Untitled Dizziness...

Sipping a 2006 Malbec, Sonoma Valley fruit. Won’t mention the winery, as the wine isn’t that good. I don’t engage in defamation. Slow day at work today. Lots of writing, though. Mark and I made our way around the Square, so I could be aware of hot PR spots. Do not miss the classroom a drop. All, for this page, the wine, vinoLit. Music, invaluable. Arranging a playlist for tomorrow, in fact. The tunes create the stage, the ambience.

More and more confident that I could operate a successful and wildly popular wine bar. A little dance floor, cornered, as I discussed with Mark today. One problem I see with opening such a spot on the Square, rent. Landlords would charge and eye and an ear, they can. Not sure where I’m going with this session. Just want to sip, enjoy this maybe-average Mb, pretend I’m in Wine Knot...

Addicted to pictures now. I apologize, readers, for not including them since the log’s birth. Either way, here we are, with a new flavor profile. Still sipping. Looks good in the pic, but in actuality, I taste south of mediocrity. Could I make better wine, of course not. Yeah, topic next. Not as hot tonight. So pleased. Sip, sip...

(Tuesday 6/29/2010)

Beauty, Here

Picture 169 in my camera. Why do I love the wine world’s stage and essence? The combination of shades, the development of day, occasion. No other realm more beauteous. Imagining my Self back in this frame (even though I was working that day). Sitting at one of the tables on St. Francis‘ back patio with a glass of the ’09 Sauv Blanc, and just stare up at the mountain.

I am not at all startled when I’m approached from the other side of the counter by people from all sides of the globe. Sonoma Valley, my Heaven. Still, at my camera’s precious still frame staring. Sip, sip...

(Sunday 6/27/2010)

Review of Kaz Vineyard and Winery, 2009 Lenoir, Pagani Ranch

Her melody, unfamiliar, as is her tongue, syllable. She evades my capture, comprehension. I follow, I have to. She stops for our collision, entanglement. Slow, for more. She keeps me still, sedated, surrounding my senses in spell.
Deep blackberry and blueberry presentation with mild oak and damp soil, floral and forward. Her incense strings me obsessive. Her augury, a flavorful and quaint comet to my core. Sip again, sensual stretch. Her aggressive maneuvers mold my mind, time. Scent to reflection, profound, an equation, a beautiful bully of sorts to any analytical aptitude. She can’t be solved, why she’s so libidinous. Keepable, strong and sensual character...
As I many times do, I glare in catatonic admiration at this glassed femme. Thickest, most situated of nights. I her swirl, to further my daze. With each sip, the graceful ghoul displays her motioned ballad on palate. I follow, to continue as a follower of her path of notes. Amorously different, deliciously divine. Persist with my newest of sip trysts.

(Friday 6/25/2010)

Piles

Challenging, not to be separated, scattered. So many sheets aflutter in my Now, journals too. I long ago vowed to stop jumping journals. I blame the wine, especially this new expansive affair with Cabernet. Waking early tomorrow, I swear.
Took home some barrel samples today, for the new winery. Made way through 5 of 9. Couldn’t sip anymore wine, honestly. Never thought I’d say that. Damn this clutter. Wish I was at the Wine Bloggers’ Conference in WA. Had an opp to go, but I landed this new post. Quite content with how all unfolded. Chooser’s remorse, none in this coat.
Hate paperwork, business cards, forms. Unneeded extra. Who wants that? Certainly not me, nor this poetry.

(Thursday 6/24/2010)

Standing Session II

So, I turn around, see vineyards. Endless arranged green. Last night, enjoyed the calm Cabernet of Hawkes. In my maze, an opus develops. When it to fruition flexes, only the idea itself knows. The wind outside forces the vines to dance. Getting mad at the vehicles racing by, interrupting my favorite show.
On the hunt, yet again, for an unorthodox, WEIRD, surprising blend. Called my comrades at the Wine Emporium in Sebastopol yesterday. They informed me, prospect by prospect, that much me awaits. Hope I have adequate cash stash, to supply my ever-dwindling wine cache. Sure I misspelled something in that last sentence, and probably more in the lines preceeding. This is a standing session. My fingers, cramping, legs shaking, eyes watering from being so close to this devilish screen. I need some level of allowance, leniency. Cringe at what I could be misspelling. Need a sip of something...Chard.

Recovery, Me

Not writing as much as I should. Shame on this penman. Interesting day in the new Room. Actually had a full bar at one point. Exciting. Reminded me of the old Room, and my crew. Met up with Mark. Interesting mise en scene, an old character on the new stage. Seeing much promise and delivery within the new walls. Can’t get over the miniature echoes of my ambient music, playlists.
Presently sipping one of our Cabs, the calmer of four, go figure, with me, the calm Cab character. This day, ending. So thankful for my near-return to balance, getting away from flu, or cold, otherwise inconvenience. In AV tomorrow. From there I note. Peace, sip sip...

(Wednesday 6/23/2010)

Standing Session

The Room, chilled, for me. The music, same. Chill. For me. Am I over this cold, so I can delight in the sips again? Not sure. Looking at the bottles to my left, wondering what their circuitry and unseen plains withhold for the palate. Not sure I like being on sole, pushing these keys. The music stopped. Where are the guests? Maybe I should go troll around the square, offer a free flight of consistently unique, and politely audacious, savory wines.
Please forgive errors, misspells. Not in my studio. Don't have the thesaurus and spellcheck at ready. People walking by, but not in. Should I for them sip? No. I want to be in position. Already have recorded a bucket's worth of reflection this morning, early afternoon. A friend, and owner of local winery, just dropped off a bottle. Already wrote a review for this masterful effort of his. But tonight, if I am adequately resurrected, a revisit to the supple Sangio?

After a Day Stretched

Thursday 6/17/2010. And after a long PR stint, I’m spent. Thankful to be here, with these journalistic breaths, the Racer. So many different Rooms, characters, views today. The wine world has whirled me wondrously, again. Here I play, and forever stay.
9:44p. Out on the square of Sonoma, come morrow. Will have the page on person each tick of the clock. Hear crickets down on the little grass lump, middle of units. What are they telling me? “Open some wine.” No thanks. Sleep, this author needs.
Challenge to Self: 1k, every day. Long as able...Post each to blog. Forgive me, eyes of others. Took a couple notes today, while in my car, parking lot of Arrowood. Saw my brother Kaz, for the first in a while. Love his tasting Room, the barrels, low light, airborne vino notes. Exhaustion stampeding about the core of a poet. Off button...

Verse I, Edict

Postponement in atonement, my own component, I own it.
Condone trips to lone strips. My bones, a brick. Why clone the sick?
Light shone with thick strips. Drum kicks and numb bits with some
Lit. How much sense do I make, why so tense when I take the
pen in hand. My den, I planned, to land on other sand, beforehand.
On a comet harnessed. Which artist can mar it the farthest?
Wallah, Syrah, huzzah. Sip till my head is blurred, and the said-so,
inferred. Never deterred. Clever speaker, with a better leisure.
Eased and pleased by the Bay that be Monterey. Choose to stay.
Lose no day. You, blue, go ‘way. Left is odd array.
Magic spell, send critics and overconfident writers to a tragic hell.
Encapsulated in a spastic cell. Not a sarcastic yell.
Venom spitter, more immediate than Twitter. Stand with band, not a
sitter. Enjoy the Cabernet’s play and way, emitter.
Welcome rival scribes, imbibe my tribe’s vibe.
In vino veritas, watch me glow, weary lost. In the log I bury cost.
Incendiary fogs, I’ve been to many bogs. The pour makes way for play,
more lore...

(Monday 6/14/10)

Still Summeresque, Sipping Chardonnay

The Chardonnay helps, but doesn’t heal. As this author’s age elevates, his patience dissipates. Crickets deliver delicious harmonies, urging me to prance with page like a chorus’ melodic advance onstage. Will I miss the adjunct cage, no. Students, some. Elyse, Katie, Khaled, Tony--the exceptions, the mentally alive. Literary in me, eternally, intrinsically. Cars, interrupting crickets. How rude. Peace in this office. Thinking of book titles, be it a chap or novel, collection, what have.
These sessions of randomness centralize, epitomize upon what I situate, deliberate. Another sip of the Boekenoogen Chard, peace. Thank Ms. Alice for sharing. I speak of nothing, or dreams. Watching an interview with Mr. Shakur. Still moved by his immovability, assertiveness. Frustrated with the manner in which he was so soullessly dismissed. Those scrutinies, most, from nonartists...

(Saturday 6/12/2010)

To You...

Just because you drink wine, doesn’t conclusively denote you know wine. And just because you identify POTENTIAL notes, and can scribble those traits in a journal you purchased in a gift shop, in no way knights you as a “wine writer.” Wine, respectably complicated. Writing, a transcending equation with no solution (and anybody seeking a “writing solution,” or formula, can never be a writer...writing is about the variables, embracing and expanding from lack of predictability, convention). Writing about wine, requires undissembled motivation. Forgive me, reader. I simply have protruding fangs for the fashionable, those addressing wine, writing, writing on wine, because it’s “the thing to do.”
9:31p, and it’s still of moist adhering air. Oven, this Room. Wish I could fly away, with the witch on her broom. Maybe that’s why I’m rattling, coiled, agitated at passers on path. Songwriters: writing “songs” makes not you a figure of the pen, worthy of readership, “listenership,” if there such a reality be. I sip, sip, hoping a chill with through the screen screech.

(Saturday 6/12/10)

Before Morrow

Pause, levitate in mine own laws. What does that mean, surely not sure. But these lines catapult my cure. No more barreled extract. Need to remain intact. Working on a poem, but needed cesura, immediate. But still, my stasis, stale, pale. No avail.
Topic next, the incoming. July, with the forward. Time, not something I want to taste. A vile vintage. Onward I curve, with these words. Not worried about the Chair’s flares. She’s an out-of-tune horn, playing to an uninterested audience. She can’t crack this calm Cabernet. Excited with the coming day. Won’t ever present Self as phony sage. Textual trace, the wavering wage...

(Tuesday 6/8/10)

Review of Boekenoogen, 2008 Syrah, Santa Lucia Highlands

Expansive, deep-caped, levitating femme. Entry to end, a smooth saint. The confident posture in the glass allures, lures me. She slides gentle berry notes and a softened sliver of mint to my restless senses. Sip. Smoke notes massage this captured anecdote. Sedating Syrah, she leaps to these easy lips with her spell already in my circuitry. The ripples in my inner pond, modulating. A finish that ties with the succeeding kiss, unable for me to be remiss. Not with this supernatural Syrah, my veracious tryst.
Before the third and forth sip, I again just stare at her shade, her posture in the unworthy glass. Love the night-like sight. Urge for her lip contact, why fight? Syrah, this continuous, tuneful and savory, not to mention erotic, oenological wonder, my new plight. Why did I only walk out with one bottle? Slower, slower. Delay the moment’s mute.
Nose to finish, mastery, a spell, a romantic encounter. Sip equals deep, evocative kiss. Why I love wine, the moment, the affair, like this, like her. Sipping again, thinking of Paris. Why? She’s taking me to past places, possible traces. Her presence effaces my basis, aesthetic homeostasis. How can I write another reflection after this one, truly? Not at all sad. Sedated, safe, elated, much more than infatuated.

(Sunday June 6, 2010)

Imaginary Session

11:40a. Clocking in late. Errands, I blame them. Hate tasks that “have to” be done. But, life entails this. Topic next, the wine glasses I saw yesterday with lipstick prints. I asked myself, “Who were these characters? Wish I had some bit of information from which to expand.” But I don’t. Ideas I have to either let go, or shove into the cellar. Painful for a writer. Morning mocha to the right. Excited about the re-shoot of the Cellars of Sonoma interview. Stan and JK may show up. Would be nice, perhaps make it even more lively than our first take, if that’s possible. Scott has a nonpareil mien in front of the lens. Need to mirror his movements, energy.
A great day yesterday in the Room. Me, Mark, JK, Cam, Stan, Cara, the crew that could run any Room in this valley or the other. This Memorial Day weekend provided quite of bit of material, Notes, for these eyes to ingest. One new aspect of winery life (not just the Room, mind you) that unfolds and ferments with more wonder each day, gossip. How people love to talk, about each other, about other wineries, about the wines they themselves are forced to sell when in fact it them repels. And, don’t let me forget, the exchanges on the other side of the counter. I’m not going to delivery this with negative notes, sour savor. This element is Human, and endlessly captivating, stirring.

I now see those tracks left by the purplish-red shade as a curious character. She has done something with her life. A boutique store owner in Marin. No boyfriend, but does welcome occasional company, thrills. Frequents SF, Northbeach and sometimes the Marina, but tires of the same routine. Thinks about selling her shop to open a tasting Room/wine shop in Tiburon. But how would she afford it? She didn’t have investors help with her current front, and she didn’t want any for a future leap. She sips, reassures herself that all will fall into order.

1:04p. How does time live with itself, passing us with such indifference? Starting to hunger. What’s a conducive writer’s lunch? Sandwich? Chinese? Maybe there’s no such things as a writer’s lunch. A glass of Chardonnay, and a chicken salad: the writer’s lunch, maybe. But, not what sounds good to this blocked author.
Speaking of white wine(s), I need to go on a hunt for some, like that Eric Ross blend I reviewed not too long ago. Know where lunch is to be acquired. Be back...

4:19p. Settled on the classic tuna salad sandwich. Stepping away from this computer screen for pen and paper, the ink, line/sheet. A sip of vintage. Do I have any Chard downstairs to sip before the Cellars meeting? Don’t think so. Off to the Composition book. These rimes won’t leave me alone. Love it. Heard someone at Starbucks use the word “convivium” in a conversation with her friends. Would have eavesdropped, but they were at the first table, to the left, as soon as one enters. Would have looked odd.

Tonight, hunting for the oddest of blends, the most rooted, and coherent.

11:29p. Home from my interaction with Cellars. Can’t thank them enough, as wobbly as I be. Couple more lines, and I retire. Come morrow, to the Alex Valley. Let it be known, don’t think you can attach strings to an author like Mike. Let it be also known, much respect to JK and Stan, for their solidarity towards the literary, me. vinoLit4ever! This Rhone blend, a sown send.

(Tuesday 6/1/2010)