4:22p. Home from a nice Sonoma Valley lunch, a little Enkidu tasting. Watching “The Wizard of Oz,” as Alice and I saw “Wicked” just a few weeks ago. Utilizing analytical movements, I see more, just as I did with the play. Such a masterwork, this film. Sipping a Racer, relaxing, rebuilt from my earlier turmoil. Credit goes to Ms. Alice. How does my magical wife tie me in such wonderment? This film, all its fantastic and otherworldly notes, like an unmirrored blend only produced once.
This fortune teller, Professor Marvel: scamster with admirable ingredients. Interesting. Would love to teach a class on this film, or a class on the components of the capricious, and how the wine world itself douses in the very same, how we in the world of wine, writing about it, walk with imaginative prints. Following the thoughts...
The Scarecrow just said to Dorothy, “But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don’t they?” Dorothy replies, “Yes, I guess you’re right.” How relevant, especially when you consider these pundits, my students, humans universally. Transcendent and luminous, these scenes. “Oh no, I just keep picking it up and putting it back in again!” Sounds like me, with entries old and current. Wondering how much of a brain I have, anyone has.
On with the film, the journey for remedy, panacea, unfolds. Peril, like the inclement weather to grapes, faces my dear characters. No lion, yet. No tigers, bears. Oh wow.
Glad I visited my old friends at Enkidu. Such consistent bottles, especially the Sauvignon Blanc. Smooth, creamy, deliciously different.
In the Mise-en-Scen, Mr. Lion. Wish I was teaching my course, instead of this puny comp and developmental nonsense. 31, and I’m on my road. Where it leads, no knowing.
Down the tunnel. Where’s that hoax of an augurer? Pay no attention to the Irish kid behind the computer screen. Love how this film mocks academia, “Doctor of thinkology.”
(Saturday 5/29/2010)
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Birthday Response: Confused Cabernet Character
Me, the calm Cab, doesn’t know what to make of this day. My inner tannic tenacity, stale. Can’t figure out why. Putting on music...
Finally falling into what one could call life. In reading the latest of one of my go-to wine newsstand selections, I eye some reasonably-rated and ticketed Cabernets. Tonight, as it is my “special day,” whatever that’s meant to courier, I will self-activate in activities that I envision for the remainder of these days, not just the “special” ones. Taking a little business bustle to the Alexander Valley, the Wednesday that approaches. This afternoon, what to do...Some tasting here in the valley perhaps? Visit some old friends? Enkidu, Ty, Muscardini, my buddy Kaz? The whole day, mine. Temperament, now quite colorful, no more sour strokes.
(Saturday 5/29/2010)
Finally falling into what one could call life. In reading the latest of one of my go-to wine newsstand selections, I eye some reasonably-rated and ticketed Cabernets. Tonight, as it is my “special day,” whatever that’s meant to courier, I will self-activate in activities that I envision for the remainder of these days, not just the “special” ones. Taking a little business bustle to the Alexander Valley, the Wednesday that approaches. This afternoon, what to do...Some tasting here in the valley perhaps? Visit some old friends? Enkidu, Ty, Muscardini, my buddy Kaz? The whole day, mine. Temperament, now quite colorful, no more sour strokes.
(Saturday 5/29/2010)
Friday, May 28, 2010
Review of Gann Family Cellars, 2007 Malbec, Alexander Valley, Sonoma County
A certain syrupy seduction. Fantastic color, which appeared to slightly darken, or blossom, the longer it napped in the bowl of my glass. Coquettish chords of dark cherry, tobacco, spice, and maple stroke senses. Tannins: tamed, agreeable, purring lionesses. The finish, a rich summation, and continuation, of this poetically quixotic meeting.
Upon sips three, four, and more, I’m spellbound by the touch of this wine, the way her notes approach gently, assure pleasure. Leaning into this cushion, I marvel at its posture, the errorless essence of her ethereal elements. Sip again, to reconnect. Reassured. Oenological witchcraft. Loving the spell which secures and cures me.
(Friday 5/28/2010)
Upon sips three, four, and more, I’m spellbound by the touch of this wine, the way her notes approach gently, assure pleasure. Leaning into this cushion, I marvel at its posture, the errorless essence of her ethereal elements. Sip again, to reconnect. Reassured. Oenological witchcraft. Loving the spell which secures and cures me.
(Friday 5/28/2010)
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Cellars of Sonoma, Indubitable Reflection
Scott, Mike, proprietors and steerers of the Railroad Square gem, offer what we all should seek in not just hospitality, but human interaction. They offer conversation, an occasion, life through unbelievably composed wines. We did the interview tonight, but the sound quality was inexplicably impaired. Take 2, next Tuesday. Did some tasting following the interview. Again, muted by each pour’s quality, inspired. Relaxed, with pour and dialogue. What trumps such?
My reflection self-predicates on their belief in me, and in their operation, their encompassing passion, solemnity. I, truthfully, don’t believe in the existence and concept of perfection. But this magnificent morsel on the square, carries with itself a reality I would apply in perfection’s stead. Go visit them, SOON!
Scott and Mike: Thanks for the support and incomparable libations, hospitality. See you next Tuesday! Salut’!
(Tuesday 5/25/2010)
My reflection self-predicates on their belief in me, and in their operation, their encompassing passion, solemnity. I, truthfully, don’t believe in the existence and concept of perfection. But this magnificent morsel on the square, carries with itself a reality I would apply in perfection’s stead. Go visit them, SOON!
Scott and Mike: Thanks for the support and incomparable libations, hospitality. See you next Tuesday! Salut’!
(Tuesday 5/25/2010)
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Against Linearity; The Fence Never Scaring Me
My genre involves the tangential. I embrace it now. Writers get too consumed by the end product and lose handle on the reality that be, the Now, the process. If these bite-sized contributions to the log are just that, reactionary beats, then I have sipped ascendancy. Ultimate appreciation of the Now, my genre. The Now, my genre. Me, my genre. What’s more applaudable, a novel every three years, or a stream of scribbles, in a terrain of multitudinous themes? I truly don’t know, I’m posing such to you, reader. Either way, if there be a fence, or block, I’m not with it concerned, consumed.
Came to this suit in the Room yesterday, just before colliding with a club member. Won’t let that tear this triumphant tangent. Cubism, a swarm of gems to the line, lines. What do I do with mine? Time for the Room. Not that interested in my shift. Not one spec of enthusiasm gallops in my circuitry. Closing the laptop. Where are my keys? More interest in the sitting.
(Monday 5/24/2010)
Came to this suit in the Room yesterday, just before colliding with a club member. Won’t let that tear this triumphant tangent. Cubism, a swarm of gems to the line, lines. What do I do with mine? Time for the Room. Not that interested in my shift. Not one spec of enthusiasm gallops in my circuitry. Closing the laptop. Where are my keys? More interest in the sitting.
(Monday 5/24/2010)
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Thinking...
About this new project. How do I go into it? Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just plunge. Always worked for me before, kind of. My first assignment, tonight, here in my habitation, a KAZ Alicante Bouchet. Purpose, to detect notes, determine character. I already know it’s good. Opened the bottle last night, and tasted it several times before that.
Kelly, my character, and this wine exodus, an avenue to explore. This mission will be fiction and non-fiction, and a nebulous hybrid of the two, and perhaps more. Fun, frightening.
Beer and wine. Yes, you can have both. What’s the adage, “It takes a lot of beer to make good wine,” or something of that octave. I sip a Bear Republic “Red Rocket Ale” as I’m situated here, in the study, storming with my brainstorming’s storming. Wine, and Us: vinoLit.
(Saturday 5/22/2010)
Kelly, my character, and this wine exodus, an avenue to explore. This mission will be fiction and non-fiction, and a nebulous hybrid of the two, and perhaps more. Fun, frightening.
Beer and wine. Yes, you can have both. What’s the adage, “It takes a lot of beer to make good wine,” or something of that octave. I sip a Bear Republic “Red Rocket Ale” as I’m situated here, in the study, storming with my brainstorming’s storming. Wine, and Us: vinoLit.
(Saturday 5/22/2010)
Reflection: Exploring the Fermented Dimension
Was just watching “World News” with Diane Sawyer. A segment on an Amazon explorer by the name of Ed Stafford rattled my cognition to composition. His passion is humbling, his curiosity moving. He doesn’t cower when confronted by peril, he just keeps walking, blogging, logging his experience and circumstances. I thought, “I should do the same with this area, the wine world.” Now, mine isn’t nearly as profound, but it can be enlightening in its own right, and fun for me as the one “exploring.” The wine life and world by me will be dissected, traversed and appreciated in all dimensions. Everything from production to, of course, the Room itself, to the visitor’s perspective, to the land’s layout, to the merchandise and, even more importantly, the Wine. Need to temper this fervor, emotion and motion. What an idea. A project, a book, several books perhaps. Each day, moment, each Now, confined to the page. No multimedia or networking, disingenuous schmoozing. Just the log, writing, what explorers hundreds of years ago utilized, pen and paper. Let’s see where this leads the overcharged Me...
(Friday 5/21/2010)
(Friday 5/21/2010)
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Barreled
No wine tonight, no beer. Diet Coke, one of the night’s selected pourings. A relaxed evening, all I’m aiming to experience. Miss the grape, but this Now calls for a break. To my right, now, sparkling lime-flavored water. But, wine is still, and always, on this mind. Behind the counter, so many thoughts fly through imagination. Difficult to log all. I try, but the ones I can’t remember, I’m forced to let go. One time, I was tasting the Rhone blend with a guest, and had a core-jolting notion, image, fly by my sight. Tried hard to remember it when they left. Took out my little notepad, but couldn’t scribble a single syllable. Maddening. All I could do was continue with the sips...
(Thursday 5/20/2010)
(Thursday 5/20/2010)
A Day2Me, Free
Wine country ideality. In love. With vines, hills, green, crisp air, the stage’s entirety. Not driving responsibly, eyes all over. Thinking of Creative Writing prompts, for a class of mine own. Creative Wine Writing (1), Wine Journaling (2), Wine Fiction [fiction wine-themed] (3). Stanford, can you hear me? Harvard? Colombia? Yale? The lawnmower on the other side of the door, soiling my savor.
Need to take these chapbooks seriously, release them furiously, speedily. Organization, as a writer, a struggle. A battle, endless scuffle, skirmish, shootout. So, when I reflect in this Sonoma County perfection, I’m not at all free. The highways, vineyards, traces in my vision have trapped me, infinitely. Need music, or do I? Maybe the reality’s enough, like a pour of an amazing blend. The present pour, all one needs to implore.
WRITING PROMPT: Capture your moment, your Now, all its elements, in 300-400 words. Focus on imagery (colors, shapes, proximities). Then, add another 300-400. So, your Now, in 2 installations.
Need to take these chapbooks seriously, release them furiously, speedily. Organization, as a writer, a struggle. A battle, endless scuffle, skirmish, shootout. So, when I reflect in this Sonoma County perfection, I’m not at all free. The highways, vineyards, traces in my vision have trapped me, infinitely. Need music, or do I? Maybe the reality’s enough, like a pour of an amazing blend. The present pour, all one needs to implore.
WRITING PROMPT: Capture your moment, your Now, all its elements, in 300-400 words. Focus on imagery (colors, shapes, proximities). Then, add another 300-400. So, your Now, in 2 installations.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Review of White Oak 2005 Cabernet Sauvignon, Napa Valley
“Have This Cab Kiss”
Tempo, low. Connection, deep. In the bowl, a tantalizing tint. Don’t want these sips to cease, me release. Perfection in this Bordeaux selection. Not a single misstep in her approach to this sipper’s lips. Rich swaying nose, hemming sweet strands to palate: velvety chocolate, stream-like, oaked berry. Buoyant mouthfeel gives way to a nestling, caressing finish. Another sensuous Cab, however leaving me enamored, obsessed, swirled. More than others I’ve met.
Each pour, kiss, pleasantly potent. My lips, palate: sipping and swimming in her succulent spells. New notes gravitate toward me: dark cherry, followed by a humble herbaceous tremor, timid vanilla. This bottle, whirling my balance. Each engagement, layered lusciousness. The 7% Merlot gives her a floating quality, a magnetizing evasiveness. Don’t want to fully understand her, capture her. Bottled flavorful mystery, this Cabernet, its character and consistency.
Not a single qualm with these moments, the sips, osculations. Assuring the pace remains restrained. Just looking at the glass, spacing the tastes. As the palate slips into restlessness, the delicious and irresistible symmetry refastens to unworthy lips. She, White Oak’s vivacious Cabernet, captured me. Sip, sip..
Tempo, low. Connection, deep. In the bowl, a tantalizing tint. Don’t want these sips to cease, me release. Perfection in this Bordeaux selection. Not a single misstep in her approach to this sipper’s lips. Rich swaying nose, hemming sweet strands to palate: velvety chocolate, stream-like, oaked berry. Buoyant mouthfeel gives way to a nestling, caressing finish. Another sensuous Cab, however leaving me enamored, obsessed, swirled. More than others I’ve met.
Each pour, kiss, pleasantly potent. My lips, palate: sipping and swimming in her succulent spells. New notes gravitate toward me: dark cherry, followed by a humble herbaceous tremor, timid vanilla. This bottle, whirling my balance. Each engagement, layered lusciousness. The 7% Merlot gives her a floating quality, a magnetizing evasiveness. Don’t want to fully understand her, capture her. Bottled flavorful mystery, this Cabernet, its character and consistency.
Not a single qualm with these moments, the sips, osculations. Assuring the pace remains restrained. Just looking at the glass, spacing the tastes. As the palate slips into restlessness, the delicious and irresistible symmetry refastens to unworthy lips. She, White Oak’s vivacious Cabernet, captured me. Sip, sip..
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Unfolding, Self-Molding
Sunday 5/16/10. Forgot it was passport weekend today. Took a couple notes, but nothing of note. Sipping some sparkling, from last night. Glad I’m home early. Only two weeks more to the term. Glad it’s over. Want it to be immediately discharged. Education, humorous, sick. A career in such, never. Even if there were, I wouldn’t want.
Want to one day return to screenwriting, wine-themed. Drama at a winery, but the film’s genre would technically be comedy. So much that transpires in the Room is comedic, most of it, in fact. But I’d rather scribe in prose, be free.
Now, I find it troublesome to record anything on this page. Had so many ideas today while pouring, but could not log them in the little log. Ideas, gone. And now, I’m blank. Need to sip more, dissolve the reticence.
8:47p. Hate not being able to prance on page. Feel failed, frail. Watching a show on TV, and it emanates the simple. This program alone shoves me into a slew of sips. Who concocted this bastardization of creativity? Still have some of that Zin I opened last night. Dumping the sparkling. Thought again today, in the Room, about opening a wine shop, and a wine publication, “vinoLit.” First issue, six pages. That’s all I can afford to release. vinoLit for ever!
9:11p. Don’t want to write. Is that bad? Does that make me less of a writer? Feeling recalcitrant, adder-esque. How do I channel this, filter? To page, confine all to this blank space before the author. Sparkling still to the right. Up at 5:30a come morrow. Glad that’ll be a matter extinct come the semester’s demise.
Going to be honest, this entry is like a bad tasting flight. Each pour, each sentence, worse that what came before. If I were a reader, a visitor, I’d want my time, money, back. What am I doing in this sitting, accomplishing? Need Kelly. She’d pull me from this syllabic sludge. Her words, more rich than mine, more direction and complexity, flavor. How do I even deserve her, to have her existence in my thoughts? Right now, she’s probably drawing, or journaling, or enjoying a glass of wine, the peace of her domicile. I fear she would resent my depiction of her Now, her efforts. As I sip this sparkling, she draws, tosses something meaningful at the canvas. She pulls the thin charcoal-shaded clip from her hair. It falls, slides across the blades of her back.
Kelly throws water towards her gentle lips, cheeks. Wiping the beads from her eyes, she imagines love, its reality and feel. I can see her, the next morning, getting a coffee, regular, no sweetening or de-charging of cream. She meets Erlycia in the bookstore across town, the one with the most ideal vista of the waves.
“When did you finish the paper? Did you like the video of the lecture?” Erlycia asks.
“Last night, and no. That lecture did nothing for me. At all,” Kelly says, sipping her coffee. She looks at the shapes in the ocean, thinks about how they would appears on the white, if translated by her.
Want to one day return to screenwriting, wine-themed. Drama at a winery, but the film’s genre would technically be comedy. So much that transpires in the Room is comedic, most of it, in fact. But I’d rather scribe in prose, be free.
Now, I find it troublesome to record anything on this page. Had so many ideas today while pouring, but could not log them in the little log. Ideas, gone. And now, I’m blank. Need to sip more, dissolve the reticence.
8:47p. Hate not being able to prance on page. Feel failed, frail. Watching a show on TV, and it emanates the simple. This program alone shoves me into a slew of sips. Who concocted this bastardization of creativity? Still have some of that Zin I opened last night. Dumping the sparkling. Thought again today, in the Room, about opening a wine shop, and a wine publication, “vinoLit.” First issue, six pages. That’s all I can afford to release. vinoLit for ever!
9:11p. Don’t want to write. Is that bad? Does that make me less of a writer? Feeling recalcitrant, adder-esque. How do I channel this, filter? To page, confine all to this blank space before the author. Sparkling still to the right. Up at 5:30a come morrow. Glad that’ll be a matter extinct come the semester’s demise.
Going to be honest, this entry is like a bad tasting flight. Each pour, each sentence, worse that what came before. If I were a reader, a visitor, I’d want my time, money, back. What am I doing in this sitting, accomplishing? Need Kelly. She’d pull me from this syllabic sludge. Her words, more rich than mine, more direction and complexity, flavor. How do I even deserve her, to have her existence in my thoughts? Right now, she’s probably drawing, or journaling, or enjoying a glass of wine, the peace of her domicile. I fear she would resent my depiction of her Now, her efforts. As I sip this sparkling, she draws, tosses something meaningful at the canvas. She pulls the thin charcoal-shaded clip from her hair. It falls, slides across the blades of her back.
Kelly throws water towards her gentle lips, cheeks. Wiping the beads from her eyes, she imagines love, its reality and feel. I can see her, the next morning, getting a coffee, regular, no sweetening or de-charging of cream. She meets Erlycia in the bookstore across town, the one with the most ideal vista of the waves.
“When did you finish the paper? Did you like the video of the lecture?” Erlycia asks.
“Last night, and no. That lecture did nothing for me. At all,” Kelly says, sipping her coffee. She looks at the shapes in the ocean, thinks about how they would appears on the white, if translated by her.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Review of Cellars of Sonoma
“Treasure Squared”
Railroad Square’s newest jewel. No, Sonoma County’s newest jewel. Nestle your Self in this elegant, humble and human, wine bar. Full-bodied brilliance from a kaleidoscope of small-production wineries. Lovely decor and essence in each square inch of this oasis, for tourists and locals alike (I know I’m going back). Helpful and informative staff, flawless arrangements and accommodations, and great music through a savory sound system. Wines of note (the only ones I have room on this page to address): 1) La Sirena 2008 Napa Valley Moscato Azul, 2) the James Family Cellars 2007 Stony Point Pinot, and, my favorite, 3) DuNah Winery’s 2004 Mendocino Montre Red Wine (one of the most innovative, creative, crazily delicious blends I ever had the opp’ to sip.
This should be recognized as one of the Bay Area’s new gems. Pristine charm with visible intentions to provide for the visitor. Inviting, soothing, exciting. Everything from the black columns behind the counter to the rustic/Tuscan walls, ceilings, surroundings and feel. A swarm of events pepper their calendar. CigarBBQ’s, Lobster Lunches, to aroma seminars. This diamond of a wine bar, not just a place to drink, but one for experiences, moments and memories, life. The number of wines available for pouring, incredible, wildly impressive.
Before writing this reflection, I had a feeling there would be hardship in limiting Self to 100 words. Well, no shock, this is the case. Cellars of Sonoma demonstrates mastery and passion on a number of levels, and that’s just what guests will enjoy in visit. Don’t hope to enjoy, expect to. The level of satisfaction, expect it to be quite high, in all respects. I’m still in reflection, and expect to be till my next visit (which may be today, around 5p). Such a lovable location, the Square, perfect for a spot of this caliber. A view, a gorgeous glass and sedating setting. This is why I use the word “gem.” Moments here, in this stylish tasting Room, though, are invaluable, sumptuous and opulent.
After leaving yesterday, I couldn’t wait to write my reflection, thoughts, moments and memories (yes, from just one, my first, visit). Want to go back for one of the live music nights. Want to go back for all their events. Just want to go back, for more moments.
(Review Composed on Thursday 5/13/10)
Railroad Square’s newest jewel. No, Sonoma County’s newest jewel. Nestle your Self in this elegant, humble and human, wine bar. Full-bodied brilliance from a kaleidoscope of small-production wineries. Lovely decor and essence in each square inch of this oasis, for tourists and locals alike (I know I’m going back). Helpful and informative staff, flawless arrangements and accommodations, and great music through a savory sound system. Wines of note (the only ones I have room on this page to address): 1) La Sirena 2008 Napa Valley Moscato Azul, 2) the James Family Cellars 2007 Stony Point Pinot, and, my favorite, 3) DuNah Winery’s 2004 Mendocino Montre Red Wine (one of the most innovative, creative, crazily delicious blends I ever had the opp’ to sip.
This should be recognized as one of the Bay Area’s new gems. Pristine charm with visible intentions to provide for the visitor. Inviting, soothing, exciting. Everything from the black columns behind the counter to the rustic/Tuscan walls, ceilings, surroundings and feel. A swarm of events pepper their calendar. CigarBBQ’s, Lobster Lunches, to aroma seminars. This diamond of a wine bar, not just a place to drink, but one for experiences, moments and memories, life. The number of wines available for pouring, incredible, wildly impressive.
Before writing this reflection, I had a feeling there would be hardship in limiting Self to 100 words. Well, no shock, this is the case. Cellars of Sonoma demonstrates mastery and passion on a number of levels, and that’s just what guests will enjoy in visit. Don’t hope to enjoy, expect to. The level of satisfaction, expect it to be quite high, in all respects. I’m still in reflection, and expect to be till my next visit (which may be today, around 5p). Such a lovable location, the Square, perfect for a spot of this caliber. A view, a gorgeous glass and sedating setting. This is why I use the word “gem.” Moments here, in this stylish tasting Room, though, are invaluable, sumptuous and opulent.
After leaving yesterday, I couldn’t wait to write my reflection, thoughts, moments and memories (yes, from just one, my first, visit). Want to go back for one of the live music nights. Want to go back for all their events. Just want to go back, for more moments.
(Review Composed on Thursday 5/13/10)
Thursday, May 13, 2010
In the mood for some wine rime:
Wine rime in my spine. Merlot foregoes the time.
Clandestine, expand less grinds. Praise the vine mind;
Pen fervent, and slurred, bent. Walk in blank streets,
tearing up bank sheets. Incomplete. Sin, delete.
Bottle log full. Author, fermented bull.
Stuck in blank luck, but then smile, for hundreds a mile.
Nebbiolo, send me solo. Avant-garde like
my brother Kaz. No follow of other fads.
Zinfandel in the well. My ideas in the
puddle of red. Befuddled, not dead. Read
my inebriated manuscript. Expand and sip.
Need time to breathe, a fine reprieve.
Momentary escape from the grape;
Scenery leaving me agape. Leaning
on the gate. Delay the sip. I’ll never say
a script. Thoreauvian defiance, within
a roaming alliance; exposing the high tents
of critics, censors and skeptics. Me, the sender
of hectics. Tornados, typhoons, upon
nihilistic nay-saying goons. Recite and sip,
afternoon to moon...
Clandestine, expand less grinds. Praise the vine mind;
Pen fervent, and slurred, bent. Walk in blank streets,
tearing up bank sheets. Incomplete. Sin, delete.
Bottle log full. Author, fermented bull.
Stuck in blank luck, but then smile, for hundreds a mile.
Nebbiolo, send me solo. Avant-garde like
my brother Kaz. No follow of other fads.
Zinfandel in the well. My ideas in the
puddle of red. Befuddled, not dead. Read
my inebriated manuscript. Expand and sip.
Need time to breathe, a fine reprieve.
Momentary escape from the grape;
Scenery leaving me agape. Leaning
on the gate. Delay the sip. I’ll never say
a script. Thoreauvian defiance, within
a roaming alliance; exposing the high tents
of critics, censors and skeptics. Me, the sender
of hectics. Tornados, typhoons, upon
nihilistic nay-saying goons. Recite and sip,
afternoon to moon...
Review of Landmark, 2007 Overlook Chardonnay
“Finally, a Truly Spellbinding Chardonnay”
Easy-going but unabashedly multifarious figure before this penman’s palate. Pronounced notes with impressive sequence, coherence. Delightful presence and mouthfeel that transcends to all levels of the sip. The variety in appellation, her three homes, the quiddity of this bottle’s voracity. Tall and thick harmonies of caramel, green apple and almond, bestow a character of an easy nature. She doesn’t force anything, she understands the moment, the reality of enjoyment at an insouciant pace. “Sip as and when you wish,” she says. Further into my sips, she reveals her smoky and foggy approach, the creamy nature of her dialogue would seduce even the most particular of glass tilters. A true treat, a charming Chardonnay, one I save for the the dusk succeeding a hot Sonoma Valley Summer. A character with a heteroclite shape. Still sipping, thanking Sonoma, Santa Barbara, and Monterey counties, her three homes. On sip four, still rich, sapid and toothsome. Sip, sip...
Easy-going but unabashedly multifarious figure before this penman’s palate. Pronounced notes with impressive sequence, coherence. Delightful presence and mouthfeel that transcends to all levels of the sip. The variety in appellation, her three homes, the quiddity of this bottle’s voracity. Tall and thick harmonies of caramel, green apple and almond, bestow a character of an easy nature. She doesn’t force anything, she understands the moment, the reality of enjoyment at an insouciant pace. “Sip as and when you wish,” she says. Further into my sips, she reveals her smoky and foggy approach, the creamy nature of her dialogue would seduce even the most particular of glass tilters. A true treat, a charming Chardonnay, one I save for the the dusk succeeding a hot Sonoma Valley Summer. A character with a heteroclite shape. Still sipping, thanking Sonoma, Santa Barbara, and Monterey counties, her three homes. On sip four, still rich, sapid and toothsome. Sip, sip...
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
AM 200, Starving
First thing for me this day, I shoved my right little toe into the immovable whicker basket by my bed. Still pains me crazy. Want to eat something, but not from this cafeteria. That Cab last night, still fiddling with the impression it me left. Beautiful cruise to campus this morning. Wine country shades, air, scenes. Saw the hot air balloon hovering above Napa as I eased a left onto Streblow. Would be an amazing, and remarkably anomalous, place to write, in that floating basket. Felt the same yesterday as I looked out at the Napa Valley from the winery’s terrace (interview location). Always thinking about this Craft, words with life and worlds.
Kelly, she won’t leave me alone. Don’t want her too. I see her ms as a 150-200 page effort. Not too long, as I don’t want readers to tire of her. And I don’t want her to tire of my pen’s connection to her days, moments.
Arranged the spread pages into files, or potential projects. My cellar, or library, becoming more methodical. Eradicates uneasiness, stress, the alignment of my pages, scribble-laced sittings. No more focus on word amount. You won’t see a number in a title from me again, hopefully.
Kelly, she won’t leave me alone. Don’t want her too. I see her ms as a 150-200 page effort. Not too long, as I don’t want readers to tire of her. And I don’t want her to tire of my pen’s connection to her days, moments.
Arranged the spread pages into files, or potential projects. My cellar, or library, becoming more methodical. Eradicates uneasiness, stress, the alignment of my pages, scribble-laced sittings. No more focus on word amount. You won’t see a number in a title from me again, hopefully.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
500 Wine Words, Tuesday, 5/11/2010
Feel like I haven’t written in months. Has been a couple days, though. Which is too long for this author. May go pull a Cab from one of the local shelves, seeing as I was in the land of the bold Bordeaux earlier. Odd, my sensation, in front of these neglected little keys. Feel like an absentee father, returning because it’s convenient, or I’m hebetudinous form guilt, shame. Need a beer, or something to ease the uncomfortable tremors accompanying my attempt at creative thought. Going to the store, see if the outside, the store’s unavoidable frenzy will make me work. If I return stale, I will commence the sips.
5:15p. Lagunitas IPA, and old scribblings. The literary cellar open, to my left. First twenty pages of BOOK ONE atop all, not yet in a file of their own. Was in the library, or cave, of our winery yesterday. The organization to the vintages, the countless varietals. A well-maintained and groomed history. Need to execute such with this little vault. Stray poetry sheets.
Still not as electric as I’d like to be. Maybe I should tussle with these old vintages of the brain, in this cloudy plastic coffin. The Room, yesterday, gave way to only a teaspoon’s value of notes. Was disappointed clocking out, professedly sour, perplexed. It’s not the characters, surely not my pouring comrades, then what? Me? Is it my age, 31’s intent cloud covering my Now? No, I am a contemplative but formidable Cabernet. I’m still strong, mentally alive, literarily atwitter.
6:09p. Ready for dinner. Where should I go? Might go to Monti’s in the village. Love that place. In fact, I relish my moments there to the point that when I envision ‘whoso’, my little wine spot, their interior, especially the bar area, is from what I expand, illustrate. Decided. That’s where tonight I visit. My interview today went well. The gentleman interviewing me, Andy, was kind, sincere, genuinely interested in my experiences and ideas. Hope to get a callback. Ready for a LIFE of vinoLit.
MY character, Kelly, in the stream of loaded efforts. Pulling her project from the cellar. Can’t find it right now. Shame on me. See? With what I now grapple and quibble, my disorganized habits. Such will infect my progression as a penman. Break.
Found my notes on her. Thought I lost them. Which reminds me, I have my current Mead Composition book downstairs, in my backpack. Unacceptable, these ways. Break 2.
7:29p. Sipping Cab. Napa fruit. Lovely. Official review to come, I swear. This, right now, this Now, true life, living. Moments need savoring, attention. This one has mine. Tangent: Why am I watching “Desperate Housewives?” Surprising the Self is a special shock, just as this wine I regard as a special selection. Wine, whirling my world, enhancing my LIFE, WRITING. Consistency of this bottle...no, need to stop. Writing the review in my little green notepad to this left. vinoLit on the mind now, self-publishing. Opening the document on this dishy laptop...
5:15p. Lagunitas IPA, and old scribblings. The literary cellar open, to my left. First twenty pages of BOOK ONE atop all, not yet in a file of their own. Was in the library, or cave, of our winery yesterday. The organization to the vintages, the countless varietals. A well-maintained and groomed history. Need to execute such with this little vault. Stray poetry sheets.
Still not as electric as I’d like to be. Maybe I should tussle with these old vintages of the brain, in this cloudy plastic coffin. The Room, yesterday, gave way to only a teaspoon’s value of notes. Was disappointed clocking out, professedly sour, perplexed. It’s not the characters, surely not my pouring comrades, then what? Me? Is it my age, 31’s intent cloud covering my Now? No, I am a contemplative but formidable Cabernet. I’m still strong, mentally alive, literarily atwitter.
6:09p. Ready for dinner. Where should I go? Might go to Monti’s in the village. Love that place. In fact, I relish my moments there to the point that when I envision ‘whoso’, my little wine spot, their interior, especially the bar area, is from what I expand, illustrate. Decided. That’s where tonight I visit. My interview today went well. The gentleman interviewing me, Andy, was kind, sincere, genuinely interested in my experiences and ideas. Hope to get a callback. Ready for a LIFE of vinoLit.
MY character, Kelly, in the stream of loaded efforts. Pulling her project from the cellar. Can’t find it right now. Shame on me. See? With what I now grapple and quibble, my disorganized habits. Such will infect my progression as a penman. Break.
Found my notes on her. Thought I lost them. Which reminds me, I have my current Mead Composition book downstairs, in my backpack. Unacceptable, these ways. Break 2.
7:29p. Sipping Cab. Napa fruit. Lovely. Official review to come, I swear. This, right now, this Now, true life, living. Moments need savoring, attention. This one has mine. Tangent: Why am I watching “Desperate Housewives?” Surprising the Self is a special shock, just as this wine I regard as a special selection. Wine, whirling my world, enhancing my LIFE, WRITING. Consistency of this bottle...no, need to stop. Writing the review in my little green notepad to this left. vinoLit on the mind now, self-publishing. Opening the document on this dishy laptop...
Friday, May 7, 2010
Me, the Cab (Amendment 2)
Wasn’t going to post again today, but in the spirit of Cabernet, thought it invited. Prior to this sitting, I have rejected the tag of “Wine Blogger.” Upon a few additional reflectively analytical swirls in my inner control tower, I understand that I am in this respectful league of undeniable literary and artistic merit. I am a conventional writer, as well, but I want to experience all in the marriage of Wine and Lit. The Cabernet I now sip, from 337, spectacular. Bold, beautiful, complex and candid with its rich characteristics. Have always seen this bottle on the shelves of local markets, but always passed. Relived and elated I didn’t this day, for this session.
As a Wine Blogger, I find fodder in such bottles. Accelerate my pen’s throttle. Look at what these pours are doing to me. Altering my presence with its magic. Consistent from nose to back palate and finish. Fruit, dexterity, roasted coffee and a touch of damp atmosphere (not sure how to descriptor/tag it). The finish provides a strip of sweet tar and/or peppery plum. Another...
Amendment 2, revolving around my new and quite fervent embrace of the title Wine Blogger. What an intrepid interlude in this life, to write about, and within, wine. This 337 Cab emboldens me, my fingers as they prance on these keys. No complication, only simplicity, delight. Want to taste another varietal as a Blogger of Wine. Not tonight. Be tempered, Mike, peace. Sipping, still.
Looking at the box of old entries, literary vintages behind.
How will they interact with my particular textual palate?
Hopefully not distancing Self from sturdiness of mind.
Read, re-read, sip.
Tomorrow, Alice and I will be tasting at a new spot here in the valley. New experiences, one of wine’s paramount pleasures. How could one not enjoy this stage, this play, these scenes, what they mean. An enviable dream. Always want to write about it. The full glass, wondering when I’ll be done typing. Even I, the formerly callous Cabernet, will find time and rime within which to play. Sip, sip...
As a Wine Blogger, I find fodder in such bottles. Accelerate my pen’s throttle. Look at what these pours are doing to me. Altering my presence with its magic. Consistent from nose to back palate and finish. Fruit, dexterity, roasted coffee and a touch of damp atmosphere (not sure how to descriptor/tag it). The finish provides a strip of sweet tar and/or peppery plum. Another...
Amendment 2, revolving around my new and quite fervent embrace of the title Wine Blogger. What an intrepid interlude in this life, to write about, and within, wine. This 337 Cab emboldens me, my fingers as they prance on these keys. No complication, only simplicity, delight. Want to taste another varietal as a Blogger of Wine. Not tonight. Be tempered, Mike, peace. Sipping, still.
Looking at the box of old entries, literary vintages behind.
How will they interact with my particular textual palate?
Hopefully not distancing Self from sturdiness of mind.
Read, re-read, sip.
Tomorrow, Alice and I will be tasting at a new spot here in the valley. New experiences, one of wine’s paramount pleasures. How could one not enjoy this stage, this play, these scenes, what they mean. An enviable dream. Always want to write about it. The full glass, wondering when I’ll be done typing. Even I, the formerly callous Cabernet, will find time and rime within which to play. Sip, sip...
Forked
Friday 5/7/10, Amendment
What varietal would I be? I estimate a very tannic Cabernet, one that needs well over an our to settle down, into any semblance of balance. If I were a bottle, I would have to be blended. I need to be blended. My aggression in recent entries is displeasing to me. This is not an apology, but a reckoning that my inner calm needs to stabilize tenacity and ferocity. I’ve been in the mode of assault, of late, and it’s a bit much for my reflective and literary palate. Yours too, I’m sure.
Me, the bold bottled bully, now blended with my more easing traits. Palatable, in this Now and forward. A new author, healthy poise, not as much tannin, or noise. Cheers...
Th. 5/6/10. Stale. Recorded a spoken word piece earlier, made an instrumental and finished another spoken piece. So why has the momentum abandoned me like I have some artistically terminal cornel? Tonight, a Cab from B.R, Cohn. Love that winery, its story. And yes, I love the Doobie Brothers. Need to make my way out there. Maybe I’ll review tonight’s bottle. I’ve had it before, and remember it pouring quite deliciously. Should put it into writing.
Back from dinner with Mom and Dad. Such wonderful people, my parents. Tonight, even after great discussions with them, an incomparable dinner, I’m blank. A flavorless wafer. Sipping, nothing happening. Reading the poetry I earlier put to sheet. Why can’t I now have the same energy? 300 words, this eventide’s objective. Still sad about BOOK ONE’s Now, on the shelf, retired before birth, chance.
The Cabernet tonight, didn’t stir me. Not the bottle, it’s me. I’m upside down, in Wonderland. The flavors and notes, aromas, were there, but I couldn’t react, record. Something’s not right with 2nite. How is it 10:56p? Post-Modern paradox, this night. Time, ignoring my concerns and realizations. My ego is subdued by the Now. I don’t know if I’ll reach my goal. Something is for certain bent.
Going to take my entries to the street. Yes, like the Doobie Brothers. Maybe I shouldn’t write for a few days, like B suggested the other day. Just live life, retain what I retain. Should drive to a city I never visit. Park, and walk. Healdsburg, Novato, Sausalito? I don’t know, but I do realize I need to creep outside of character. The close approaches. So, now I realize how close 31 is. Not that old, right? Mos Def is older than I, and he’s a phenomenal writer, performer. I still have time. Lots.
What varietal would I be? I estimate a very tannic Cabernet, one that needs well over an our to settle down, into any semblance of balance. If I were a bottle, I would have to be blended. I need to be blended. My aggression in recent entries is displeasing to me. This is not an apology, but a reckoning that my inner calm needs to stabilize tenacity and ferocity. I’ve been in the mode of assault, of late, and it’s a bit much for my reflective and literary palate. Yours too, I’m sure.
Me, the bold bottled bully, now blended with my more easing traits. Palatable, in this Now and forward. A new author, healthy poise, not as much tannin, or noise. Cheers...
Th. 5/6/10. Stale. Recorded a spoken word piece earlier, made an instrumental and finished another spoken piece. So why has the momentum abandoned me like I have some artistically terminal cornel? Tonight, a Cab from B.R, Cohn. Love that winery, its story. And yes, I love the Doobie Brothers. Need to make my way out there. Maybe I’ll review tonight’s bottle. I’ve had it before, and remember it pouring quite deliciously. Should put it into writing.
Back from dinner with Mom and Dad. Such wonderful people, my parents. Tonight, even after great discussions with them, an incomparable dinner, I’m blank. A flavorless wafer. Sipping, nothing happening. Reading the poetry I earlier put to sheet. Why can’t I now have the same energy? 300 words, this eventide’s objective. Still sad about BOOK ONE’s Now, on the shelf, retired before birth, chance.
The Cabernet tonight, didn’t stir me. Not the bottle, it’s me. I’m upside down, in Wonderland. The flavors and notes, aromas, were there, but I couldn’t react, record. Something’s not right with 2nite. How is it 10:56p? Post-Modern paradox, this night. Time, ignoring my concerns and realizations. My ego is subdued by the Now. I don’t know if I’ll reach my goal. Something is for certain bent.
Going to take my entries to the street. Yes, like the Doobie Brothers. Maybe I shouldn’t write for a few days, like B suggested the other day. Just live life, retain what I retain. Should drive to a city I never visit. Park, and walk. Healdsburg, Novato, Sausalito? I don’t know, but I do realize I need to creep outside of character. The close approaches. So, now I realize how close 31 is. Not that old, right? Mos Def is older than I, and he’s a phenomenal writer, performer. I still have time. Lots.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
One More PM Posting
Hate finding typos. In the previous installation, found a spot where there should’ve been a period. I know, I’m obsessing. Isn’t that a bit admirable, indicative of passion for the entry? So upset over the discovery of that one sentence discrepancy. Have to let it go. Going to “post” this addition to the log in the early morrow. “Morrow,” have misspelled that a few times, I recall, bitterly. I can’t be perfect, why am I scolding the Self?
The morning mocha, already telling me to halt the union of sentence and sip. “Avatar,” the most overrated movie ever. Just thought I’d quickly convey my cinematic conviction. Swiftly switching subjects. I definitely need to stop. Bona sera...
(Wed 5/5/10)
The morning mocha, already telling me to halt the union of sentence and sip. “Avatar,” the most overrated movie ever. Just thought I’d quickly convey my cinematic conviction. Swiftly switching subjects. I definitely need to stop. Bona sera...
(Wed 5/5/10)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Wednesday 5/5/10: Disappointed, Diligent -- Euphoric Potion (PV/Mb)
Probably good that I’m inside, sipping and writing. The fifth of May can be a bit more lively that I’m able to handle, currently Went out to Sebastopol to do a reading, signups at 5p. Not the right venue for me, my spoken word/music. Need somewhere more vivacious, spontaneous, mobile. This spot, unfortunately, was not. Beautiful decor, ambience, but not what I’m looking for. Not many patrons/possible poets within. So I left, disappointed, sad.
Petit Verdot and Malbec, blend of the evening. A bit imbalanced, especially in the transition from nose to mouthfeel and mid. No matter, I advance into the dark sea before me, for the sake of this prose and poetry. Going to record a spoken piece tonight. No fail. And, sadly, I must convey the verisimilitude of BOOK ONE being temporarily shelved. Funds are needed, quick. Poetry, the spoken pieces, and quick releases, are able to do such. I don’t have the exorbitance of devoting a cluster of blinks to editing, at least not now, in this Now. When stability is reestablished, BOOK ONE and I shall breath the same air, of this Room.
Can hear the wind, whistling, through the barely visible break between wall and window. What is it trying to tell me? Perhaps it’s speaking to the vixen of a witch that be this bottle. Sip, sip. She, in this glass, a euphoric potion. She would turn anyone into a wine writer/journalist. Writing some rimes on little post-its. Did I write that right?
6:13p. Complexities in this pour, and the ones before, self-complicating, compiling. Hopefully too, this sitting. Yesterday while “centering” on the departmental exams, I reflected on my sister’s use of the ‘those who cannot do’ saying. If these “teachers” around me profess to be experts, or masters, of the written word, why aren’t they subsisting within their pages? I don’t want to do this, be this, any longer. In fact, a full-timer, in her smug, self-elevated sense of supple pseudo-superiority told me not to be such a philosopher. No, her words were: “When reading these [student essays, exams] you’re more like a doctor, not a philosopher.” She scolded me for thinking outside the ridiculous rubric, for acknowledging a small elemental knot in a student’s writing, which did disrupt the structure and argument, in my mind. The evaluation of this “departmental exam,” or any academic exercise of similar instance, or any, is subjective. I was scolded for embracing my right to response, to think outside their box. Going mad, with these bots. I want my checks to stem from my literary stretch. I was angry, at first, when the full-timer’s snout projected in my direction. But now, my vision is reinforced.
Thinking of instrumentals I could make, tonight. Just want to put the Self out into the world, for(ce) the populace to hear, read. Rime book to the left. This wine, still urging me to continue talking about her. Doesn’t she understand that I need to focus on other efforts? I’m not mad at her. She reminds me not for forget about my new character. “Turn her into a series,” she says, tsunami-ing towards my core.
That full-timer still in my thoughts. Can’t cut her out. She’s like a wine club member of academia: aloof, revolting, jocular. If she’s such a phenomenal scribe, scholar, why is she not published? Why isn’t she touring and traveling with her brilliance? I’ll never be like her. I’m not. The recollection of her words propels me to the potion. Next page...
8:11p. Tomorrow’s dedicated, hopefully, to a certain scholarly effort. Still infatuated with Deconstruction, Post-Modernism, its playful hops across centuries of opuses. The other day, in the Room, a coworker stated that theory “is all b.s.” How eloquent, insightful. It is only “b.s.” if you are unfamiliar with it, don’t know how to control its functions and constituents. You may be thinking, “How could you criticize one of your beloved characters from the Room?” Well, as you may recall, I refuse to self-censor. I will apply scathing appraisal, animadversion, where I feel warranted. This individual is obviously unhappy with many of their current facets. Hence, entitled dismissiveness. To label an avenue of mental exploration that spans centuries “b.s.” not only shows how uneducated you are with what you are criticizing, but also highlights your deteriorating social presence and ability to civilly exchange ideas, even listen. Shame, but funny, to me.
Watching TV. What’s on? You’re correct, nothing. So my eyes are back on the screen. One of my Room characters called a few hours ago, asking if I would cover, come morrow. Left a message, said I couldn’t because of grading, other work. Writing is “work,” right? My “career?” That’s my task for the 6th of Mayo. Mocha and manuscript(s). Tomorrow, to be mocha-motivated.
Still haven’t seated the Self in front of the instru equipment. I will though. Need some beats tonight, some crazy sounds. Also need a break from this sitting. Getting a cramp in the right leg, in back of the knee. Weird. Now I’m jittering with confidence, gusto, at the prospect of molding sounds, percussion. Voracious, my veins, desiring to devour sounds, mix what remains with rimes, lines. Sip, sip...
9:15p. Thinking about grad school, as I cruise through this Literary Terms dictionary. See, the character I addressed prior is so lazy and dismissive that they would never reference such a gem resource. So simplistic, that character. Deconstruction, “no guaranteed essential meaning.” I view this as a challenge to find one. Will be in those Stanford halls, one day close. Lit and Creative Writing, Fiction. Be their most prized professor. Wow, now I am dreaming. Nothing wrong with that, though, right?
Miss the rain, its sounds. Thankful for the present atmospheric conditions, climate, but I do miss the clouds’ tearing. This weather doesn’t concert with the pen, these sittings, the way that the inclement does. Seeking sovereignty, regardless of the sky’s setup. My fingers cease. In altitude, decreased.
Edited the session thus far. Hate finding typos. Why do I let them upset me so? I’m human. Why can’t I accept that? Must be typing too fast. Product of passion. Ms. Plath would be proud. Still low from my realization of the venue. Where does a poet go for a reading in this county? The book of rimes, to the side, tugging at my character. The blend tells me to disengage from this prose. I will. Deconstructing the Self, my Self. Forgive me, pig, if I’m too much of a “philosopher.” Whatever that means.
Petit Verdot and Malbec, blend of the evening. A bit imbalanced, especially in the transition from nose to mouthfeel and mid. No matter, I advance into the dark sea before me, for the sake of this prose and poetry. Going to record a spoken piece tonight. No fail. And, sadly, I must convey the verisimilitude of BOOK ONE being temporarily shelved. Funds are needed, quick. Poetry, the spoken pieces, and quick releases, are able to do such. I don’t have the exorbitance of devoting a cluster of blinks to editing, at least not now, in this Now. When stability is reestablished, BOOK ONE and I shall breath the same air, of this Room.
Can hear the wind, whistling, through the barely visible break between wall and window. What is it trying to tell me? Perhaps it’s speaking to the vixen of a witch that be this bottle. Sip, sip. She, in this glass, a euphoric potion. She would turn anyone into a wine writer/journalist. Writing some rimes on little post-its. Did I write that right?
6:13p. Complexities in this pour, and the ones before, self-complicating, compiling. Hopefully too, this sitting. Yesterday while “centering” on the departmental exams, I reflected on my sister’s use of the ‘those who cannot do’ saying. If these “teachers” around me profess to be experts, or masters, of the written word, why aren’t they subsisting within their pages? I don’t want to do this, be this, any longer. In fact, a full-timer, in her smug, self-elevated sense of supple pseudo-superiority told me not to be such a philosopher. No, her words were: “When reading these [student essays, exams] you’re more like a doctor, not a philosopher.” She scolded me for thinking outside the ridiculous rubric, for acknowledging a small elemental knot in a student’s writing, which did disrupt the structure and argument, in my mind. The evaluation of this “departmental exam,” or any academic exercise of similar instance, or any, is subjective. I was scolded for embracing my right to response, to think outside their box. Going mad, with these bots. I want my checks to stem from my literary stretch. I was angry, at first, when the full-timer’s snout projected in my direction. But now, my vision is reinforced.
Thinking of instrumentals I could make, tonight. Just want to put the Self out into the world, for(ce) the populace to hear, read. Rime book to the left. This wine, still urging me to continue talking about her. Doesn’t she understand that I need to focus on other efforts? I’m not mad at her. She reminds me not for forget about my new character. “Turn her into a series,” she says, tsunami-ing towards my core.
That full-timer still in my thoughts. Can’t cut her out. She’s like a wine club member of academia: aloof, revolting, jocular. If she’s such a phenomenal scribe, scholar, why is she not published? Why isn’t she touring and traveling with her brilliance? I’ll never be like her. I’m not. The recollection of her words propels me to the potion. Next page...
8:11p. Tomorrow’s dedicated, hopefully, to a certain scholarly effort. Still infatuated with Deconstruction, Post-Modernism, its playful hops across centuries of opuses. The other day, in the Room, a coworker stated that theory “is all b.s.” How eloquent, insightful. It is only “b.s.” if you are unfamiliar with it, don’t know how to control its functions and constituents. You may be thinking, “How could you criticize one of your beloved characters from the Room?” Well, as you may recall, I refuse to self-censor. I will apply scathing appraisal, animadversion, where I feel warranted. This individual is obviously unhappy with many of their current facets. Hence, entitled dismissiveness. To label an avenue of mental exploration that spans centuries “b.s.” not only shows how uneducated you are with what you are criticizing, but also highlights your deteriorating social presence and ability to civilly exchange ideas, even listen. Shame, but funny, to me.
Watching TV. What’s on? You’re correct, nothing. So my eyes are back on the screen. One of my Room characters called a few hours ago, asking if I would cover, come morrow. Left a message, said I couldn’t because of grading, other work. Writing is “work,” right? My “career?” That’s my task for the 6th of Mayo. Mocha and manuscript(s). Tomorrow, to be mocha-motivated.
Still haven’t seated the Self in front of the instru equipment. I will though. Need some beats tonight, some crazy sounds. Also need a break from this sitting. Getting a cramp in the right leg, in back of the knee. Weird. Now I’m jittering with confidence, gusto, at the prospect of molding sounds, percussion. Voracious, my veins, desiring to devour sounds, mix what remains with rimes, lines. Sip, sip...
9:15p. Thinking about grad school, as I cruise through this Literary Terms dictionary. See, the character I addressed prior is so lazy and dismissive that they would never reference such a gem resource. So simplistic, that character. Deconstruction, “no guaranteed essential meaning.” I view this as a challenge to find one. Will be in those Stanford halls, one day close. Lit and Creative Writing, Fiction. Be their most prized professor. Wow, now I am dreaming. Nothing wrong with that, though, right?
Miss the rain, its sounds. Thankful for the present atmospheric conditions, climate, but I do miss the clouds’ tearing. This weather doesn’t concert with the pen, these sittings, the way that the inclement does. Seeking sovereignty, regardless of the sky’s setup. My fingers cease. In altitude, decreased.
Edited the session thus far. Hate finding typos. Why do I let them upset me so? I’m human. Why can’t I accept that? Must be typing too fast. Product of passion. Ms. Plath would be proud. Still low from my realization of the venue. Where does a poet go for a reading in this county? The book of rimes, to the side, tugging at my character. The blend tells me to disengage from this prose. I will. Deconstructing the Self, my Self. Forgive me, pig, if I’m too much of a “philosopher.” Whatever that means.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Tuesday 5/4/10
Have to drive out to Napa for some useless centering session, for the department exams. Adjuncts in attendance receive a $75 stipend, but this is not nearly enough to eradicate the overall inconvenience, and boredom during the meeting itself. So tired of this. Topic next.
Another lovely wine country arrangement outside these walls. Have to leave at 2p, add or minus a couple minutes. Till then, enjoying my time, my day. Actually, I may leave a little earlier, get some grading done. Can’t wait till this semester is over. Even though only two sections I carried, it has been the most draining, disenchanting, and souring semester in my “career” thus far. Adjuncting is not a career, it is a contribution to convenience, their convenience, that of the college, the department. We continue to fetch, beg for assignments. Me, now, I make demands. They will be reasonable, even though I have every justification to be aggressive and/or hostile, but they will be firm, consistent with what I want for my life, its brevity.
Another lovely wine country arrangement outside these walls. Have to leave at 2p, add or minus a couple minutes. Till then, enjoying my time, my day. Actually, I may leave a little earlier, get some grading done. Can’t wait till this semester is over. Even though only two sections I carried, it has been the most draining, disenchanting, and souring semester in my “career” thus far. Adjuncting is not a career, it is a contribution to convenience, their convenience, that of the college, the department. We continue to fetch, beg for assignments. Me, now, I make demands. They will be reasonable, even though I have every justification to be aggressive and/or hostile, but they will be firm, consistent with what I want for my life, its brevity.
Monday, May 3, 2010
PM 100: Plath’s Passage, Passion
Ms. Plath said: “But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.” How can my strides be significant if they are only constructed for an abbreviated stretch? Time, this all has to do with the tics on the clock, the putrid flexes of the mortal stock. But how long is life? Not that much, in my scope. I’ll be 31 soon. Ms. Plath, her vision, like mine, but not. Her and I, a languorous love affair.
My interests, passions, scattered on the carpet. Scribbles and entries, from that old tomb. Moments from years past. One day, the sittings will cease. Not tonight. Ms. Plath won’t let me.
My interests, passions, scattered on the carpet. Scribbles and entries, from that old tomb. Moments from years past. One day, the sittings will cease. Not tonight. Ms. Plath won’t let me.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Hair-brained, Half-witted Writers...
That want to attack me over email, or some flimsy group email address: know what you are doing. You are inciting a figure of the pen that you, of all “artists,” certainly can’t bend. I didn’t respond to you because your wording reveals the lunatic, and barely mediocre scribe, you embody. Tired of typing my qualm. So, if we ever each other encounter, I’ll introduce you to the nucleus of my acrimony. Your assemblage is worthless, not sure why I ever had curiosity in its rumored merit. This entry, the first stage of an unraveling of rage.
Shots ring. Stillness, what the clots bring. You’re prehistoric.
Me, phantasmagoric. Old-timers like you abhor it. Store clips
for the day the bubble bursts. Was balanced, but now
I have a troubled thirst. More letters like that,
you and your pages’ll be burnt.
9:33p. Been edgy lately. This is something I could truly without do. The Room today, stale like mass crackers. Tonight, not eloquent, laconic. Need to walk away from this sitting before it becomes any more polluted. Reconsidering much this eve, how I approach this log, my audience, the whole concept of an audience. And on that note, no reader should respect me if I’m writing for the sole sake of appeasing an audience. I want to be acknowledged, and yes respected, for steadying Self in my vision, detailing my days. No more muffling of Self.
The path, brief at best. Me savoring all steps. I remember what Emerson wrote: “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.” A dance I’ll embrace. Patterns, ugly. Commotion, gorgeous. Tomorrow, with a day off from the Room (thanks to George), plans cement, crystalize. I’m never going to be the pseudo-author, like the puppet who swung at me. Mayweather of the pen, me.
Shots ring. Stillness, what the clots bring. You’re prehistoric.
Me, phantasmagoric. Old-timers like you abhor it. Store clips
for the day the bubble bursts. Was balanced, but now
I have a troubled thirst. More letters like that,
you and your pages’ll be burnt.
9:33p. Been edgy lately. This is something I could truly without do. The Room today, stale like mass crackers. Tonight, not eloquent, laconic. Need to walk away from this sitting before it becomes any more polluted. Reconsidering much this eve, how I approach this log, my audience, the whole concept of an audience. And on that note, no reader should respect me if I’m writing for the sole sake of appeasing an audience. I want to be acknowledged, and yes respected, for steadying Self in my vision, detailing my days. No more muffling of Self.
The path, brief at best. Me savoring all steps. I remember what Emerson wrote: “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.” A dance I’ll embrace. Patterns, ugly. Commotion, gorgeous. Tomorrow, with a day off from the Room (thanks to George), plans cement, crystalize. I’m never going to be the pseudo-author, like the puppet who swung at me. Mayweather of the pen, me.
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