Things Many

So the night’s writing begins.  Have to be steady with this delivery, prompt.  The podcast, still uploading.  Hate waiting.  Tomorrow, in early.  For inventory.  Hate inventory, but it’s part of the business, “the industry.” Lovely day today.  Great guests, moments, lessons.  Further convinced I can run my own business, be it a small press or/and a wine lounge.  Lost thought train.  Not going to mold the 3 pages I’d hoped, do the whole John Updike routine.  Thursday, three days in front.  Can’t wait for its morning.  The mocha manuscript morning, on my day off.  Completely free, coated in poetry.  This wine, this ’08 Zin, telling me to keep with the pushes of little coal-colored buttons.  The weather today, responsible for my transcribed inertia.  

Thinking the cat at the winery is symbolic of...hard to tell.  Perhaps playfulness, curiosity,  independence, exploration.  He, little Jake, gives me ideas for lectures, for my Stanford sessions.  Have an idea about a Lit class: American Lit, 20th-21st century.  Focus on narrative, universal “contemporary” themes.  Still a professor.  Always a writer.  One loving wine.  And the page.

(Monday, 1/31/2011)

’07’s Veracity, Propelling and Telling Me

To do what?  Be me.  Not at all scripted.  To combat order.  To be pastiche.  True, I’m addressing vintage, something dealing with wine’s inclusive tune.  And this is a wine blog, right?  “So, when are you going to talk about wine?  Be a REAL wine blogger?” Can’t help but laugh.  I would be letting down my beloved students.  All of them.  Can’t.  In full Literary mode, with a FULL glass of 2007 Sonoma County Cab to right.  That’s about as wine-related as this prose will develop.  I’m at a point in my existential fermentation where I’m shedding obligation, commitment, reservations.  Now, in the bunker.  Never coming out.  Nothing more important than the page.

In this sip, I’m considering situations surrounding.  MY character, in need of enrichment, a unique contribution.  From where?  Authors past.  Current humans, not human.  Glass, emptying.  Need another pour.  Am I really only ten pages away from 300?  Why am I not on the shelf?  Cold in my office.  2007, keeping the writer warm.  Last call, tonight, 12a.  Need to rest well.  I’m a writer.  Regular people, merely material.  Going to get another pour.  Need to read more.  Why am I not reading?  Going to find a quote ... “I don’t see myself being special; I just see myself having more responsibilities than the next man.  People look to me to do things for them, to have answers.” -Tupac Shakur

I’m not aiming to be confrontational.  But if that’s how I’m perceived, then I guess that’s the new me.  I only have so much allegiance to “the industry.” Again, I’m a scribe, imbibe on the vibe within which I’m alive.  Another ’07 tip, I paragraph-clip.  Calming, here in the tunnel.  Mr. Shakur’s words, and trail, reverberating in scope.  All accused him of wrongdoing, how he disrupted.  I don’t face his volume of violation, but I feel violated.  Why can’t a writer, a wine scribbler, one approaching wine from his own journalistic jump, be himSelf?  I sip, trying to figure it out; attempting to decode.  I’m sipping again, appreciating the deep, dark notes.  They self-complicate, layer, speak to this author.

Enjoying this solitude, tonight.  Don’t care what others think of this “wine blog.” I’m a Literary necromancer.  My world is with words.  Not with liquid-loving mortals.  And I’m one of those, the sippers.  I sip this ’07 SoCo Cab, proudly.  I boastingly pour in a tasting Room, Dry Creek.  But, I don’t hesitate in confiding the intention of my nucleus: page, rime, paragraph.  I’ll always hunker in a written chamber.  Now, the notes, evading my assessment.  I applaud such.  I don’t want to be judged either.  Why does everything have to be subject to evaluation?

Still in the chair.  After this sip of ’07, I clock-out.  Missing the rain, its roof orchestra.  So much I want to say, but I’m keeping Self to a hold, uniform, which I don’t particularly like.  But, time for this poet to descend into sheets...  

The evening, a venerable varietal.  Like a Cab.  Honestly.  Would love to persist.  But I have to quit.  Another lesson.  My own Liturgy.  Cabernet and me, had to play and plea ... sip, sip ...

(Sunday, 1/30/11)

Solo Room

For better part of this morning, I had the tasting Room to me, my Self.  A note I scribbled:

-Something so distinguishably artistic and peaceful about an unoccupied tasting Room.  Granted, yes, it’s more lively and of more Literary activity, theatrical, with characters about, on its stage.  But the soothing notes spilling through the speakers, the fire, the low clouds encircling trees on the other sides of these walls, those I see through the patio windows, antagonizing, when alone.  I’m taunted to dream, savor this incomparable industry and wine life.  Wine moments are incredibly delicious with loved ones, and of course wine on palate.  But, they are also savorily standing by one’s Self, merely in a pleasantly jolting still.  Like now.  Not preoccupied with sales, following procedures.  Just now, this Now, my Now.

It’s difficult for me to rehash the scene, recapture it.  But I don’t think I need to.  This one note reminds me what happened.  I know what it means, to be alone, in a gorgeous existential capsule, that tasting Room.  Now, here in the home study, sipping the ’07 Claret, I listen to rain, its audible traces, both on ceiling and street.  Need more moments, time slivers and shakes, from different portions of the world’s collective plain.  Need money for that.  Having another reflective stretch now.  Unexpected, refreshing.  Hoping the drops continue.

Another pour of this blend, prolonging the meditation’s demise.  Again, thinking of the rains I embraced in Paris, how the French pavements boasted their newness to me through lunar concert.  Need to get back to the capital, to those breads, wines, cheeses.  The characters, the time difference, the compounding novelty delivered in minute clusters.  The art presence, how could I forget that?  Even the flight over, as drainingly sluggish as it seemed, remarkable.  I want it again, again.  That’s what this moment, now, in this Room, my study, a moment involving sips, orders of this aging poet. 

(Saturday, 1/29/11)

Back in the chair.  Already missing that feel of Monterey.  On the drive back, thought about different approaches to the pages, one I want marketable, capable of transforming my Now.  One idea is to shed this very b/log, upon 2011’s close.  But would that be a good idea?  Maybe the ’07 Sonoma County Cab, to be popped tonight, will direct the author appropriately.  Marin, where we stopped for lunch.  A different stage, to be sure.  Shinny cars, shoes, faces, nails.  Don’t mistake me for an unruly judge with pen.  No!  I’m in dumbfounded admiration of these characters.  And that’s what I need, more different.  More contrast.  More surprises.  Lessons.

Missing my professors, my grad school assignments I’d save to the last minute.  Yes, even that laboriously retching James Joyce paper.  Ugh.  Sorry, Eve.  But that last report hurt.  I say that, but it was exhilarating, its composition, eventual fruition.  Miss meeting new authors, going to readings.  I love wine, its world, its characters, but I need to more prominently blend it with the Literary.  The true way for me to shed my demons, as a word wrangler.  All I hear, now, in this cluttered study, the heater.  My heart’s steps.  Mr. Poe would be amused, I bet.  Need music, need something to read.  Need to find that wish list I started in ’09, on the flight to Paris.

(Friday, 1/28/2011)

The Burg, Squared

Healdsburg Square.  It’s hard to adequately appreciate all the tasting Rooms in one day.  But, one day last week I had the chance to visit a couple.  Didn’t do much tasting, but I had the clock allowance to meet some great people, experience incredible aesthetic tasting Room realities, and just, again, appreciate what the Burg has to offer, both visitors and locals.  I’d been to Williamson’s before, but I wanted to drop in, just to say hi and taste that Sauv Blanc and Merlot I did on my first visit.  Paid another visit to the pristinely elegant Room of Boisset Family Estates, offering a number of producers, domestic to foreign, entailing one of my preferreds, DeLoach.  Just love the feel and flavor of this Room.  Also love the bubbly available, among else.  Never get over their Room. 

Discovered Topel.  A small, cozy corner offering everything from blends to Syrahs to Cabs to a couple Sauv Blancs.  

Also discovered--can’t believe I never knew about this spot on Healdsburg’s Square--a Ferrari-Carano tasting Room, adorned with relics and antiques, art and collectables, in addition to outstanding wines, of course.  Like I always post in the blurbs of this blog: wine entails discovery, learning, education, Self-education.  I continue to descend ever-deeper in adoration of this square.  And it’s only a few blocks from my winery’s Room.  Fortunate and thankful, as words don’t satisfactorily capture my state.

Honestly, today was one to appreciate what’s in the town, what’s near to work.  I don’t have a favorite, among these Rooms.  So don’t ask.  They all have a distinguished dimension that the other doesn’t.  And that’s what wine is supposed to be: diverse, deliciously different, encouraging, exploratory.  On my next day off, I’m here vowing, I scurrying up to Healdsburg’s diamond of a Square, with a whimsical wallet.  These four spots, where the scribe starts.  Sip, sip...  

Idea Exchange, Please...

“A fool thinks himself to be wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.” -William Shakespeare 

The industry.  That’s what it’s called, the wine world.  A dimension that inextricably entails a certain free spirit and fairness.  A Humanness.  So why would some on this stage want to mute, monetarily paralyze, persist with a punitive pulse?  This is something that I’ve never understood.  One could say, as I’ve heard it said, “This is a business.” Thank you, I know.  You could deem me indignant.  Again, thank you, for Emerson said “A good indignation brings out all one’s powers.” I don’t have a lot of power.  But, I am compelled to speak, this night.  Let it noted be: I merely wish to talk.  Truly, I feel as though I’m brought back to Carroll’s world, where the logical is no longer logical.  How?  I must pose.  People gather around wine.  Smile around wine.  Share, in the presence of wine.

Is Humanness not supposed to exist in an “industry” that is dependent within the presence of Humans?  I’ll be scolded for thinking about this too much.  For asking questions, for questioning.  Probably causing problems, me, which is shameful, as I solely wish to solicit ideas exchange.  If you look at past regimes oppressive, ideas were muffled, rampant consequences pervaded populaces.  This was death.  Mentally alive citizens scurried to shelter.  Life, lost.  Why should the same happen in an “industry” that elementally builds upon contentment, jubilation.  It has to be so on both sides of the counter. 

I could be labeled a non- “professional,” as I’m from the Literary/academic world.  But I’d civilly beg you to dismiss that reality, that past of mine, even though I divulged it.  I’m simply asking, “Why is reason so arduous to administer?” I’m not even calling for “competitive” wages, just those reasonable.  I wrote an essay at the end of 2010, entitled “Truth,” pushing attention to specific dimensions of this industry.  Decided not to post it to my log, afraid of vengeful reaction, which in itself is shameful.  Why would I want to live such?  Why should such be a writer’s reality?  I’m not accusing anything, anyone, of anything.  What happened to Exchanges of Ideas, civility?

What makes me return to equanimity: the ones for which I have the pleasure to pour.  So enthusiastic, so positive, so engaging.  So positive.  Wine, as far as this author can project, places positivity, a favorable flavor.  Am I out of line here?  I must be.  Shame on me for sharing my ideas, hoping for exchange...

Going to take a break, sip a little more of this St. Francis ’08 Pagani Zin, gather the Self.  I feel like I should page-up, mind what I typed, be careful.  But that’s censorship, Orwell’s projection.  I’m not Winston.  I harbor the venom of thoughts free.

“Why do you want to be such a rabble-rouser, Mike?” could be posed.  “Discretion is the better part of valor,” I’ve so many times been told.  First off, this is a bastardization of one of Shakespeare’s throws.  Second, it’s a passive way of urging a freethinker to stay silent, not ask questions.  Wine, its industry, it channels, something for which I’m unquantifiably thankful.  Within which I’m joyous.  Mind you, though, there are certain imbalances that need straightening, just like anything else.  Guess I’m the fool.  For freethinking.

(Sunday, 1-23-2010)   

Day's 8

My lines, candid.  Never my mind, branded.

Spare me your scripts.  I continue in Bordeaux sips.

Cab Franc, I have wants and needs, I’m on the free,

despondently.  Unseen amalgamation.

My theories are postmodern, barely discernible.

I earn the pull I exhibit.  Disinhibited, my posture;

I need a Sylvia Plath, ‘cause I lost her.  My favorite

pour, I lay in the lore, forever maimed and adored.

(Friday, 1-21-11)

Terroirs -- A Tasting Room with Character, its Own Character

Friendly, spacious.  I’ve been looking for a tasting Room like this, collective or otherwise, since I started this blog.  Today, on my planned voyage to the picturesque town of Geyserville, I it located.  One of the owners, Daisy, told me that she and her husband, Kerry, aimed for “Sonoma Barn meets New York loft.” Impeccably delivered.  The wines, spread over three wineries, one being their own, “Palmeri Wines,” were all multi-dimensional, fervent, and nestling.  My friend Mona started with the ’09 Piña Ridge Sauvignon Blanc, from Dry Creek.  I’m still a bit timid when it comes to SB’s, as I don’t get along with overt grassiness, staunch grapefruit, or monstrous minerals.  This particular bottle offered no such arrangement.  Citrus, melon, a subtle shove of vanilla in concert with floral passion fruit.

Next, to reds.  As I a grasped and intensely appreciated the artistically refined atmospheric lounge elements around me, Mona moved to the Russian River ’07 Godwin Russian River Chardonnay, then some reds.  An ’07 Dry Creek Zin, from Piña Ridge, and an ’05 Syrah and ’07 Cabernet, both from the owners‘ fantastically flavorful Palmeri Wines label, and both from Stagecoach Vineyard in Napa’s championed Valley.  I walked away with my new bottled paramour, the ’05 Syrah.  Daisy was also generous and hospitable to the point of sending me away with gift, one of their sightly wine bags.  Oh, and another aspect that made my visit all-the-more meant for memory: Olive the puppy, Daisy and Kerry’s dog, an adorable little German Shepard; curious, kind, cutely calm.  Adding to the Room’s already wonderful character.  Wish I could sit at one of the sofa seats, with a glass, and write.  And yes, they do sell wine by the glass.  

Returning the scenery of Terroirs, one can’t help but feel free, invited to look around, at the art pieces, the courtyard, or out at the magnetism of Geyserville Avenue.  No excess of merchandise to dodge, around which you should tailor your stroll.  This tasting Room has unforgettable character, a cherishable charisma, only furthered by wondrous wines.  I’ll be taking the Syrah to dinner tonight, undoubtedly.  In front of the circular ottoman, you might see a flatscreen, offering a sequential capture of the various terroirs that birthed the wine you’ll soon come to love.  Wine should represent terroir, I think.  And, as you’ll experience and learn, through warm and giving hospitality and wine education, Daisy and Kerry get it, manifold.  Just hearing her views on wine and terroir today was not just informative, but inspiring.  Thanks to the crew at Terroirs for a great Geyserville mission.  Hope you don’t mind if I’m there, a lot, writing and wine-loving.  I’m serious.  Can’t wait to pop this ’05 Napa Syrah!  Thanks, Daisy!  Sip, sip ... 

(Thursday, 1-20-11)  

Retailed

Nothing for vend, tonight.  But I wish to generate a few extra bills.  So that leaves the wine-loving writer nowhere.  Maybe that’s a beautiful locale, with no obsessive preoccupations.  The first installment of the 3-page trend, done.  Wondering if there’s a such thing as writing too much.  The Malbec tells me no.  It’s my Friday night.  I can do what I elect.  Perhaps the night’s cork should be a drop of the Dry Creek Zin I have in the box downstairs, in the kitchen by the table.  Seems like I have wine all over the place in this condo castle.  Feeling aslant.  I should just relax, watch a move, not write.  Is that possible?  Let’s see what the sips say...

(Wednesday, 1-19-11)

Pastiche

Blending and imitating my own passages.  Insanity.  But it has to lead to something.  Approaching page 300 in this doc.  Postmodern, my current.  Elected, and concurrently rejected.  Mr. Emerson would be disappointed, I’m sure.  This isn’t non-conformity, Self-Reliance.  Going to read, react as much as I’m capable.  The Literary Terms and Literary Theory Dictionary I used  at SSU, in front of me.  Mr. Coleman, would also scold me for my diversion, this empty distraction.  I scold self.  No deserved capital.  Mr. Eden would challenge my choice, I know.  He would laugh, probably.  He’d say I’ll soon be at bottom’s sea.

Too hard on Self?  Derrida would say so.  He would beg me, I believe, to consider the Now in juxtaposition with the Previous.  No answers, even with this delicious Carignane.  Truth: each day’s Mike differs.  So how does he know where his vessel truly wades?  No more digression.  Asking, “What am I doing?” Sip again.  The Rhône tells me to wait for solution.  This, not formulaic.

(Tuesday, 1-18-11)

Lectures Notes

What I was scribbling earlier.  Everything from Literary response arrangement to creative wine reactions, to spoken word, to character-based fiction.  Pedagogy involves a multitude of flavors, angles.  There is no correct layout.  But, the student has to be concern’s forefront.  As much, the integrity of the subject entailing Literary cords.  Looking at the barrels today, snapping still after still, I thought of the thousand words that could accompany each.  Barrels, a holding spot for libation, effort, prowess, art, creation.  Beyond prized, precious.

The notes of the day’s lectures involved a linear haphazardness.  Confusing, engaging.  I’m more Literary than “industry” tonight, all today.  From here continuing.  I want to read student papers toiling in aimless deliberation for one paragraph of a master’s text.  I want obsessed students, ones that read like I read in grad school, write like I do now, value reflective and mental vivacity.  I want to be at Stanford.

-Imagist stream of consciousness prose...

-Voice of character vs. the character of the narrator vs. the character of the author

-Pen to paper merit in the world of laptop authors: “Imperatively Pen and Paper.”     

No pictures of barrels in this entry, because I only want words, here.  Is this installation wine-inspired, like the vinoLit Letterz?  Unabashedly, yes.  That Carignane, ’06.  Again.  But that doesn’t detract from acuity, validity.  If anything, I’m freer.  Closing this little monster of a laptop.  Off to the pen and paper.  I want to see ink traces.  That’s Literary.

(Tuesday, 1-18-11) 

3 Stops

Stopped by once before, during the day, and only briefly.  After work, about a week ago, decided to return for an after shift round, check out the wine selection, appreciate the aura, what be.  All about this hotel, the bar, lounge area, completely conducive to a relaxing evening, cocktail hour.  The pro tending bar, Mr. Tory, was not only knowledgeable, but generous, and encouraging with the selection of wines, accommodating after I divulged the profiles I find appealing.  I need to pop in when they have the jazz nights.  Can’t remember when that’s held, but I’ll check the site or call to find out.  Loved the low lighting, the fireplace area.  Sharp, special, sexy.

Back-a to Napa.  Love the other side of the mountain.  I don’t care what feuding Sonoma Valleyers’ll say.  First stop, Provenance.  I’d had their wines before, from local merchants and markets.  But, when I walked through the Room’s doors, I stood exasperated.  Loved everything from the floor, to the flowers, barrel views, to the wine flight’s entirety.  Simplistic beauty.  Pristine, poignant.  The bar was shapely and seductive.  The hospitality, provided by Debbie and Kristin, easy and informative.  Both were so relatable, comforting.  They BOTH made it tough for this wine-obsessed poet to leave.  Categorically hospitable.  This is what makes me hop over the hill.  Loved the Sauvignon Blanc, walked away with a bottle.  And the Merlots, Cabs, almost intimidatingly tasty.  Oh, also left with one of the courageous Cab Francs.  I was gleefully undisciplined with my spending.  And proud of it...  

St. Supéry.  Incredible.  I’m speechless.  Having a bottle’s worth of difficulty writing this reaction.  Not only was each wine riveting, disturbingly delicious, but the art on the labels were worthy of contemplative curvature.  The Cabs, the illustrative pushes on the bottles.  I walked away with the 2005 Élu, an amalgamation of Cab, Melot, Petit Verdot, and Cab Franc.  Laurie provided the pours, graciously, with familial conversation, insight.  I’ve been meaning to stop by here as well, for some time, as an old friend of mine used to work here.  Glad I pulled into the long sightly driveway on this drizzly day.  Saving my blend for an occasion, planning for this Supéry bottle.  Can’t wait to sip, sip...

Winter Wineland, Alderbrook, Day 2 [Sunday, 1-16-2011]

Weather, not nearly as stellar as yesterday, but still a good time.  I was at the Confluence table, on the patio, which I today tagged the “Confluence Corner.” My blogging counterpart, Ms. Heidi, inside, by the pasta and Carignane,  ’06 Estate Zin.  Much of the same as yesterday, great encounters, many of which were with people from my old neighborhood, San Mateo.  I was impressed, unannouncedly moved, by the voiced reactions to the Zin/Syrah concert.  One lady called it a “pleasant storm of flavor.” A young man, about my age, said it “pleasurably parted his palate.” I remember asking my Self, “Did the Literary world get a memo about this event, our prized Alderbrook Room, Island?” 

Once the fog conceded, a crisp tranquility nestled atop the Valley of Zin.  Today, a stroke or two more wintery than yester, but still magical.  A river of wine-inspired moments.  Was internally lachrymose, upon day’s close.  How is it over, already?  A great time, both days, each their own varietal, blend of memorable moments.  Glad I live in a Wineland.  A Literary Wineland.  Season, not chief.

Sip, sip ... Till next winter   

Winter Wineland, Alderbrook, Day 1 [Saturday, 1-15-2011]

With stations ready, people landed ready to taste some Dry Creek red.  And white, as the Terlato Chardonnay, ’06, was poured at the front door.  Again, and I’ll persist with this motion, this is what wine is supposed to do, what it always does: make an occasion.  Paired with some pasta, bread, served in the dinning Room, followed by some ’06 Confluence on the patio, poured by my new blogging buddy Heidi and I.  The weather, unfamiliarly gorgeous.  With so much rain recent, today was a Spring/Summer hybrid of immeasurable gratification.  Truly heavenly.  Honestly, the day’s climatic novelty was almost more complimented, compelling, than the wines poured.  Made me laugh, grin.  Everyone else, as well.

Will be back tomorrow, for the second episode.  Funny, “Winter” Wineland.  Didn’t feel like winter.  Not even a little.  And the guests didn’t act like it was winter, with all the hula hooping and bocce ball matches on the grass.  Definitely memorable.  Sure that tomorrow will be consistent with today’s greatness.  Or as my friend Heidi would say, “ultra” great.  

moving

Keep my thoughts in barrels, I’m caught like a 

ferrel cat.  Put the arrows back in the trunk.

The corruptor’s math, now debunked.  Almost 

sunk in a dead sea.  But not me, with 

irregular poetry, my patience goes in

threes.  Own a tree that births only

thoughts, sentences that mend blemishes.

No lights, just an author with his Literary

device plight.  My sight spiked.  Turn, a 

tight right.  No wine in my channels,

my panel is safe.  Not interested in debate

Professor with unsent letters, still.  Spare me

your corporate puritan pill.  I’ll stay outspoken,

Pandora’s beautiful box, now open.  A cloud, 

chosen for my ascension, at eleven PM.  Message,

click resend.  Smiling, coffee in hand.  Readers

caught me with strands.

(Friday, 1-14-11)

Note of New Mike

My Dad once told me that ‘distractions are death to one’s goal’.  I may be misquoting, but that’s what I took away.  I woke this morning, feeling odd, but new.  Hard to explain.  Like a winemaker who’s made a certain varietal, been ordered to, for years, and profoundly self-instructs a well-warranted tangent.  A permanent aside.

Writers, we are the same.  But my qualm is not with any governance.  It is with Self, my reality.  This morning marks ignition of lovely savory separatism.  From my procrastination.  Staying in this studio all day.  In front of the page.  The day’s victory, indebted to Dad, Mom, my students.  This envelop, refusing to release me.  And I’m glad.  Not departing for the mocha.  Don’t need it.  Not now.  This, enough.  Can’t attach or assign a definition or category.  Just know, kindest reader, I’m a writer.  Not a wine writer-slash-blogger.  

A Literary soldier.  

There will be no death to my goal of being on that NYT list, on the store’s shelves.  Listening to a certain poet’s work as I type.  He, I’m sure, encountered this very moment.  There was a sprint in his life where he never left the studio.  Such be I, 2day.  Another artist I currently study, and admire, still present, only breathes within the walls of his creative bunker.

Reader, don’t worry about this entry’s penman.  I’m fine.  Just new.  No distractions.  Embodying artistic extremism.  No chemicals, no diversions, no food, no human interactions.  

Just the page.  

You’ll say, “That’s odd,” or critics, non-artists, will, would.  But I’m a deaf animal to like dialogue.  I’m deaf entirely, today.  

I’m writing.  

I’m writing, for my life.  32, and every day forward will have this arrangement.

The “industry” will have no impact, say, or involvement in my scrupulous resolve, from here on.  In fact, the industry should distance itself from TRUE writers.  The term ANTI appropriately applied, here, in the entry, on this page.  Find it funny how some would advise or scold a scribe on how he writes.  Not going to get specific, or name names, as my most cherished aforementioned poet would have.  What I plan 2do: tell truth, truths, continue uncontaminated.  That’s my new goal.  

(Friday, 1-14-11)

    

Blanked Obiter Dictum

Home from work.  My night Friday.  So much to upload tomorrow.  Hate how I’m always in record mode.  Literary-ism, debilitating.  Price of passion.  Confining all to page.  Zin, pulling me away from Syrah.  Feel like it’s jealous.  Glad I had the opportunity to do my first tour today.  With guests so amicable, curious.  Definitely worthy of contemplative course.

Wine industry consistency and validity, on the mind.  Beyond the bottle, for this industry embodies more than just the potion.  My qualms, quantifying.  But not focusing on negative as I sip this Alderbrook OVZ.  Only positivity, oenological poetry, fervently.  Need to stay connected to this session.  Thinking I may abort the Napa mission for the morrow.  Want to produce a mocha manuscript, instead.  One that stretches over 12 hours.

(Wednesday, 1-12-11)

1-11-11, Untitled.

Clocking in late, here, as I clocked out quite late, there, from the Room.  Great ideas exchanged at the meeting today.  So many ways to approach wine, marketing the wine, tasting Room, its approach to hospitality, enjoyment.  Not shooting for any word count tonight, just aiming to relax with this Terlato Syrah, ’06.  I must be back in the sack with Syrah.  Not sure why I ever left.  Well, one plausibility is that the others weren’t this fulfilling.  The others didn’t push me to write, like this.

Need the night to relax, like a winemaker after a day in harvest.  Not sure I exerted that forcefully today, in fact I know I didn’t, but I’m tired either way.  Starting to think I’m too often in session.  Which appears applaudable, but only if the pen mover knows precisely where the pages go.  Think I might, finally.  Didn’t get a mocha this morning, had to document that.  In fact, I spent no money today, at all.  So, the currency that would have been tossed at a mocha, lunch, dinner at Roberto’s, shall be bedded in the self-publishing stash, $22.

Another Syrah sip, singularly spectacular, sexy.  Pairs amazingly with these scribbles.  Excited about the new vinoLit Writers Group.  First meeting, 1-20-11.  Going to follow through with this, my new manuscript crew.  From the day’s stretch, irregularly lengthy, I’m uninterested in my words.  But, I was just looking through the books on my shelf.  Going to read, at the horrific least, one page tonight.  Need to read so much more than I do.  Literary substance, I intend.

Carolyn See’s book, ‘Lit Life’, right next to me.  Looking through her chapters.  Skimming, more.  Love her tone, idea speed.  Gentle but poignant, helpful to any writer, at any level.  Love her detailing of life, hers.  Proves that our days have value, lead to understandings and reflective/appreciative grasps.  Time to clock out, edit the first issue of Letterz, prance around in See’s book, and maybe write some more, off the record.  Whatever I elect, the Syrah will be there.  Full glass...Sip, sip.

Chained, No Blame

Carignane carousal.  The varietal, with all its curves and throws, switches my character.  I have obligations, tonight.  Bills, notes for a meeting tomorrow.  I should be responsible, tonight.  But, I’d rather write, with this lonely Rhône.  It also tells me not to care if I’m not as noticed in my paginated presence, as some singer in a band that gigs in the city, or Berkeley.  It also tells me, orders this author, actually, commands me to contrast, contend.  Carignane is not Cabernet.  And I am not a predictable, commonplace penman.  Tonight, I really should have a direction.  But that would be unconsciousness, Orthodoxy.  Missing my Orwell lectures, as professor and student.  This Carignane, putting the purview into clarity’s corner.  My Literary scope and motions may not co-mingle, in the long run, with the wine world.  I feel, often, the “industry” expects script recital, surrender, more than Human interaction and genuine riposte.   

Current note, no carousing.  Just delivery of truth.  I should be allowed to be my Self, like this Carignane, especially if an unseen profile laments.  My job, as a Literary creature, is to delivery Truth, the uncensored, absolute candor.  Enough.  No more with this knot.  Tonight, welcomed in its lucrative lucidity.  Miss the classroom, but I can’t decide if I miss it more as matriculant or “master.” Loved receiving a new syllabus, especially in Lit and/or Creative Writing seminars.  Reveling in this Rhône, wanting to act, tell Truth on top of Truth.  Censoring this Me, emboldened, an impossibility. 

Wine bar of mine, on the mind.  So is the first Letterz issue, the book to follow.  Self-publishing, like a “boutique” winery prides its bottles.  Tonight, like a wish list on repeat, to its own insatiably ambient beat.  Another sip, delightfully divided.  Thankful for industry lessons, mysteries.  This is what makes authors sit and scribble sagas, those that take them to best seller lists.  My friend, Carignane, carry on.  Sip, sip...

(Monday, 1-10-11)  

Reflection: Syrah Bistro

I’m partial to this culinary beacon of edible beauty and brilliance.  I wasn’t there expecting surprises.  Frankly, I wanted the other incredible moving dinners to be trumped.  We’d been there before, many times, always sitting in the front Room.  On this visit, however, we were seated in the back, more open, and visual, locale.  Meliss started with some J Sparkling, whereas I began, as per the urgency of our lovely hostess Nicki, with a Sauvignon-based white blend.  Usually I don’t take suggestions, as I’m a stubborn wine scribbler, but I’m glad I did tonight.  Nicki also brought us a complimentary amuse plate of two steelhead tartare bites.  Memorable, and seductively savory.  Next, formal apps.  Already jittering with intrigue, impression.

Like we always do, crab cakes.  The recipe and plate arrangement is different with each stop, so I couldn’t contain my Self in the chair.  Once arrived, tasted, better than the occasion previous.  How does this restaurant, the Chef, persist with such precision, perfection?  Awesomely, tastefully, odd.  Nicki was also generous enough to provide a complimentary tasting flight of some reds to pair with filet within which I was already decided.  Left to right:  T.R. Elliot ’07 Russian River Valley Pinot, Arrowood ’03 Sonoma County Cab, and a  Box Car ’08 Sonoma Coast Syrah.  I decided to call the Cab from the ‘wood, although the Syrah was bewitching and buxom with its flavor arrangement.   

The main course, outstanding, served medium.  Better than I projected.  I expected to be disturbingly delicious.  Again, I’ve been to Syrah before, several times.  But this main plate was ever-converting.  I mean, enveloping in its presentation, flavor sequence and overall continuation.  Fantastic with the Arrowood Cab.  Then, if all to present wasn’t sufficient, Nicki offered a complimentary dessert, a deconstructed lemon cake, of some kind.  At this point, I was culinarily catatonic.  Would have stayed for more, but it was time to leave, sorrily.  This entry, beyond a simplistic recommendation, endorsement.  This, I hope, comes across as fervent praise, gratitude.  To Syrah Bistro, to our masterful guide Nicki, and to everyone who’s visited Syrah, keeping it on Santa Rosa’s Railroad Square.  Soon, hopefully quite, I’ll be sitting in another Syrah seat.  I will, trust me.  Sip, sip...