off comfort and necessities. I became annoyed, quick, with these roles.
I pulled out my little flip-pad, scribbled. “-people watching me write..hard to be mentally alive in here, and contain my Self..out come the little pages..eclectic cast in here..slow lines, so painful, sterile..odd scent in here; oddly sweet, floral, musty, nauseated..Get this poet out of here!” Glad to be back in the castle, on the couch, punching the little black blocks. Want a beautifully bold Bordeaux for the wine “cellar.”
While driving, I thought of everything literary in my days as something connected to, or relating to the wine world. My box of old writings upstairs, like a winery’s library, or like a collector’s cellar. If I went into the winery’s library, many of the bottles, as confirmed by a “manager” the other day, would be bad, undrinkable because of the synthetic cork. Hopefully my writings aren’t dead like those poor bottles. Each entry from me, like a winemaker’s finagling and trials in the lab. This sofa is part of my lab. This little laptop, my chemistry set, or whatever they call their tubes, measuring tools, strangely tinted liquids, etc.
Raining off, on. Waiting for the thunder foreshadowed by the hackish Weather Channel. Kelly would hear the rain, then scribble in her sketchbook, and journal. She would watch the drops compete with each other, who would cause the most explosive of splashes on the concrete. When her papers were done, she would take a short nap. Not like an ordinary cat, like a resting, solitary, graceful feline.
This venti four shot mocha is wearing off. Hate this feeling. Have an idea for something printed, self-published, something outside “the blog.” Just looked at the news online, learned that Guru died, of cancer. Cancer is something that must be stopped. What a reminder of how short life is. Need to continue living each day as if it were the ultimate. Empyrean from now on, with all leaps.
Raining again outside. Makes me want to take a nap. But I’m not going to do that. I will be a hurricane couch potato, writing for my life. Forgot to tell you that the power went out last night, right before I went to bed. Made me uneasy. Turned on some trip-hop, passed out.
Should I go for a drive? Getting stir crazy in here, claustrophobia shaking my mind. Can’t concentrate. Just a few more words left for my midday goal. Just turned the TV off, listening to the rain. Charged again. Just viewed a Youtube clip of Mos and Black Thought, “75 Bars.” Feeling poetic. Inspired, no longer tired. See? How do I channel this artistry? Where’s my notebook? In the rain, running to the XA, to go look...
Grabbed some scratch sheets from the office. They rest to my left. Can’t stop riming. Feel like getting air, not sure it’ll be fresh. Should dive into my writing cellar, the journalistic catacombs later. See what treasures, or pollutants, I encounter.
And the laziness returns. Air, need air. Raining slightly. Let’s see what’s beyond this castle’s entrance door.
3:59p. Having a snack, Diet Coke. Don’t think I’ll be drinking any wine or beer tonight. Just don’t want to. Need to focus on business. You’re probably thinking “What about writing?” Self-publishing, finally generating revenue from these long, heartfelt sessions. My time, here. Pretending I’m in my MADIGAN PUBLISHING office. That’s why I’m sipping the Diet. Frankly, I’m tired of depending on employers that don’t have my existence in mind, ever. I’m also tired of these thin amounts on my checks.
vinoLit will be a reality. It is. Tonight, my first day/night on the job. My current employers are being targeted, by my determination. The objective of this battle, freedom, vocational and occupational sovereignty. It rains outside my office. I smile, with this new direction. Think I may have just heard thunder.
MADIGAN PUBLISHING, vinoLit, the Madigan Pamphlets. Easy, simple, but bold. Owning and running my own business is something I’ve always seen for the Self. I hate how lunch breaks at the winery are only 30 minutes, and how I have to sit at some table with a pile of junk atop. And, the break has to be 30 minutes. So, if I finish lunch before, which I always do, I wind up counting down minutes, going back and forth from the outside punchclock, looking at the time, which is a really delightful pattern when it’s pouring.
Going back and forth between this log and Madigan Pamphlets’ first issue. Trying to decide upon a page length and price point. Dinnertime. Going to take a break in a sec. As long as I want, or as short. No counting of clock tics.
Back from lunch break. Drained, depleted, squandered. Clocking out. What did I accomplish this first day on the job? An established direction, and some progress on the first issue of Madigan Pamphlets.
7:37p. Sipping the remainder of the Pinot, with a very tempered prelation. Had too, was feeling jittery. Glad to be writing again. Maybe that was the prob, I hit 1k too early. Watching “Top Gun,” again. Pilots are interesting characters. An exiting path. The adjunct’s, not so. Literature, namely Joyce, London, and Plath, singing similar songs to me. I hear oppression, and then remedy through epiphany, being able to finally see truth of the Now. People always ramble about comparative literature, but provide loose and illogical, essentially incoherent, comparisons. Creative Writing and Lit, me. Repeating Self, I know. It’s beautiful. Reiteration, not redundancy. A beautiful bane, Lit and Writing, and Wine.
The 7:30a section, killing me. What’s a good excuse for a sick call, and original one? How about “My car was stolen and sold to Somali pirates!”? Can’t call in. Need to go, get students ready for the approaching departmental exam. That “exam” is the most ridiculous item i the 90 course outline, in any course outline I’ve ever seen. Getting tired. May clock out, for real this time. 12 hours from now, I’ll be in front of the indifferent eyes. Was on Stanford’s website a little while ago. See the Self there. I will be there...
Kelly’s character in my chambers, echoing like strange but seductive calls. Sipping a Carneros Pinot. In Joyce mode again, with a Hemingway sprinkle. Tomorrow, my only goal, write. Type like there’s no day, night.
Left my little flip-pad at Mom and Dad’s. As I drove back to this meek fortress, my cell jolted the leg right. Mom’s message was so molded: “U left your little note pad here..I’ll bring it to U on wed. Xoxo”. This is not acceptable, leaving a record anywhere, even if the stage is safe. Did I drink too much there? Don’t think I did. Had Mom’s artisan cheeseburgers with carmelized onions. Unbelievably savory. How does she do that?
Just checked the word count. 115, like Bayview, the street on which I resided in San Carlos. Interesting to me, all the inexplicable connections, coincidences, correlations. What am I to do? Right now, I’m determined to do something. More than just writing. On the tip of tongue, but unable to articulate.
Kelly stopped, looked at her sketchpad. She wanted to bring it with her to Biology, but decided it was safer at the apartment, no chance of her leaving it in the classroom, like the incident of last semester.
Can’t get this character out of my head. Who the hell is this gem? She’s stretched and entangled my shell and spirit. Sipping this Pinot, in hope of sense, or some semblance of spirit, sanity. Another sip, strong. Mephitic and baneful. Why do I get like this in some sessions?
Wanted to discuss my Room notes tonight, but I forgot the little pages at Mom and Dad’s. Interesting people, for a Monday. Many from the South. One group of four, all in their 60s, were bugging me about the price of placemats. Forgot where they were from, and I don’t care. One of the men, was trying to lecture me on wine, how the ’04 RR Cab smelled. Such a moron. I mean, what did he want me to say? Getting tired of the Room, all its dynamics, districts, dimensions.
11:01p. Feeling rebellious, confrontational. Why does this always happen during sessions? Love this solitude, peace, still. Is it this Carneros Pinot? Said I was in Joyce mode, laced with Ernest. They weren’t like this, were they? Not much poetry about me lately. Worried. Don’t believe in Astrology, at all, but I think my inner-Gemini is bending unhealthily. So, again, what do I do? The Room, still on the brain. Shouldn’t be writing, not now. Too tired, too affected by this Burgundy bomb. Hating Facebook, Facecrook. I’m looking at people’s pictures and profiles like a mindless puppet, a noodle, an outline of cognition, no substance. Hate myself when I do that. Need a break, already. What is my plan for dealing with this inner-infection? Intrigued, disgusted. How can I fight back, or even lace these entries with useful or healthy logic? Is this imbalance what causes the forgetfulness that put the log on the counter at my parents’ house, that pushed me out the front door without it? This Pinot may not be helping. Me, sipping Pinot? Why did I pull this from the little fridge?
Think it’s starting to rain. Yesterday was beautiful, no clouds, drops. Just a famed day of CA sun in wine country. The drops..muting the TV. More musical than any instrumental I could tie upstairs with the equipment. Tomorrow, I’m planning on returning to the editing of BOOK ONE. Looking forward to the morning mocha, as much as I delight and fly with this Pinot.
Would I make a reliable politician, a respectable one? One loved, even? Do they work days as long as this semester’s Mondays? I’ve been up since 5:26a. I know because I sharply recall, can, those numbers on the Weather Channel when my lids lifted. Now, the Self slowing. My poetry for the evening:
This life, a fist fight. Keep the list light. Simplification
before unnecessary complication.
I bleed, before eyes see my seed. Accounts in drought.
No concern in clout. This story, what about? Three bouts...
11:29p. Sipping again. So who am I, Hemingway, or Mr. Joyce? What, am I Joyce because I’m Irish? No I’m Joyce because I’m joyfully imbibing this wine. Need a break, truthfully. Need to read something, someone, come morrow, the new Now. When in doubt, Mr. Capote.
Not worried about critics, anymore. And why should I? Like my sister said about wine critics, or “professional” wine judges, “Those that can’t make wine judge those who make it.” Many of the guests in the Room act like they’re “professional” wine critics, or judges. Need to keep typing.
Writing to awake stay. Gamboling with phrases and arrangements. Language, my opiate. BOOK ONE, need to arrange, speaking of arrangements. Why is it so hard to execute productiveness? Van Gough, would he stop sipping? How about Mr. Shakur, or Mr. Poe? Shouldn’t matter. Need to listen for the drops outside. Can’t hear any, now. So excited to have the day to me tomorrow. Need to turn the heater off. One breath...
11:42p. My structure, in this Carrollesque prose, not at all foreseeable. My character, Kelly, probably is annoyed by these alignments, provisions. I see her writing in a journal, drawing. Thinking about her days, her Now. She’s a perfectionist, to fault. It keeps her awake. She battles with Self to sleep. Her papers, the toll of the English major, hover like starved beaks. Even I, as the author, don’t know what bounces in her log/s. This Literary Life, a sedative and stimulant. Don’t want to be like that guest that came into the Room to return corks he wanted to use for some artistic arrangement, sculpture, something. He told me he was returning them because “it’s way too late, I missed my chance.” More than sad, depressing. That sunk my entire shift. I won’t be in that reality. I’d rather die never, create 4ever, preferably.
The curious fury, still trampling about my inner streets and streams. Journalistic warrior. 1k reached, but I’m still sprinting like a startled stallion. (4/19/10)
4/20/10, Tuesday. Finally back from my three errands. Wine club letter at winery, picking-up of little notepad, and PG&E bill. The PG&E base, on the west side, quite stimulating in terms of creative sparks. There was this impressively hyper child, who kept jumping, then crawling, then jumping again so his jean-covered knees would slap his palms. Can still hear the sound. Was in line for a good twenty minutes before I saw the auto-pay kiosk, or “self-serve quick-pay” station. Discretely stepped out of line, to the little machine, but this gray-haired older male character took forever. From what I saw, his balance was $20, and he inserted a $100 bill, then having trouble receiving his owed change. I went back to the main line. Just as the gray-coiffured fellow resolved his disparity, another character from the front door rushed to the screen, a tall, huge, bald, angry male, walking with a limp or injury of some kind, breathing heavy, laboriously. Other characters, most of them, were arguing tirelessly with the Customer Service Reps. Most had outstanding balances, or turned-off comfort and necessities. I became annoyed, quick, with these roles.
I pulled out my little flip-pad, scribbled. “-people watching me write..hard to be mentally alive in here, and contain my Self..out come the little pages..eclectic cast in here..slow lines, so painful, sterile..odd scent in here; oddly sweet, floral, musty, nauseated..Get this poet out of here!” Glad to be back in the castle, on the couch, punching the little black blocks. Want a beautifully bold Bordeaux for the wine “cellar.”
While driving, I thought of everything literary in my days as something connected to, or relating to the wine world. My box of old writings upstairs, like a winery’s library, or like a collector’s cellar. If I went into the winery’s library, many of the bottles, as confirmed by a “manager” the other day, would be bad, undrinkable because of the synthetic cork. Hopefully my writings aren’t dead like those poor bottles. Each entry from me, like a winemaker’s finagling and trials in the lab. This sofa is part of my lab. This little laptop, my chemistry set, or whatever they call their tubes, measuring tools, strangely tinted liquids, etc.
Raining off, on. Waiting for the thunder foreshadowed by the hackish Weather Channel. Kelly would hear the rain, then scribble in her sketchbook, and journal. She would watch the drops compete with each other, who would cause the most explosive of splashes on the concrete. When her papers were done, she would take a short nap. Not like an ordinary cat, like a resting, solitary, graceful feline.
This venti four shot mocha is wearing off. Hate this feeling. Have an idea for something printed, self-published, something outside “the blog.” Just looked at the news online, learned that Guru died, of cancer. Cancer is something that must be stopped. What a reminder of how short life is. Need to continue living each day as if it were the ultimate. Empyrean from now on, with all leaps.
Raining again outside. Makes me want to take a nap. But I’m not going to do that. I will be a hurricane couch potato, writing for my life. Forgot to tell you that the power went out last night, right before I went to bed. Made me uneasy. Turned on some trip-hop, passed out.
Should I go for a drive? Getting stir crazy in here, claustrophobia shaking my mind. Can’t concentrate. Just a few more words left for my midday goal. Just turned the TV off, listening to the rain. Charged again. Just viewed a Youtube clip of Mos and Black Thought, “75 Bars.” Feeling poetic. Inspired, no longer tired. See? How do I channel this artistry? Where’s my notebook? In the rain, running to the XA, to go look...
Grabbed some scratch sheets from the office. They rest to my left. Can’t stop riming. Feel like getting air, not sure it’ll be fresh. Should dive into my writing cellar, the journalistic catacombs later. See what treasures, or pollutants, I encounter.
And the laziness returns. Air, need air. Raining slightly. Let’s see what’s beyond this castle’s entrance door.
3:59p. Having a snack, Diet Coke. Don’t think I’ll be drinking any wine or beer tonight. Just don’t want to. Need to focus on business. You’re probably thinking “What about writing?” Self-publishing, finally generating revenue from these long, heartfelt sessions. My time, here. Pretending I’m in my MADIGAN PUBLISHING office. That’s why I’m sipping the Diet. Frankly, I’m tired of depending on employers that don’t have my existence in mind, ever. I’m also tired of these thin amounts on my checks.
vinoLit will be a reality. It is. Tonight, my first day/night on the job. My current employers are being targeted, by my determination. The objective of this battle, freedom, vocational and occupational sovereignty. It rains outside my office. I smile, with this new direction. Think I may have just heard thunder.
MADIGAN PUBLISHING, vinoLit, the Madigan Pamphlets. Easy, simple, but bold. Owning and running my own business is something I’ve always seen for the Self. I hate how lunch breaks at the winery are only 30 minutes, and how I have to sit at some table with a pile of junk atop. And, the break has to be 30 minutes. So, if I finish lunch before, which I always do, I wind up counting down minutes, going back and forth from the outside punchclock, looking at the time, which is a really delightful pattern when it’s pouring.
Going back and forth between this log and Madigan Pamphlets’ first issue. Trying to decide upon a page length and price point. Dinnertime. Going to take a break in a sec. As long as I want, or as short. No counting of clock tics.
Back from lunch break. Drained, depleted, squandered. Clocking out. What did I accomplish this first day on the job? An established direction, and some progress on the first issue of Madigan Pamphlets.
7:37p. Sipping the remainder of the Pinot, with a very tempered prelation. Had too, was feeling jittery. Glad to be writing again. Maybe that was the prob, I hit 1k too early. Watching “Top Gun,” again. Pilots are interesting characters. An exiting path. The adjunct’s, not so. Literature, namely Joyce, London, and Plath, singing similar songs to me. I hear oppression, and then remedy through epiphany, being able to finally see truth of the Now. People always ramble about comparative literature, but provide loose and illogical, essentially incoherent, comparisons. Creative Writing and Lit, me. Repeating Self, I know. It’s beautiful. Reiteration, not redundancy. A beautiful bane, Lit and Writing, and Wine.
The 7:30a section, killing me. What’s a good excuse for a sick call, and original one? How about “My car was stolen and sold to Somali pirates!”? Can’t call in. Need to go, get students ready for the approaching departmental exam. That “exam” is the most ridiculous item i the 90 course outline, in any course outline I’ve ever seen. Getting tired. May clock out, for real this time. 12 hours from now, I’ll be in front of the indifferent eyes. Was on Stanford’s website a little while ago. See the Self there. I will be there...
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Waking, Maybe
4/18/10, Sunday. The date looks better like that. Wrote nothing yesterday but a couple Room Notes. If yesterday’s feel and elements were to constitute a character, it would be monstrous, harsh, tyrannical, hellish. One character, a woman in her 40s, poured for herself. She was with someone who thought she was important, and thought she was above human behavior, decency. Going back in today, hoping the waves aren’t as high, the storm isn’t as intent of crushing the character of this author.
Drunks in the Room. Not sure what to say about these belligerent barnacles. Such gorbellied dizzy-eyed bladders. Can’t tolerate nor scorn their ways, their lack of composure, or balance, speech. They’e barely mortal. Puny milk-livered mammets.
No sound in this home study of mine. A couple of the notes I yesterday captured were for the sake of Monday’s lectures. If I’m going to press forward with teaching, and truly merge it with literary effort/s, I must be completely unparalleled, defiant. Today, after the Room...no after shift beer with the crew. As much as it mangles me to type that, I must be productive, and conserve funds. Let’s, you and I, reader, see how I do with demonstration of diligent discipline...
8:57p. No. I went out, with Stan and his wife, Avril. Offered some input on her essay assignment, concerning Zora Neale Hurston’s ‘Eyes Were Watching God’. While at 3rd, a couple of guys from Santa Cruz, that visited the tasting Room today, sent over a pint of IPA, thanking me for my hospitality, I guess. Either way, I was surprised, and endlessly grateful. This has never happened. Beginning to see the characters from the Room as, mostly, wonderful people. Me, a fool. A cynical slug. Hope these blokes soon make a return.
The Room was agreeable this day. Stan, Mark, Jack, Lonny, Cara, Cam, Kellina, and the Self. I was still heavy from the day previous, easily agitated. But, the shift went smoothly. One wine club, and a good flow of sales, I guess. Don’t care about how many glass towers of fermented grapes I vend. Me, enjoying no profit. Took a couple notes, the weather was ideal, unreal, of an ethereal feel. Going to enjoy my night, no grading.
Not going to hit 1k. To be honest, I think that any word requirement a writer places upon Self is of significant detriment. The objective of these free pages, entries, is to be free. Tasted some amazing wine today in the Room. Blends, Cabs, Zins. Need to immerse the Self in production. But how?
Kelly walked outside, to have the jog of her month. She initiated her pace with trepidation, peace. She thought about the end of her semester. These classes didn’t shake her. That was the problem. On her right arm was a scar that she acquired when she was three, playing on the fence of her neighbor. She recalled the game of chase that escalated into a hysterical set of aimless dashes. She missed those days. The piling responsibilities in her Now were weights, waging war on her core. She remembered what one of her professors last term told her: “Interests and affinities evolve, and revolve.” Did she want to be a teacher anymore?
Drunks in the Room. Not sure what to say about these belligerent barnacles. Such gorbellied dizzy-eyed bladders. Can’t tolerate nor scorn their ways, their lack of composure, or balance, speech. They’e barely mortal. Puny milk-livered mammets.
No sound in this home study of mine. A couple of the notes I yesterday captured were for the sake of Monday’s lectures. If I’m going to press forward with teaching, and truly merge it with literary effort/s, I must be completely unparalleled, defiant. Today, after the Room...no after shift beer with the crew. As much as it mangles me to type that, I must be productive, and conserve funds. Let’s, you and I, reader, see how I do with demonstration of diligent discipline...
8:57p. No. I went out, with Stan and his wife, Avril. Offered some input on her essay assignment, concerning Zora Neale Hurston’s ‘Eyes Were Watching God’. While at 3rd, a couple of guys from Santa Cruz, that visited the tasting Room today, sent over a pint of IPA, thanking me for my hospitality, I guess. Either way, I was surprised, and endlessly grateful. This has never happened. Beginning to see the characters from the Room as, mostly, wonderful people. Me, a fool. A cynical slug. Hope these blokes soon make a return.
The Room was agreeable this day. Stan, Mark, Jack, Lonny, Cara, Cam, Kellina, and the Self. I was still heavy from the day previous, easily agitated. But, the shift went smoothly. One wine club, and a good flow of sales, I guess. Don’t care about how many glass towers of fermented grapes I vend. Me, enjoying no profit. Took a couple notes, the weather was ideal, unreal, of an ethereal feel. Going to enjoy my night, no grading.
Not going to hit 1k. To be honest, I think that any word requirement a writer places upon Self is of significant detriment. The objective of these free pages, entries, is to be free. Tasted some amazing wine today in the Room. Blends, Cabs, Zins. Need to immerse the Self in production. But how?
Kelly walked outside, to have the jog of her month. She initiated her pace with trepidation, peace. She thought about the end of her semester. These classes didn’t shake her. That was the problem. On her right arm was a scar that she acquired when she was three, playing on the fence of her neighbor. She recalled the game of chase that escalated into a hysterical set of aimless dashes. She missed those days. The piling responsibilities in her Now were weights, waging war on her core. She remembered what one of her professors last term told her: “Interests and affinities evolve, and revolve.” Did she want to be a teacher anymore?
Friday, April 16, 2010
add’l
Going to Monti’s with Alice tonight. Love that restaurant. I’ll be honest, when I imagine “whoso,” my fantasized wine bar, I see much of what one encounters when they walk through Monti’s doors. Great wine list, food, and hospitality. Perfectly romantic, subtly luminous, dining area, with a sweet, mysterious scent pervading every corner, section.
In the mood for a Petit Verdot. Now I could use a pour. The Racer, boring me. Think I have A.D.D. Don’t all artists? My character Kelly, currently see her walking along the levy, a levy, in Santa Barbara by herself, contemplating the next stage of her days. As I am mine.
In the mood for a Petit Verdot. Now I could use a pour. The Racer, boring me. Think I have A.D.D. Don’t all artists? My character Kelly, currently see her walking along the levy, a levy, in Santa Barbara by herself, contemplating the next stage of her days. As I am mine.
Friday 4/16/10
In the Room tomorrow. As funds fade, my hope and confidence, surprisingly (for me) resonate, in each vein and channel. Summer will bring much more financial soundness, reason. For Fall, I’m looking to gather as many classes as possible, of any skill level. Adjuncting is going to work for me. I’m certain there will be times that I wished I didn’t sign up for 5, 6, 7 classes, but it’s what I’m aiming to do. It, the adjunct cage, will be caged by my vigor and methods.
What I want, really, is a spot on the NYT best sellers list. My new character, Kelly, may carry me there. Today, in my office hour, of which only one student took advantage, I projected 500 words onto the screen about this brilliant, angelic, gentle, ridiculously statuesque figure. Kelly is much like any college student, colliding with challenges, heartache, exhaustion and the like, but her conception of the collective moment and experience is what makes her a special character, one I’m ready, and eager, to give attention that I haven’t to others.
Kelly is complex, compassionate, and quite cunning. She knows what she wants from existence, but she feels that her Now is of layers she could have never adequately estimated. She enjoys the challenge, the trial/s, even though there are times she asks her Self, “How did I ever get myself into this?” Most readers, I’m sure, of any age or path, could relate.
Lovely wine country weather today. Again, tranced while in the XA, while westbound on 12, to the abode. Thinking about offering tutoring and writing services. Won’t have new cards made. My objective, current: drastically, drastically increase revenue. How? Writing, instruction. Living by the pen.
Relaxing with the Racer 5. A bit burned out on wine, I have to be candid. But I’m of
dysequilibrium, a forwarding giddiness. Not sure why. Maybe it’s my new character. I’ll be releasing those 500 words to the log either tomorrow or Sunday. Hope I do her justice. Any fiction writer who experiences this echelon of urgency, fortunate. I just hope it delivers actual fortune.
What I want, really, is a spot on the NYT best sellers list. My new character, Kelly, may carry me there. Today, in my office hour, of which only one student took advantage, I projected 500 words onto the screen about this brilliant, angelic, gentle, ridiculously statuesque figure. Kelly is much like any college student, colliding with challenges, heartache, exhaustion and the like, but her conception of the collective moment and experience is what makes her a special character, one I’m ready, and eager, to give attention that I haven’t to others.
Kelly is complex, compassionate, and quite cunning. She knows what she wants from existence, but she feels that her Now is of layers she could have never adequately estimated. She enjoys the challenge, the trial/s, even though there are times she asks her Self, “How did I ever get myself into this?” Most readers, I’m sure, of any age or path, could relate.
Lovely wine country weather today. Again, tranced while in the XA, while westbound on 12, to the abode. Thinking about offering tutoring and writing services. Won’t have new cards made. My objective, current: drastically, drastically increase revenue. How? Writing, instruction. Living by the pen.
Relaxing with the Racer 5. A bit burned out on wine, I have to be candid. But I’m of
dysequilibrium, a forwarding giddiness. Not sure why. Maybe it’s my new character. I’ll be releasing those 500 words to the log either tomorrow or Sunday. Hope I do her justice. Any fiction writer who experiences this echelon of urgency, fortunate. I just hope it delivers actual fortune.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Surprise
Tuesday 4/13/10. Halfway through April. Possible how? 9:51a, on the day off I didn’t think I had off. Need a mocha, badly. Enjoying the music though, “Busenfreund” by Tosca. Maybe I should write offsite today. Where would I go? Still thinking about “Wicked.” What a production. Everything from the stage’s arrangements, to the acting, to the script. Worthy of more than this page’s characters and syllabic arrangements.
Need to get on some kind of schedule with the log. What, need to think of this, pragmatically. Need to balance the checkbook too, which I’m not pleasurably prophesying. Where is the treasure chest? Poetry, now a glowing tree beside me, one that abides me.
11:21a. How did it get so late, as Alice says. Mocha, venti, sends me. Today’s goal: Progress, Consolidation, Simplification. Found some Room notes on cell. Xfering: “Quiet Room, lovely. For me, not the winery. No revenue. For me, peace, collection, re-collection. Talking to coworkers about wine, and industry as whole. Lots of knowledge about and between my cohorts here. Learning a lot from Stan, Cara, Will, Allan.
-Three ladies Will told me about, that visited yesterday, did WFP. One of them was acting as the guide of her group. Will said she said something like “Oh, this is such a typical Cab Franc. Nothing here at all. How gutless!” She continued to boast her blind tasting skills. Will offered her a playful challenge, bringing out a Syrah, Cab, and Merlot. Will asked her to point out, or vocally label, each pour, after telling her what he poured, what varietals. She went 0 for 3. Would have loved to see that.
All notes off phone. Want to cover significant ground today, as my dad says. My plan, the three words/ideas/approaches/visions above. Checked the balance for checking, and it wasn’t worth checking. Hate struggles with funds. The adjunct life, and my faith in it, put me here. Topic next.
My schedule for the log: post whenever I want. I don’t like schedules. Never have. Content with that settlement. Onward, wondering when I should, or will be able to review that Coppola wine that I bought the other day. Looking forward to personifying it. Still want to scribe away from my reservation. Which spot? North Light? The Hilton? Tired of Starbucks, although I did just receive a free drink slip, thrown through the door’s mail slot by Mr. Postman.
Throwing poetic pops onto a piece of scratch paper to my left. No rain today. Yesterday, en route to Room from NVC, the drops nearly stopped me, made me pull over. Was like driving through a car wash, a blurred blanket on my windshield. So, a recess, pause, in precipitation is rather befitting.
Two Room characters from yesterday: couple in their 20s, from SoCal, up celebrating their 3-year anniversary. So pleasant, easy, enjoyable. Why can’t they all be like this? She, Jill, was a bartender/actress, and he, James, was a software sales rep. We talked about wine, life, work. The exchange with them, was Human and meaningful, sincere and not scripted, memorable not mechanical. They were easily the highlight of my shift, and not just for the page. Thanks, J&J!
12:08p. Why do I feel tired? I haven’t done anything today. Maybe yesterday took more of a tariff than I tallied. Should get out of this castle, off this couch. I should be writing in a foreign locale. Not going to print any pages, I wanted to let you know, from BOOK ONE. No more ink in the cartridge. And, stemming from the reality of fading funds, I’m not going to spring for a new. So, I’ll just edit here on the comp.
Was just reading about my admiration for those that can illustrate, in B1. Makes me think of Paris, Orsay and the Louvre, the artists displayed there, admired. Want to go back, I was telling Mom and Dad last night.
Think I’m ready for a break. Not sure why. Hungry for lunch? Not yet. Papers to grade, yeah right. Maybe the best thing for Mike Madigan is to remain here, write within familiar walls. No distractions, comfy, safe. Need to make proper use of today’s time. But what is time, actually? When does it start, stop? Faulkner said, “Clocks slay time...time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life” This is precisely the logic entailed in my hatred of schedules. Time is confinement, progressive strangulation.
Encroaching on the day’s thousand. This music, providing mental constructions of whoso, my wine bar. Peace, relaxation, enjoyment of life. Who wouldn’t a Human want to experience such? Jill and James, and characters of such fold, would be welcome. The rude, I’d rather you stay away. Almost 1p. Should probably get some lunch, go for a drive. Air. New air.
1:28p. Back from a lunch run. Tuna salad sandwich, sliced tomatoes. Sensibly simple, scrumptious. Haven’t used that last descriptor in a while. Sounds too commercial. My prose, becoming slow. The Self hereby thrown into the poem. Electric in my poetics. Riming without timing. Want to battle, so I gavel.
Interesting thought, I thought: story about a woman who quits waitressing to go back to school to become a teacher, at the elementary level. She becomes a teacher, excels, only to be pink-slipped. Of course, there is a personal link for me, but I can see readers empathizing and relating with this character, becoming angered by the unfair and harsh reality of reality. Of the “real world.”
Thinking of taking advantage of this free coffee coupon. Watching “Angels and Demons.” Fascinating so far. Re-ignites my passion for study, literature, history. Thought altogether. My thoughts now, encircling the epistemological stream of Our Experience. But I’m not sure how to channel or filter this mental activity.
Sitting here, watching the film. It’s losing me, a bit, in both mental stimulation and entertainment. Thinking about the rude characters from the past couple days. Can’t scold them for their innate demeanor. But I can confine them to the page, and expose their vile attributes.
6:56p. Back from walk/jog in forest. A renewing redolence. Streams, brooks, creeks whistling. Deer, wild turkeys. Time for dinner, Mom’s leftovers. Back in a while.
7:18p. Tired. More exercise needed for this author. Opened wine. Going to write the review within this very entry, this session. Can’t get Annadel out of my head. Actual quiet. Need something to read between these journalistic jabs. Up to the office...
A wine mag, Ms. Plath, another wine mag. Want to buy some Rieslings, and other whites. Still thinking, seriously in some moments, about a wine bar. Need to get out of education, only return when I teach what I want. Need to make progress on B1. Ms. Plath compares waking to rising from the grave; talks about preparing for class, reading Yeats, addressing Elliot (371). Developmental English sections, although mildly engaging, lack the reciprocal passion. I will not stop teaching, but I am hereby resigning as a developmental quant.
Still hungry. Eager to try the Coppola wine. Poetry sheet still on the left. Going to heat something up...already 8p (actually 8:03). Need to be speedy.
Francis Ford Coppola’s Director’s Cut, 2007 Cinema, Sonoma County. Beautiful color, cape-like. A blend of Cab, Zin, Cab Franc, and Petite Sirah. Love confident blends. Deep, dark dexterity. Flavorful and floral, perfume-like on nose. Dampness on nose and front-pal, this accents the dark fruit and thick notes of chewy cobbler. What a vibrant being, an ardent atmosphere. Mid-palate reveals a jolt of coffee and secularized caramel; this carries to the flirtatiously lingering, haunting, finish. Sip consistency, more concentration as minutes accumulate for the open bottle, pour. A multi-talented, impressively complex character; actor, writer, director, producer. This is an offer I wouldn’t dream of refusing. Still a Coppola fan, always will be.
Need to get on some kind of schedule with the log. What, need to think of this, pragmatically. Need to balance the checkbook too, which I’m not pleasurably prophesying. Where is the treasure chest? Poetry, now a glowing tree beside me, one that abides me.
11:21a. How did it get so late, as Alice says. Mocha, venti, sends me. Today’s goal: Progress, Consolidation, Simplification. Found some Room notes on cell. Xfering: “Quiet Room, lovely. For me, not the winery. No revenue. For me, peace, collection, re-collection. Talking to coworkers about wine, and industry as whole. Lots of knowledge about and between my cohorts here. Learning a lot from Stan, Cara, Will, Allan.
-Three ladies Will told me about, that visited yesterday, did WFP. One of them was acting as the guide of her group. Will said she said something like “Oh, this is such a typical Cab Franc. Nothing here at all. How gutless!” She continued to boast her blind tasting skills. Will offered her a playful challenge, bringing out a Syrah, Cab, and Merlot. Will asked her to point out, or vocally label, each pour, after telling her what he poured, what varietals. She went 0 for 3. Would have loved to see that.
All notes off phone. Want to cover significant ground today, as my dad says. My plan, the three words/ideas/approaches/visions above. Checked the balance for checking, and it wasn’t worth checking. Hate struggles with funds. The adjunct life, and my faith in it, put me here. Topic next.
My schedule for the log: post whenever I want. I don’t like schedules. Never have. Content with that settlement. Onward, wondering when I should, or will be able to review that Coppola wine that I bought the other day. Looking forward to personifying it. Still want to scribe away from my reservation. Which spot? North Light? The Hilton? Tired of Starbucks, although I did just receive a free drink slip, thrown through the door’s mail slot by Mr. Postman.
Throwing poetic pops onto a piece of scratch paper to my left. No rain today. Yesterday, en route to Room from NVC, the drops nearly stopped me, made me pull over. Was like driving through a car wash, a blurred blanket on my windshield. So, a recess, pause, in precipitation is rather befitting.
Two Room characters from yesterday: couple in their 20s, from SoCal, up celebrating their 3-year anniversary. So pleasant, easy, enjoyable. Why can’t they all be like this? She, Jill, was a bartender/actress, and he, James, was a software sales rep. We talked about wine, life, work. The exchange with them, was Human and meaningful, sincere and not scripted, memorable not mechanical. They were easily the highlight of my shift, and not just for the page. Thanks, J&J!
12:08p. Why do I feel tired? I haven’t done anything today. Maybe yesterday took more of a tariff than I tallied. Should get out of this castle, off this couch. I should be writing in a foreign locale. Not going to print any pages, I wanted to let you know, from BOOK ONE. No more ink in the cartridge. And, stemming from the reality of fading funds, I’m not going to spring for a new. So, I’ll just edit here on the comp.
Was just reading about my admiration for those that can illustrate, in B1. Makes me think of Paris, Orsay and the Louvre, the artists displayed there, admired. Want to go back, I was telling Mom and Dad last night.
Think I’m ready for a break. Not sure why. Hungry for lunch? Not yet. Papers to grade, yeah right. Maybe the best thing for Mike Madigan is to remain here, write within familiar walls. No distractions, comfy, safe. Need to make proper use of today’s time. But what is time, actually? When does it start, stop? Faulkner said, “Clocks slay time...time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life” This is precisely the logic entailed in my hatred of schedules. Time is confinement, progressive strangulation.
Encroaching on the day’s thousand. This music, providing mental constructions of whoso, my wine bar. Peace, relaxation, enjoyment of life. Who wouldn’t a Human want to experience such? Jill and James, and characters of such fold, would be welcome. The rude, I’d rather you stay away. Almost 1p. Should probably get some lunch, go for a drive. Air. New air.
1:28p. Back from a lunch run. Tuna salad sandwich, sliced tomatoes. Sensibly simple, scrumptious. Haven’t used that last descriptor in a while. Sounds too commercial. My prose, becoming slow. The Self hereby thrown into the poem. Electric in my poetics. Riming without timing. Want to battle, so I gavel.
Interesting thought, I thought: story about a woman who quits waitressing to go back to school to become a teacher, at the elementary level. She becomes a teacher, excels, only to be pink-slipped. Of course, there is a personal link for me, but I can see readers empathizing and relating with this character, becoming angered by the unfair and harsh reality of reality. Of the “real world.”
Thinking of taking advantage of this free coffee coupon. Watching “Angels and Demons.” Fascinating so far. Re-ignites my passion for study, literature, history. Thought altogether. My thoughts now, encircling the epistemological stream of Our Experience. But I’m not sure how to channel or filter this mental activity.
Sitting here, watching the film. It’s losing me, a bit, in both mental stimulation and entertainment. Thinking about the rude characters from the past couple days. Can’t scold them for their innate demeanor. But I can confine them to the page, and expose their vile attributes.
6:56p. Back from walk/jog in forest. A renewing redolence. Streams, brooks, creeks whistling. Deer, wild turkeys. Time for dinner, Mom’s leftovers. Back in a while.
7:18p. Tired. More exercise needed for this author. Opened wine. Going to write the review within this very entry, this session. Can’t get Annadel out of my head. Actual quiet. Need something to read between these journalistic jabs. Up to the office...
A wine mag, Ms. Plath, another wine mag. Want to buy some Rieslings, and other whites. Still thinking, seriously in some moments, about a wine bar. Need to get out of education, only return when I teach what I want. Need to make progress on B1. Ms. Plath compares waking to rising from the grave; talks about preparing for class, reading Yeats, addressing Elliot (371). Developmental English sections, although mildly engaging, lack the reciprocal passion. I will not stop teaching, but I am hereby resigning as a developmental quant.
Still hungry. Eager to try the Coppola wine. Poetry sheet still on the left. Going to heat something up...already 8p (actually 8:03). Need to be speedy.
Francis Ford Coppola’s Director’s Cut, 2007 Cinema, Sonoma County. Beautiful color, cape-like. A blend of Cab, Zin, Cab Franc, and Petite Sirah. Love confident blends. Deep, dark dexterity. Flavorful and floral, perfume-like on nose. Dampness on nose and front-pal, this accents the dark fruit and thick notes of chewy cobbler. What a vibrant being, an ardent atmosphere. Mid-palate reveals a jolt of coffee and secularized caramel; this carries to the flirtatiously lingering, haunting, finish. Sip consistency, more concentration as minutes accumulate for the open bottle, pour. A multi-talented, impressively complex character; actor, writer, director, producer. This is an offer I wouldn’t dream of refusing. Still a Coppola fan, always will be.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Notes, 4/12/10, Monday
What is it about these rude people? Why do they always approach my part of the bar? So exhausted. But, I am considering some new approach with my lectures. These two developmental sections I have can serve as wonderful platforms. Need to capitalize. For example, the themes present and pervading in interpreter of maladies can be seen as keys, formulas, to further appreciating and understanding the present.
Typing fast, so I can wake up, hopefully. What time should I select for the alarm? Should I set it at all? Wish I could hear your answer, reader. Again, tired. Frustrated with Self, that I didn’t talk back to the rudeness in the Room, retaliate. Tired of rotating a role, reciting a sickening script. Live all days as though they are each ultimate.
Typing fast, so I can wake up, hopefully. What time should I select for the alarm? Should I set it at all? Wish I could hear your answer, reader. Again, tired. Frustrated with Self, that I didn’t talk back to the rudeness in the Room, retaliate. Tired of rotating a role, reciting a sickening script. Live all days as though they are each ultimate.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
11:05pm, Sunday 4/11/10
Already attached a journaled effort to this day, but I’m not yet finished. If readers can’t keep up, that is most certainly compunctious. Wanted to lament my strain of disdain for the loud, the bold. Who are you to come into a tasting room and tell me that the way I appreciate and examine, analyze, wine is flawed? Quite frankly, stay on the other side of the door. In fact, turn around in the lot, drive away. Negativity, foul ebb, has no place in this delightful domain. Sick of being quiet. I accept consequences for this apostasy. Inviting fracas, eager for collision with critics of my contemptuous character.
Room Notes: Clubbed
Mike thought this was a weird day in the Room. Why? Beautiful outside, and not a visitor with which to dialogue. “What is it with today” he said to Jack, interrupting his sip of the Syrah. “What is it with you and that Syrah?”
“It gives me peace. Want to go outside,” Jack said, gently dropping the glass into the dirty glass rack on rollers, under the sink beneath the counter. “Did you get that email?”
“What email? From here?”
“Yeah, about the wine club incentives for us? Sounds pretty sweet.” Jack took out another glass, poured a bit more Syrah than he would for a guest.
“That’s great, but I can’t sell clubs to save my life, or job. I’m horrible at it,” Mike said, feeling as though he needed a sip as well.
Older woman comes in. She’s one of our growers, talks to me like I’m an idiot, one who should give her discount over discount, atop more discounts. Who the hell is this lady?
Nice group of club members, early 40s I guess. Like family, truly. Love members like this. They love the Zins. In fact, I think they’re all in the Zin club except for the lady on the left, with the bright orange purse. That thing could be used as a road flare, or substitute for a cone during freeway construction. Shouldn’t make fun, she tipped me $10. The others, offered gratuity in the form of smiles. I prefer bills. Can’t buy my morning mocha with smiles.
Lady describing the Cab Franc as dry. Just heard her say it like four times. “Dry, dry, dry, dry,” she said, writing the word on the copy of the wine list I gave her. The guy she came in with looked me, as if to apologize, then started to giggle, trying to hold back a more hefty laugh, directed at her.
“Can I get the Sauv Blanc from you there, sir?” Joey asked, balancing on his left foot, leaning towards me.
“Here you go,” Mike said, handing the green tinted bottle to him. Sauv Blanc was always strange to Mike, its look, nose, overall note. Odd. Like grass-laced, watered-down, grapefruit juice. Yuck.
“How long have you been working here?” The lady Mike was helping asked, finishing her pour of the Rhone.
“Off and on since 2006,” Mike said, pouring her the Merlot.
“What else do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a writer and English Instructor.”
“What can you tell me about your wine club?” she asked. Mike wondered how the transition was made from the prior topic to that current. Was the fact that he was a writer and instructor boring? Not worthy of discussion? Maybe not, in her mind. And now that he reflected, neither in his.
Got a wine club! My first in...weeks. Why am I so happy? Why not? This deserves a Syrah sip. Where’s Jack?
Lunch is overdue, and this crowd is of rowdy potential. Two ladies, probably mid-20s, came in together, are arguing quite ardently over by window. People are staring. I’m entertained.
“It gives me peace. Want to go outside,” Jack said, gently dropping the glass into the dirty glass rack on rollers, under the sink beneath the counter. “Did you get that email?”
“What email? From here?”
“Yeah, about the wine club incentives for us? Sounds pretty sweet.” Jack took out another glass, poured a bit more Syrah than he would for a guest.
“That’s great, but I can’t sell clubs to save my life, or job. I’m horrible at it,” Mike said, feeling as though he needed a sip as well.
Older woman comes in. She’s one of our growers, talks to me like I’m an idiot, one who should give her discount over discount, atop more discounts. Who the hell is this lady?
Nice group of club members, early 40s I guess. Like family, truly. Love members like this. They love the Zins. In fact, I think they’re all in the Zin club except for the lady on the left, with the bright orange purse. That thing could be used as a road flare, or substitute for a cone during freeway construction. Shouldn’t make fun, she tipped me $10. The others, offered gratuity in the form of smiles. I prefer bills. Can’t buy my morning mocha with smiles.
Lady describing the Cab Franc as dry. Just heard her say it like four times. “Dry, dry, dry, dry,” she said, writing the word on the copy of the wine list I gave her. The guy she came in with looked me, as if to apologize, then started to giggle, trying to hold back a more hefty laugh, directed at her.
“Can I get the Sauv Blanc from you there, sir?” Joey asked, balancing on his left foot, leaning towards me.
“Here you go,” Mike said, handing the green tinted bottle to him. Sauv Blanc was always strange to Mike, its look, nose, overall note. Odd. Like grass-laced, watered-down, grapefruit juice. Yuck.
“How long have you been working here?” The lady Mike was helping asked, finishing her pour of the Rhone.
“Off and on since 2006,” Mike said, pouring her the Merlot.
“What else do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a writer and English Instructor.”
“What can you tell me about your wine club?” she asked. Mike wondered how the transition was made from the prior topic to that current. Was the fact that he was a writer and instructor boring? Not worthy of discussion? Maybe not, in her mind. And now that he reflected, neither in his.
Got a wine club! My first in...weeks. Why am I so happy? Why not? This deserves a Syrah sip. Where’s Jack?
Lunch is overdue, and this crowd is of rowdy potential. Two ladies, probably mid-20s, came in together, are arguing quite ardently over by window. People are staring. I’m entertained.
Friday, April 9, 2010
2 Minutes
Not sure if I’m going to post the “Room Notes” episode tonight. If I don’t, it’ll be released tomorrow. Hate that word, “post.” Silly and simplistic blogger babble. Beautiful day. Driving home from Napa, I listened to my trip-hop/electronica mixes, remixes, found the Self in an advanced artistry trance. What did I gather from it? The reward? The moment, the drive. Why does everything have to be valued, measured, have some product attached to it? I pose this as I find my self doing just that, asking Self, “Yeah, and? What’s the result, Mikey?”
Visited the Coppola tasting Room in Geyserville with Mom and Dad. Lovely. The views of Alexander Valley are a scenic morsel, let me assure you. Would love to do some writing there. Next week, I’ll be in the Room Tuesday and Thursday. Perhaps Wednesday after class I shall write offsite. Napa, Healdsburg, Sonoma...Marin?
Really quickly wanted to say that I appreciate writers acknowledging that we need to support each other, read each other’s work, provide insight, feedback. Ran into one such pupil of the pen today at the bank, Nelly. Not sure what she scribes, but her offering regarding the Craft, by me, was obliged, certainly cherished.
Visited the Coppola tasting Room in Geyserville with Mom and Dad. Lovely. The views of Alexander Valley are a scenic morsel, let me assure you. Would love to do some writing there. Next week, I’ll be in the Room Tuesday and Thursday. Perhaps Wednesday after class I shall write offsite. Napa, Healdsburg, Sonoma...Marin?
Really quickly wanted to say that I appreciate writers acknowledging that we need to support each other, read each other’s work, provide insight, feedback. Ran into one such pupil of the pen today at the bank, Nelly. Not sure what she scribes, but her offering regarding the Craft, by me, was obliged, certainly cherished.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Midday 100: April 8, 2010
Have an instrumental on the digi-8, poetry prepared. Just need to record. Finished an episode of “Room Notes,” just need to edit and title. Opened a 1999 Cabernet last night. Not good. I think because of the synthetic cork. Tasted like acidic vegetables. Beautiful outside. Want to drive around, but funds are fading with each effort, be it leisure or literary. Need to sell my CD! That’s why I made it, right? If it were a tangible being, I would lethally lacerate my laziness, without pause. I have cause, so I protrude my claws. Cooking for my Self this evening. Hope I don’t flaw too horrendously. Will check in later, kind reader. Be well.
Review of Ty Caton, 2008 Tytanium, Sonoma Valley, Caton Vineyard
“Strength in Serenity”
I’m going to be quite curt in this praise: if you’re looking for a wine to reveal a strong character, but still demonstrate sophistication and felicity, and grace, look no further. This blend of 37% Cab, 30% Petite Sirah, 24% Syrah, and 9% Malbec reveals a confident personality, not at all obnoxious or cocky, overbearing. She is poised, persuasive with her contributing dimensions. Full-bodied and flavorful, a guide through a scenic scape. Dark fruit speckled with spice, dark and slightly sweet chocolate, expansive yet disciplined herbs, and a muffled ballad of mineral and tobacco. Each moment, silk, polished. No periods of peril, only peace. But don’t confuse it for weak. No, this bottle will stand up to the most heralded of wines, be it blended or otherwise. Very fluid and consistent with delivery and taste. Serene from nose to the last blasts in the finish.
I’m going to be quite curt in this praise: if you’re looking for a wine to reveal a strong character, but still demonstrate sophistication and felicity, and grace, look no further. This blend of 37% Cab, 30% Petite Sirah, 24% Syrah, and 9% Malbec reveals a confident personality, not at all obnoxious or cocky, overbearing. She is poised, persuasive with her contributing dimensions. Full-bodied and flavorful, a guide through a scenic scape. Dark fruit speckled with spice, dark and slightly sweet chocolate, expansive yet disciplined herbs, and a muffled ballad of mineral and tobacco. Each moment, silk, polished. No periods of peril, only peace. But don’t confuse it for weak. No, this bottle will stand up to the most heralded of wines, be it blended or otherwise. Very fluid and consistent with delivery and taste. Serene from nose to the last blasts in the finish.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Review of Yorba, 2006 Tempranillo, Amador County, Shake Ridge Vineyards
Looking for an experience, and I found one. Lost and located, elated. Encountering the seductive element I love in wine, here, with my Spanish countess, with her vampiric virility, dancing for me. Deep flavorful nose, even on cork. Gothic leathery fruit, deep and complicated, worthy of more than a remedial enumeration of notes. Dark cherry, slight coffee, damp earth, slightly herbaceous. Finish, a black cherry coat of reassurance and welcome, a lasting tap on the palate. 14.5% in content, not even a delicate brush stroke of alcohol, anywhere. Noticeable, and quite cherishable, chalky tannins, giving the sips duration and diligence. This aphotic sea before me, reveals more structure and complexity as she is left to self-present. Pleasurable punch, her glare seduces me, effortlessly. Erotically unfamiliar from nose to finish, the entirety of its delivery. Don’t want her to leave. Taking my time, dancing with her...
Monday, April 5, 2010
Lazy 100
Mike wanted to post the Tempranillo review, but couldn’t bring himself to edit. He also wanted to work on some spoken word. No propulsion. He was pinned down by an absence of puissance. Papers to grade, no way was he ever going to touch those tonight. The TV, boring, deathly. Wine, “Not tonight,” he thought.
He needed decent sleep tonight. The nap he took a few hours ago was probably hindering any fecundity. The blog, not interesting him, not now. He opened his Composition book, clicked the pen.
Stomach still hurts from that burrito. Never going there again. Never want to eat again.
He needed decent sleep tonight. The nap he took a few hours ago was probably hindering any fecundity. The blog, not interesting him, not now. He opened his Composition book, clicked the pen.
Stomach still hurts from that burrito. Never going there again. Never want to eat again.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
whoso Vision
Today, rainy. We’ve just opened, and I’m out with the guests, walking around, sipping a beer. The fire and the trip-hop/ambient instrumentals appear to be complementing the very aesthetic that entices entry. The language of everyone’s structure, and face shape, reiterates why I opened this place. The lights over there in the far left corner, with their pink and purple tint, where the 40-something couple enjoys the Zin I just added to the list, attracts me. Almost want to ask them to sit elsewhere, so I can have the safe section to my Self.
Sitting down. Happy with all this. Next coat of notes thrown from the speakers, heads nod, bob. I smile, sip. Sip again. Smile, for a batch of beats.
Sitting down. Happy with all this. Next coat of notes thrown from the speakers, heads nod, bob. I smile, sip. Sip again. Smile, for a batch of beats.
Long Live Literary Libation ...
On this Sunday, the hours before a return to the classroom, I’m in a mode of laziness, productivity drought, stress deprivation. Going to Mom and Dad’s tonight for Easter dinner, Katie will be at the table, eager to see what bottle(s) she brings. Mom mentioned pairing her lamb-centered dish with a Rhone. Find pairings so fascinating, entrapping.
Papers that haven’t been graded, laughing at them. Thinking of a character to pair with Erlycia, a young man, 24. He pours in a Room, in Napa. Wants to one day open a restaurant, in the city, SF. So sequestered, safe, and dry in this castle. Not feeling venomous today. Virile, lively, engaged.
Anticipating the Rhone, the pairings, Mom’s magic. Will be capturing what I detect, stay tuned. Hate that phrase. Am I a word snob, the same way that guests in the Room are wine & bottle snobs? Logged some valuable notes yesterday, thanks to the crew, and their respective tales, offerings.
A final disclosure, and please don’t be mad or think I’m just a talker (which even I think I am, somewhat, sometimes), but I failed to print and read pp.1-10 of BOOK ONE. I know, I know...
Papers that haven’t been graded, laughing at them. Thinking of a character to pair with Erlycia, a young man, 24. He pours in a Room, in Napa. Wants to one day open a restaurant, in the city, SF. So sequestered, safe, and dry in this castle. Not feeling venomous today. Virile, lively, engaged.
Anticipating the Rhone, the pairings, Mom’s magic. Will be capturing what I detect, stay tuned. Hate that phrase. Am I a word snob, the same way that guests in the Room are wine & bottle snobs? Logged some valuable notes yesterday, thanks to the crew, and their respective tales, offerings.
A final disclosure, and please don’t be mad or think I’m just a talker (which even I think I am, somewhat, sometimes), but I failed to print and read pp.1-10 of BOOK ONE. I know, I know...
Friday, April 2, 2010
Wine Ode, One of Some to Come ...
What is it about this ghost-like colony of libation? Delightfully dizzy. Loving wine, securing my spine and mind. Cab, Merlot, Syrah, Malbec, all specs in my spirit. Medicine, melody for Mike. Can’t touch 1k without some grape. To typos I might go ...
Take light to date night, shake life to states’ blithe.
I’m a curve on the table, a blurb in the fable.
Zinfandel, I sinned and fell into the well. Can’t the
Self sell. Tempranillo, I sent a Leo a message that
this Gemini, Vemini is making his character known.
They’re scared of my zone, each bone, tone. Leave
the poets alone.
Here I am, thriving on the keyboard, at no dive bar. Sipping in my sanctuary. The character of this bottle, beauteous, brave, bewitching. I’ll keep stumbling, in awe of the winemaker. My sister, how does she do what she does? All I do is journal. Katie makes occasions, memories. We, writers, everywhere. Winemakers, like the little sis, anomalous, true vanguards.
Take light to date night, shake life to states’ blithe.
I’m a curve on the table, a blurb in the fable.
Zinfandel, I sinned and fell into the well. Can’t the
Self sell. Tempranillo, I sent a Leo a message that
this Gemini, Vemini is making his character known.
They’re scared of my zone, each bone, tone. Leave
the poets alone.
Here I am, thriving on the keyboard, at no dive bar. Sipping in my sanctuary. The character of this bottle, beauteous, brave, bewitching. I’ll keep stumbling, in awe of the winemaker. My sister, how does she do what she does? All I do is journal. Katie makes occasions, memories. We, writers, everywhere. Winemakers, like the little sis, anomalous, true vanguards.
Tempranillo 100+
Joyfully mephitic. Playful, still rattling. Rain, gone. On my own. Odd, but homeostatic, pragmatic. Find treasures in the box of old writings, like an attic. This Spanish belle I sip, seduces, propulsion induces. Awake my inner-Poe, and Emerson. Confused, but not contused. When I’m gone, I want people to smile, even chuckle. But I’ll never leave. Installations won’t relent in reprieve.
Poe said, “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Love that quote. But who’s truly imbalanced? The Tempranillo tells me that there is no such thing as insanity, only beauty, the celestial. Another sip, on the radar another blip.
Loving safety provided by the Madigan castle. Miss Ms. Alice. On the East Coast she now sleeps. Me, frantic, typing. No cesura, intermission, adjournment. Thinking poetically, and about wine sinking eclectically. Loving the free night, to freewrite!!! Remembering my Creative Writing classes in college. Missing those days, as crazily I do my wife.
Poe said, “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Love that quote. But who’s truly imbalanced? The Tempranillo tells me that there is no such thing as insanity, only beauty, the celestial. Another sip, on the radar another blip.
Loving safety provided by the Madigan castle. Miss Ms. Alice. On the East Coast she now sleeps. Me, frantic, typing. No cesura, intermission, adjournment. Thinking poetically, and about wine sinking eclectically. Loving the free night, to freewrite!!! Remembering my Creative Writing classes in college. Missing those days, as crazily I do my wife.
Tres Dias
Wed 31March2010. Leave in less than an hour. Am I nervous? Not really. Okay, I am a little. No, more than a little. Car’s all better, got the brake, or brakes, fixed. It’s raining quite viciously now. Probably shouldn’t have a beer before getting onto the soaked streets. What should I have for dinner, to celebrate? Roberto’s? Mexican? Pizza? No, had that last night. So much fun, that mixer. Love those little get-togethers here in the Valley, or any wine zone. Much more enjoyable than socials with educators, that’s known, to me at least. Just noticing I’ve passed 1k the last couple days.
Yeah, I’m nervous. Having a Racer...
No I’m not. Need to gather what I’m bringing to the studio. Speaking of studios, I should make an instru’ or two 2nite.
10:13p. The interview was amazing, thanks to KAZ and his crew. I really appreciated Randy’s words concerning my entries, logged efforts. Not going to hit 1k. Fine with it. Feel as though my tributary of consciousness is in need of resuscitation, resurrection, recollection.
My thirst for words, fervently stirred. Others in the light, are empty, voice hallowness. Irks me dirty. A show won’t rid this shell of the filthy film. MTV embraces these bots. I’m sick, rebelling. I will die infusing thought and literary merit into the mainstream, even when I feign mean.
Not in the mood for wine tonight. Don’t worry, I’m fine to write. In the mood to rime everything I utter. Typing so fast, my fingernails stutter, shudder. Tinkering with my ticker...
10:59p. Too tall to lay. Calm, I’m just thinking about the coming day. Decided I don’t like writing on assignment. I won’t do it, ever, unless it’s for family, friend/s. And so, the day is low, as is my tide. Why? I’ve adorned Self with jubilation, triumph. I’ll never be a strong interpreter of mine own Self, essence. At the age of 30/31, this is disconcerting, a chord of discord.
Closing my little leviathan of a laptop. A day I’ll replay in endless ways. The rain had something to do with the development of these scenes. What, precisely, I’m not sure. I don’t need to know, just appreciate, grow.
Th. 4/1/10. How is it April? Time, is the true devil. More than any devil I’ve in the past dated. I know time will victor, but till the close, I’ll make habitual havoc a tragic habit. Should be asleep, but I’m still conveyed to the page. Why am I watching reality TV? These constructed clones on BRAVO, boils, poison. “‘Real’ Housewives.” Not one element of these devils is real, authentic, believable. And not just the women! Devil does not translate in my head to woman, necessarily.
Topic next. James Joyce, a true Portrait. Me, aiming for such. On the shelf, soon, I hope. Like Pac said, “...felt alone out here on my own...” Searching for words that can expand and curb my nerves. -1:12a
Friday 2APR2010. Waiting for a JC to call me back, for Fall assignments. Now, this author, a coiled viper. My inner sea, toxicity. Was going to compose a review, but I’m not in a “professional” state right now. Even the rain, which I usually adore, teases me. Peace, Mike, peace...
I called at 12:52p. In that same tic of the clock, they said they would call me back. My little laptop reads 1p. What exactly are they solving in that esteemed educational control tower that has them so mentally mangled?
They called me back, left a message as I was on the phone with Alice, and was in no rush to get off. I called back to “score” a section of 1A down at the Petaluma campus, a MW from 5-7p. Hate evening classes, but I must book what I can, for the time being.
The rain now me clams. Beads no longer surface in my palms.
1:39p. Haven’t had lunch yet. Don’t want to venture into the deluge. PB&J? Food of a penman secluded. A burrito sounds appetizing as well, but that brings a weather of the weather. When hunger rises, my vivacity vaporizes fast, and drastically. Break...
Nice little snack. Reminds me of Depp’s character in “Secret Window.” Want to keep riming here in this Composition book. Rain diminished. Odd coincidence: when balancing checkbook earlier, the number 31 was everywhere. Entries dated 3/31/10, beginning balance had a 31 in it, and one of the entries had an amount of $31.31. Odd, unnerving.
Hate these devilish typos, but like Randy said, and/or suggested, on WineBiz Radio the other night, it’s not necessarily the writer’s job to be an expert editor. Thanks Randy! I’m glad someone finally articulated the reality. Even still, as a timid perfectionist, I cringe when slapped by a mistype.
Cold, even with the heater blaring (sorry, Alice!). Please, readers, forgive my vitriolic voice earlier, enmity. Now, charged. Still riming. Like spelling it that way instead of with the ‘h’ and the ‘y’. My fingers, cramping, hating my inner impetus. Should stop, before my character crashes. So comfy in this study, this creative cave...
I cannot get warm in this abode of ours. Going for a drive. Know that the heater of my little XA will surely give me agreeable atmosphere. Peace.
3:14p, and back from a loose cruise. Back in the tasting Room tomorrow, Sunday off for Easter. What an interesting past couple days. Now that I realize it, tonight is my last gasp of vacation, elemental gathering. In this period of pause, I’ve organized writings, more or less, had a great radio/cast opportunity, and jogged through the forest solitarily. Cold again.
Don’t want to use the heater, that detracts from the already ailing account balance. Perhaps this algidity will spin me into a literary blizzard. Maybe. Please, dearest Cold, put me on some type of write-and-release schedule, don’t let me get old. Keep checking winebizradio.com to see if the entire show is uploaded. Not yet. Keep replaying the visit and interview in my head. Think I did okay. Oh shit, forgot about BOOK ONE. 10 pages tonight, no fail.
How do I develop my literary love, Erlycia? Have the basics, but not sure where to go from there, the foundation. 3:36p, just opened the BOOK ONE doc on this little monster, cruised through the first ten pages. Not bad, I have to say. Is that bad, am I a narcissist? Aren’t all writers?
The show is up!!! Listening to it ... thanks again Kaz, Randy, and Boy! Thanks for the support, and believing in me!!!
Yeah, I’m nervous. Having a Racer...
No I’m not. Need to gather what I’m bringing to the studio. Speaking of studios, I should make an instru’ or two 2nite.
10:13p. The interview was amazing, thanks to KAZ and his crew. I really appreciated Randy’s words concerning my entries, logged efforts. Not going to hit 1k. Fine with it. Feel as though my tributary of consciousness is in need of resuscitation, resurrection, recollection.
My thirst for words, fervently stirred. Others in the light, are empty, voice hallowness. Irks me dirty. A show won’t rid this shell of the filthy film. MTV embraces these bots. I’m sick, rebelling. I will die infusing thought and literary merit into the mainstream, even when I feign mean.
Not in the mood for wine tonight. Don’t worry, I’m fine to write. In the mood to rime everything I utter. Typing so fast, my fingernails stutter, shudder. Tinkering with my ticker...
10:59p. Too tall to lay. Calm, I’m just thinking about the coming day. Decided I don’t like writing on assignment. I won’t do it, ever, unless it’s for family, friend/s. And so, the day is low, as is my tide. Why? I’ve adorned Self with jubilation, triumph. I’ll never be a strong interpreter of mine own Self, essence. At the age of 30/31, this is disconcerting, a chord of discord.
Closing my little leviathan of a laptop. A day I’ll replay in endless ways. The rain had something to do with the development of these scenes. What, precisely, I’m not sure. I don’t need to know, just appreciate, grow.
Th. 4/1/10. How is it April? Time, is the true devil. More than any devil I’ve in the past dated. I know time will victor, but till the close, I’ll make habitual havoc a tragic habit. Should be asleep, but I’m still conveyed to the page. Why am I watching reality TV? These constructed clones on BRAVO, boils, poison. “‘Real’ Housewives.” Not one element of these devils is real, authentic, believable. And not just the women! Devil does not translate in my head to woman, necessarily.
Topic next. James Joyce, a true Portrait. Me, aiming for such. On the shelf, soon, I hope. Like Pac said, “...felt alone out here on my own...” Searching for words that can expand and curb my nerves. -1:12a
Friday 2APR2010. Waiting for a JC to call me back, for Fall assignments. Now, this author, a coiled viper. My inner sea, toxicity. Was going to compose a review, but I’m not in a “professional” state right now. Even the rain, which I usually adore, teases me. Peace, Mike, peace...
I called at 12:52p. In that same tic of the clock, they said they would call me back. My little laptop reads 1p. What exactly are they solving in that esteemed educational control tower that has them so mentally mangled?
They called me back, left a message as I was on the phone with Alice, and was in no rush to get off. I called back to “score” a section of 1A down at the Petaluma campus, a MW from 5-7p. Hate evening classes, but I must book what I can, for the time being.
The rain now me clams. Beads no longer surface in my palms.
1:39p. Haven’t had lunch yet. Don’t want to venture into the deluge. PB&J? Food of a penman secluded. A burrito sounds appetizing as well, but that brings a weather of the weather. When hunger rises, my vivacity vaporizes fast, and drastically. Break...
Nice little snack. Reminds me of Depp’s character in “Secret Window.” Want to keep riming here in this Composition book. Rain diminished. Odd coincidence: when balancing checkbook earlier, the number 31 was everywhere. Entries dated 3/31/10, beginning balance had a 31 in it, and one of the entries had an amount of $31.31. Odd, unnerving.
Hate these devilish typos, but like Randy said, and/or suggested, on WineBiz Radio the other night, it’s not necessarily the writer’s job to be an expert editor. Thanks Randy! I’m glad someone finally articulated the reality. Even still, as a timid perfectionist, I cringe when slapped by a mistype.
Cold, even with the heater blaring (sorry, Alice!). Please, readers, forgive my vitriolic voice earlier, enmity. Now, charged. Still riming. Like spelling it that way instead of with the ‘h’ and the ‘y’. My fingers, cramping, hating my inner impetus. Should stop, before my character crashes. So comfy in this study, this creative cave...
I cannot get warm in this abode of ours. Going for a drive. Know that the heater of my little XA will surely give me agreeable atmosphere. Peace.
3:14p, and back from a loose cruise. Back in the tasting Room tomorrow, Sunday off for Easter. What an interesting past couple days. Now that I realize it, tonight is my last gasp of vacation, elemental gathering. In this period of pause, I’ve organized writings, more or less, had a great radio/cast opportunity, and jogged through the forest solitarily. Cold again.
Don’t want to use the heater, that detracts from the already ailing account balance. Perhaps this algidity will spin me into a literary blizzard. Maybe. Please, dearest Cold, put me on some type of write-and-release schedule, don’t let me get old. Keep checking winebizradio.com to see if the entire show is uploaded. Not yet. Keep replaying the visit and interview in my head. Think I did okay. Oh shit, forgot about BOOK ONE. 10 pages tonight, no fail.
How do I develop my literary love, Erlycia? Have the basics, but not sure where to go from there, the foundation. 3:36p, just opened the BOOK ONE doc on this little monster, cruised through the first ten pages. Not bad, I have to say. Is that bad, am I a narcissist? Aren’t all writers?
The show is up!!! Listening to it ... thanks again Kaz, Randy, and Boy! Thanks for the support, and believing in me!!!
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