1: Last Pours, Pages

10:56a.  “Today does feel different than others,” Mike thought, walking out to his car.  Driving to his coffee spot close to home, he noticed the melting ice on his windshield.  He thought of places where ice wouldn’t melt, the outdoor numbers wouldn’t permit that.  Once in the coffee shop, he stopped, looked at the cover of the NY Times.  Photo, actioned, of strife in a distant country.  What journalist shot this, he thought.  “That’s brilliant.” He, too, wanted to be on such an assignment.  He wanted the danger, the difference.

No line, right to register.  

With his 3-shot mocha, he drove back to the condo.  He didn’t know what he should do, on this day before a New Year he was certain would be THE year for him.  Writing-wise, career-wise, Equilibrium-wise, all.  He just sat, decided not to rush.  To let the day speak.  He remembered asking his students once, “Can inspiration be planned, or is it always happenstance?” The class’ majority resounded that it finds you, you don’t find it.  But maybe it’s a blend of both, Mike thought.  So, he just sat.  Sat.  Sipped.

After .5 pages of notes in the Comp book, Mike stretched horizontally on the couch.  Looked at the ceiling’s odd shapes.  A dog.  Giraffe?  Leaning building, storm cloud, tire...  One shape that uncannily boasted a book.  One maybe, Mike saw, 300 pages or so.  Like his, 301.  What was this trying to tell him, day before 2012’s 1st?  To write.  Write whatever you want.  Mike didn’t have time to think about what he should write.  Not anymore.  Just write.  He’d be 33 in less than 6 months.  What?

Just write.

Write faster.  Write more.

Forget about the wine industry, the publishing world--what they want, what they see as “marketable.” Just keep the pen moving.  The short story ideas propelled themselves at the former English Instructor like ushered missiles.  He had trouble scribbling them into the Comp book, with their legerity.  So he stopped, let them compile.  He’d write them as he could.  Whichever ones he couldn’t recall, retain, may not have been worth record.  A new short story stream came to him in waves of spicy, sparse dialogues.

“Altitude 34,500.  Set cruise.  Heading...” Mike didn’t know if pilots spoke this way, or if this line was believable.  He’d need his dad’s counsel with such a project.

“Did you want any of the large formats we have left?” He knew where this one came from.

“Your narrative has this sort of lazy charm to it.” This was something his Creative Nonfiction Professor said, when he took her class in early ’01, his last undergrad semester.  He always like her, Sherril.  Her assignments were fun, not too ridiculously detailed or confining.  He enjoyed her class, the workshopping element, which was where, when, she made this assessment.  Lazy charm...  Mike always thought of different ways to translate that, perspective her perspective.

His mocha, already out.  How did that happen?  Maybe he was making too much of a deal about the new year, tomorrow.  This year’s last episode, today.  What did it matter?  It was only time.  And he would write though it anyway, just as he was.  Novel or short collection, it’d get scribbled, somehow.

12/31/2011, Saturday

2: rewritten bottle

New plan for New Year.  Simple, cogent, effortlessly applicable: all from journals; either long works or short; topics and forms of my choosing.  So, concisely: write whatever in the world I wish.  Tonight, sipped a beautifully tasty ’09 Cab.  Saving the second half for tomorrow night.  New Year’s eve.  No planned party this year.  Spending it on page, finishing this book, as tomorrow’s the last day to contribute new material to its territory.  Taking a break from the current short story, which I’m loving, presently.  Two students, contrasting perspective conceptions.  Stopping there.  All notes, details, in the Comp book.  Elated by knowledge, the certainty of, sleeping in, tomorrow.

May open a Chardonnay tomorrow night.  Need to drink more white, I realized this morning, in the curiously formatted fog.  Shockingly, there was quite a bit of mist on my return home, additionally.  Not sure of the significance, but it ordered reflection, introspection, nonetheless.  Can already hear song from the morning mocha.  But maybe I shouldn’t have one, turn differently for this new year.  2012, hopefully putting my pages on shelves, in hands, homes.

While upstairs, washing my face, I realized that 2011 was the first year since ’05 where I didn’t lecture a single day, didn’t teach.  I will be back in a classRoom, soon.  In the capacity I deserve.  Stanford, still in sights, steady.  Would love to have another class, or two, three, discussing fiction, theory, Literature, writing, art, film...  I’ll take this to 2nite’s dreams, into 2morrow.  I’m selfish, I know.  But if I don’t write for Self, who will?  11:24p.  Eyes, heavier than they were in the preceding paragraph.  Aside from quitting mochas, potentially, maybe I should wake earlier on days off.  Fit in more writing, complete projects quicker.  This new year, promising little challenges I’ve never before projected.  Preparing for storm, safety, strain, vision.  Next vintage.

12/30/2011, Friday

3: Racing Portrayal

Mike thought the night was done.  But was it?  He sipped the Cabernet’s remainder.  Kelly may have called earlier, from a restricted number, but he wasn’t sure.  His phone, ringing, jittering again.  Number, restricted.  Mike lifted the phone off the new home winemaker book his sister just bought him, pushed Answer.  “Hello?”

“Hey Mike, it’s Lonny, how’ve you been?” Lonny, Mike’s old friend from the winery, said.  “Been a while.  Where are you working now?”

“Oh, hey, Lonny.  How’ve you been?  You still at the winery?”

“Still pouring, still pouring.  You need to come by.  We just released this Cab I think you’d like.  You like Cab still, right?  We’re doing a vertical tasting you should come to, next week.”

[12/29/11, Th]  Wrote 12:36p on the dry board.  Took me a while to sit, as the café was completely packed when I landed.  One lady, at this very table, the one most distanced to the back, my 2nd favorite table, left just as I ordered mocha2.  This coffee house, the office.  Not even opposites.  More like unknown dimensions that don’t know each other.  One flavored.  The other, ovular.  The lady who left, just returned.  Would be a year’s worth of jokes if she demanded I return this space.  She may have been writing, as I did see her with a laptop.  Another lady, probably three years beyond me, sitting directly at 12, types on a laptop, one of the ridiculously small ones.  I don’t mean to look at her screen, as I hate even the far vision of someone doing so to me, but it looks as thought she may be writing fiction, or in a typed journal.

Thought I was going to have to return to the office to write.  I even asked the manager, who I used to think was the owner, or one of them, if he had any tables in the back.  I could tell he felt bad in having nothing to provide an always-visiting writer, then disclosing he had drawn up a new floor plan which included booths, more accommodating seating, that it probably wouldn’t go through.  This place, the only writing spot for my hour’d respite.

Mike couldn’t waste even one more button push on empty reflection.  He listened to the manager fly up the aged stairs, thought of a written portrait about his caffeine temple, his Literary Lunch tavern.  He sipped from his open-top mocha, with perfect whip motion, began his brush bustles.  “Spaced wooden spaces, object accompanied by renewing scents, rich skips...” He just typed, like he didn’t see the screen.  He only saw the walls, their paintings, the sipping, conversing guests, the possible writer in front of him.

He wanted to attend that reading he was invited to, here, next year, whenever it was finally held.  He didn’t know about going to that vertical tasting Lonny invited him to, however.  Those always took hours to get through, especially if you factored in all the conversations, food samplings and possible pairings, “networking.” Mike never understood that about the wine world, all the “networking” opportunities, and why he always tried to participate.  Would wine industry networking, which was really just drinking, tasting and talking, help him finish a novel at all timely?

He thought of going for a walk, a brief trot about the chilled downtown Napa blocks.  No, the portrait needed finishing.  Well, it needed a start.  Looking at his mocha, he knew wine would always have a presence in his day, his writing, but the presence perhaps needed perforating.  He needed more characters.  More of Kelly, more Jewel, his friends from the old winery, his coworkers at NewWineGig.  More dialogue.  He wrote all the conversations he could catch, muting his music, but appearing as though he were still connected with tunes from his laptop.

The people, 2, one older man, woman of same age, maybe a year or two his minor.  Talking about fish, cooking it different ways.  “The lemon’s always too punchy for me, that way,” she says.

“How long do you leave it for?” he asked.

“Different every time,” she said before a clearing of throat.  “Sorry.  It’s hard.  I tried it with a kind of tuna, a couple weeks ago, but it didn’t turn out so good.” She rose, the man with her.  They left, silent.  Mike wondered why so abrupt?  Didn’t they know he was recording?  How inconsiderate.

The writer in front of him.  Writing a memoir, more than likely.  Her life’s worth research on sculpting, logging her creative process.  The challenges she confronts, what she encounters; her failures, self-surprises, everything.  Mike saw her there, in her black, slightly puffy jacket, black framed librarian glasses, typing madly.  It was fiction, it had to be.  Mike returned to his portrait.  Spent three paragraphs on the blood-red wood seats, alone.  Then, his beloved bean bar, with its sounds, accoutrements, machines with struggling navigators, the view of 1st and Main.  This was Mike’s house, he craftily cemented.  He needed others in it.  His characters.  Maybe he was a character in this caffeinated chest of characters.  He looked to see her typing, again.  Not as fast as him.  Good, he thought.  His short story collection would be done before hers.  OR his novel.  He still hadn’t decided.

1:13p.  Another sip.  He looked through his cubeNOTES.  Just reiterations of his aims.  What did that do, he wondered.  “Instead of stating, why not just execute?” 1014 words.  He couldn’t be happier.  No way she reached such a word count in her sitting.  Well, maybe she did, as she’s positioned in that chair as though it’s her day off, not in any shape of rush.  Well, if she did hit 1000+, certainly no way she hit it with his fiery forward, his rate, his “Literary Leaps,” he wrote.  This was where he came to leap Literarily, the only chairs that welcomed him.  No condescension, obsession with order.  These walls, the characters welcomed Autonomous pen movings.  So there he was, looking up, then recording, penning portrait.

His phone displayed a text.  From Lonny.  “so can u come 2 that cab tasting??!!” Mike didn’t respond.  He might not ever answer.  He might kill his phone.  What did that thing do for the page?  Such a distraction.  Why did he upgrade a couple months ago, anyway?  Distractions in its banks, with social media, the applications, games, colors, what be.  “Safe, here,” he wrote.  “There’s no time, no speed, just you, your Your, it’s yours; your time, your coffee, your view.” He’d stop, for now, maybe finish at home tonight.  Mike thought about the tasting.  There’d be characters, there.  Right?  Maybe he should just go, pretend to “network.” Sip some wine, hang out with Lonny, eat free bites.  Why not?  He took his phone from the black bag’s deepest pocket.  He always put it there, to forget about it; altogether out of sight, even more so of mind.  “Yes.  I’m there.  Put me on list, please” he texted back, noticing the forgotten period at the end of his sentence.  Was he really that writing-obsessed?  Yes.  He lowered the laptop’s screen, sipped. 

5 more minutes.  What can I write in such squished seconds?  Actually, I only have two, as I’d prefer get back a second or 2 early.  Last sips of mocha, last leaps of Literature, efforts.  Vacation, soon, I hope.  Need one.  We all do.  Wine, hotel Room, random travel writings; dishes, napkins, dinner, characters everywhere...  Selfish, I know.

4: NewNovel

Today’s Lunch, thinking of yesterday’s, how that kid just sat down in the nook, right across from me.  I said “Hello,” hoping to convey my disquietude.  Guess I was unsuccessful, as he just sat there, sipped his coffee, read.  I left on a moment or two following, only to return to the office to be sent home.  This Lit Lunch, after a couple sales, typing in opposition to franticness, rush.  Want to write, relax.  How I envision mySelf one day subsisting.

Mike touched up a couple of his outstanding short story projects.  He found some older writings the previous night, somehow found a way to resculpt them into cogent compositions.  So, that made six.  He’d stop there.  He wasn’t shooting for a novel.  Not anymore.  He didn’t have the focus for that.  Six short stories...  Where would he send them?  What would Capote do, he thought.  The first sip of his second mocha, urgent.  He watched the new barista behind the bean bar, trained by one of the vets on how to load the little black energy gravel into the grinder, or whatever machine that was.  This new year, a new project.  He’d only allow himself three days more, four counting this scene, to build material for submitting.  Then he’d start over.  Begin something new.  Maybe a novel, he thought.  No.  Extant efforts, only.  Ones he could sell, he decreed.

In the nook, where he yesterday wrote, not typed, a young man played the guitar, jammed in front of a girl, who sat uneasily still while he sang, looked down at his finger placement.  Mike sipped the mocha; the blend of chocolate milk, espresso and perfectly placed whip.  Heavenly harmony, his fingers flew into new.  The Wine Bar beats, his hour, which started late because of a last-minute sale.  1:06pm, 42 minutes left in one of his final Literary breaks for his short story accumulation. 

Coming back to journal, just note what I see.  Jewel, across from me, talking to a guy who reminds me of a young John Lennon, the young female barista at the main bar rushing to complete a drink for a teetering guest, crew behind the bean bar shoveling coffee elements from one side to another, one device to next.  Paintings on the wall, mysteriously ominous, entrapping with their shades, strokes.  Me, in my usual seat, rushing to complete works I can sell.  Sell, sell.  What I’m expected to do.  So, six shorts.  Four of which, only, are rationally ready for an envelope, an address:  “Tremolo,” “Sur Me’s,” one still untitled...  And this one, “Quited Wine Hide,” whose title I might reblend, redo altogether.  Asking mySelf, “What took so long?” Why am I making my Self wait so many clocks for what it wants; the travel, far food, wine, oceans, exploration, the randomness?  That won’t help, such dwelling.  Forward, with these shorts.  Like Joyce, Woolf, Capote, Carver, King.

The kid still plays his guitar in the corner, with his female 1-character audience.  Don’t want to take my phones out, as I don’t need to hear.  And, I don’t want to.  What I do need, want: another taste of my Cabernet, as it summersaults through malolactic.

Mike sat there, listening to his music.  He wrote down singular words, just to see what he could do with them.  If they’d paint something for a possible seventh short.  “Balance...Greet...Stage...” All he could muster.  His stories, their laptop docs, closed.  The laptop, closed.  Earphones, out.  He heard.  Everything.  The awful song played in the corner.  Mike wondered, did he think his song moving, amusing, enjoyable?  Mike hoped so.  He wanted another artist to enjoy his own work.  Nothing wrong with that, Mike thought.  But did Mike enjoy his?  He didn’t know.  He didn’t read through it enough.  Was he breezing through edits?  Probably.  Might be the reason he hadn’t sold a piece, yet.  Mike read, then.

Stopped.  Too many mistakes, to him.  Would readers notice?  Of course they would.  And especially season ones, those for whom he hoped to be writing.  He sipped the mocha again.  He needed to.

What do I do with these stories?  I guess edit them.  Or put them away for a couple days.  Maybe I should just hop on a plane.  Sure I’ll find better material than what’s conveyed by the everyday.  Wouldn’t I?  If I can sell wine as I do, shouldn’t I be able to sell my writing maniacally?  Makes sense to me, when I put the two acts in juxtaposing poses.  Another story, needed, I think.  It’ll be the stronger of the cuddled collection. Notes:

= Mountain climbing

= Woman on vacation, not wanting to return to work, even though she’s paid better than any of her accompanying friends

= One of them entertains starting a business, on the side, together, just to see what happens ... Disagreement surfaces; optimism, pessimism

= Story about mid-thirties man; musician, not letting go of vision of performing, traveling, surviving from Craft

Mike stopped, in self-decided decline, omit.  But then, reengaged, when he saw 1:30p on his laptop clock.  Why was time doing this?  Bring his lunch to a close?  His year.  Maybe he should just throw together a novel, see how it comes out.  Aesthetic, as he was urged in grad school.  “It’ll say something [his novel], just get it done.  Worry about coherence later, if at all,” Professor Steve, his Fiction mentor, said to him, right before course’s end.  He’d do what he’d always done, then.  Just what he thought he was done with, roll the shorts into a larger work.  He wanted 301 pages, for some reason.  No, a reason quite methodically targeted.  Which was, to be one page past 300.  He sipped the last mocha cloud, happily.  Encouraged, electric, preemptively emphatic.  Or should he go by word count?  50,000 words?  He’d just write.  But he needed a book out.  Soon.  Sooner.  What did he want?  Autonomy, Equilibrium.  HimSelf on a shelf.  He promised he’d read it.  Cover to cover.  Eventually.

12/28/2011, Wednesday

5: Early

Connection discrepancies at NewWineGig today earned us all early departure.  But, now, here in my castle, I experience same.  Can’t post to this new “wine blog.” Don’t know why I bother.  I’m from the Literary/academic world.  Why am I blogging at all?  Like Mr. Capote said, that’s not writing.  Need another glass of this ’09 Napa Valley Cab...

Cap of night.  Love the mouthfeel of this wine.  Hoping Katie’s and mine result even fractionally in this splendor.  In fact, I tasted that sample last night, and was riveted, frankly.  Now, I know, this could be a result of my eagerness as a burgeoning winemaker.  But, nonetheless, I was romanced.  Loved the herbal, earthy, wild notes to the nose and mouth.  And, surprisingly, already a tannic melody.  Is that to be surprising?  See, I don’t know.  I’m a beginner.  Have to ask the professor. Reading my notes...  “Tannic rumble, earthy flex... agreeable, purist...” Don’t really know what that means, but I recognize mySelf being in moment, enamored by my thieved effort.  Still grateful to my persistent winemaking wizard sis for this opportunity.  Me, not exactly of the same mindset as her outfit, but, even still, of wine passion.  And that’s really all that’s relevant.

Mike thought it time to jump to his papered journal.  He was tired of the technological singultus.  Paper, couldn’t stall.  He was safe on those lines.  Should he continue with this new Wine Blog Business, in 2012?  He thought he should.  He needed to.  He needed hope of Autonomy.  The Cab made him entertain silly synaptic snaps.  There were two sips of the ’09 in his glass.  But, the way he could sip, when sipping and scribbling, one.  Maybe.  He breathed.  Closed eyes, opened.  He needed sleep.  His morning mocha, already beckoning like a barking beagle finding its fox.  2009, into his epicenter.  Wined conclusion.   

12/27/2011, Tuesday

6, pt. 2

50 minutes left in my Late Literary Lunch.  Now, in the mode I usually am, racing against time.  Typing against it.  No one in the coffee house.  Didn’t even notice their departure.  Easily over 1000 words for the day.  Have the post ready for WineBlogBiz.  Just going to call it “1Stop,” whenever I mention it in this blog’s few remaining days.  Not counting today, only 5 more entries.  How did time pass me in such haste?  Why is it so cruel, I have to ask.  Spoken word, tonight.  Only pen, paper.  Ink.  Capote even said, “That’s not writing, that’s typing.” There’s even a scene in “Capote” where Jack Dunphy is scribbling, furiously.  Almost angry in his focus, obsessed.  When a phone rings, he throws the door shut.  I need to write more in that Comp book.  Everyday.  

EVERY.  DAY. 

Mike looked outside, saw the parking lights on.  This was a first for him, night coffeehouse typing, writing.  He wasn’t sure is was exactly what readers would label significant, but it was new.  It was significant to Mike.  Probably only two sips left in his cup.  A Late Literary Lunch, ending.  Or was it?  Only 5:21p.  His condo, about a five minute drive.  Well, no.  It would be five minutes if he calculated walking to his little XA, starting it, maneuvering out of the chaotic Safeway lot, driving the two blocks.  But if he were stopped at that light it would definite weigh-in at 5 mins, maybe more.

Another reason why he needed more page contact, ACTUAL writing: distance from tech.  The wifi here, like a slow creeping side cramp.  Awful.  But then he asked himself, “Why do I need internet connection?  Or, much less, one speedy?  I’m supposed to be writing.” These distractions, self-fulfilled interruptions, he saw as manuscript death, deaths.  So they stopped.  Right then.  He scribbled on a piece of paper, found in his bag.

= Literary Theory; etymological ties ...

= Active reading; Deconstruction ...

-Text significance, Response significance.

Mike found himself, again, in professor mode.  It was no mode, he realized.  It’s who he was.  But how did that fit into his new Wine business push?  Did it have to “fit?” His thoughts, blending with each other.  Beautiful, he thought.  Especially with the current song.  Relaxed, ready for the next morning’s enviable commute.  Last sip.  Packing up.  

The man in the booth behind him left, quickly.  Mike couldn’t help but wonder if he was reading over his should, glancing at his exposed screen.  With a page on the table, he wouldn’t have such preoccupations.  

12/26/2011, Monday

6: New Wine Blog Biz

With the day free, to me, I do just what I would have on my Lit Lunch.  Clocking in, 4:15p.  Fifteen minutes late.  For such a short line at this very near Starbucks, the wait proved painful.  Blame mySelf, my proclivity in mocha’d magic.  Why can’t I order straight coffee?  Anyway, schedule allows till 6pm.  Extra hour, lovely.  If only I had that on normal midday sessions in downtown Napa, M-F.  Outside, creeping fog.  Cold, chilled consistency.  Perfect for page.  New Year around corner.  New blog, new writing, new business.  New Me, one in total Autonomy.

The mochas here, not as attractive as those from my beloved Roasting Company.  At a bit of a block, not sure what to type.  Just moving fingers till year’s close.  Should have brought the Comp book with me.  Also with this New 365 (don’t think it’s year leaping), I want more pen2paper.  Moving ink, playing with it, letting it deliver my Literary stretches.  Notes, all over this computer, that Comp book.  Even my phone.  Need desperate consolidation.  Yes, the new business is my focus, but so is the novel’s completion.  Especially with the launch of 1Stop.  Have a feeling that will be my greatest writing prompt ever.  It’s lifelong, potentially.  Always populating the pages.

Need to slow down.  Already winded from the momentum.  This current Wine Bar track, suggesting I need another sip.  The people in this coffee house, definitely talking louder than the Roasting Co guests.  I’ll be honest, it’s a little annoying.  At a small booth, where I can view see all entering, all the new talkers.  Need to focus, forget about the surroundings.  Focus on these chilled vino beats.  Let them carry me to Paris...  

Mike enjoyed his afternoon.  Tried.  He kept stressing about tomorrow’s unstoppable obligation.  He’d be back at work.  No sleeping in.  Early up, 5:45am.  What could he do, but just be there, in his moment.  He typed, thought about the streets in Paris’ downtown, by the Arch, around his hotel.  Last night, talking with his cousin about plans for the new “Wine Blog Biz,” going into the new year.  Incredible developments were on their way, for Mike.  He was sure of it.  He and his cousin talked about how the business would grow, and of course talked about the fantasy office on the Embarcadero.  Mike wouldn’t mind, even one bit, commuting to his own office, for HIS business, to make money for HIM.  He felt alive, dimensional in his new ideas, his new business.  He had goals, for the next 90 days.  Ones he knew he’d pass, maybe even unknowingly.  He couldn’t wait, for any of it.  But he had to, as Nick suggested.  “Be patient, be smart.  Be methodical,” his cousin ordered, last night during their meeting in Mike’s Dad’s office.  Mike, a new entrepreneur, at 32, knew he needed sleek strategy in each of his steps.  And never to Self second-guess.  The wine would sell itself.

12/26/2011, Monday

7: Christmas Carafes

The tasting tonight, playfully competitive.  Five 2008 Cabernet Sauvignons, either Napa or Sonoma fruit.  The specified subject was Cabernet, vintage specific.  Mine won 2nd place, while a close family friend’s, much lower price point, took the belt.  This again shows that price isn’t always a reliable quality barometer.  Katie brought by a sample of our Cabernet, which still very much trucks through ML.  Haven’t tasted it in a while, so it’ll be rather educational to experience its growth thus far, in terms of structure, palate presence, etc.  I brought the sample home to do a tasting tomorrow night.  Excited to see what character greets me.

Each carafed wine had something different to say than the others around it.  Wine C, belonging to Brian, our longtime friend, and Wine E, mine, had similar songs, but both followed with their distinctive individualistic temperaments.  Interesting, this side of wine.  Excited to taste MKCS11 tomorrow night, after tonight’s wine tasting interaction, humorous competition.  How will Katie’s and mine measure up to other ’11 Sonoma County, or Napa, Cabs?  Can’t think about that, or even lean towards a second guessing of Self, as Katie instructed at the beginning of our project.  Actually, she bought me a book on home winemaking.  Without any delay, failure, procrastination, I begin my read tonight.  Even if it’s one chapter.  Well, I may, realistically, start my read and note taking tomorrow night, or late afternoon.  Need to get ready for bed.  Rejoicing over my day off tomorrow.  Thanks, NWG.

Nick and I also met this evening, discussed marketing strategy for 1Stop.  We put together a simple strategy, one easy to follow; one quite attainable; one that’ll change everything, he and I are quite sure.  Not disclosing anything here, just know there is a FIRM business plan in place for my new WineBlogBiz.  Excited, optimistic, assured.  Away into wine, writing, writing about wine, selling wine, I go.  INDEPENDENTLY.  

LITERARY & OENOLOGICAL AUTONOMY ...   

12/25/2011, Sunday

8: Been Told Love - Grenache

Sipped a Grenache from the Paso Robles area that honestly sent me to other plains.  My cap of night, this sparkling.  Christmas eve, my night.  Wonder how to perceive this night of nights.  Maybe I shouldn’t think of it that way.  Or maybe I should.  Tonight was special, with Mom’s cooking, Katie’s conversation, wine education.  And the wines, especially that Grenache.  Never really been a fan of the random Rhône, but I am now, after tonight.  Could this be the newest edition to the whoso cellars lineup, this vixen varietal?  Can still taste its taps.  The syrupy raspberry ticks, mint, waving herbs. 

Can’t believe tomorrow’s Christmas.  How did this year fly with fluid indifference to my nerves?  My nerves, rather eased with this sparkling about my settlement.  Now, looking through cubeNOTES in the Comp book.  This blog, a book, I’m thinking.  Just noticed something with a couple reads of these progressing sentences: I’m comma-happy.  Why is that?  Is it “grammatically flawed”?  I don’t think so.  So I’ll just write in wishes about tonight, the Grenache, Katie’s and my wine, the novel.  Who knows what’s around the corner?  There’s a new slew of barrels this way barreling.  Exciting, as a winemaker, writer.

Christmas, so much entailed.  Nothing cliché in this installation, only introspective tremors.  This night, tomorrow’s day, involving everything that characters should allow in their development.  Wine, family, moments memorable.  Writeable.  Love 2nite, 2morrow.  

notes -

= Just saw a commercial against driving drunk, warning that They’re out there, waiting.  Then, I see a spot for Absolute Vodka.  Did anyone else notice this?  Now I’m tired, looking forward to my morning mocha.

And 2morrow night’s wines.

Mike scribbled a little on the Comp journal’s lines, then set it down by the battery-fed candle.  He looked at what remained in the flute.  Tired bubbles, for a tired, wined-out writer.  He didn’t know what to do with all this “wine blog” writing.  Should it go into a book?  Would it make a book?  He didn’t want to just toss it in that plastic box of old writings, as he’d been doing for years.  So, then, he reasoned, it was a book.  He smiled, sipped, headed for bed.

12/24/2011, Saturday

oenoTurn

10

Thursday.  Tomorrow may entail a clipped shift.  Could be nice, leaving early.  We’ll see.  Not exactly thrilled with my progress on the other blog.  Why do I procrastinate?  Is that a writer thing?  Maybe I’m better off a writer than a wine business owner.  Well, I’d have to pose to Self, “Which would you rather have, books on store shelves, or a wine shop (or business)?  And you can’t have both.” Well, if you know me even a little bit by now, you know the answer.  Doesn’t even take much deliberation on my part.  And, quite frankly, I’m getting a little bored of the wine business, of wine itself.  As I’ve said in the past, no brilliant bottle of wine brings with it any impact comparable to a brilliant book.  In Cold Blood, for example...  Show me a bottle of wine that, anywhere in history, moved as many people as Mr. Capote’s master oeuvre.  You won’t find one.  Well, I guess it depends on where you are, with thoughts, heart.  Mine is, will forever be, with Literature.  Others, have histories with wine, the wine world.  To me, wine is nothing more than a common beverage.  Yes, you could elevate it to “luxury.” But even then, it’s consumable.  Sipped, gone...  Not with books.  You read, put it back on the shelf, return when you wish.  It’ll be there.  Waiting.  On its shelf.  For you, the reader.  Wine can’t do that.

More than ever, I need travel.  To just fly around, write in different locales.  Not even sure wine fits into that picture, honestly.  The other night, I had another dream of Paris, that drive to Burgundy, around 3 hours, maybe a bit more.  I woke, right before getting ready for my dreamy commute to Napa, thinking of the Louvre, all the art, history in those walls.  How I almost found myself utterly lost between exhibits.  Eradicating all stationary actualities from my days, my principle, primary goal with this newest life year.

12/22/2011, Thursday

9

Going to be quite honest, I’m in no mood to write, post to this exhaustive “wine blog.” Maybe I should walk away for a little, take a break, separate.  That would be best, I’m thinking.  For you, very patient reader, as well as this authorial self.

Returning, five minutes later, still unmotivated.  Probably the wine from the work lunch.  All at that table, incredible.  Especially the wine.  But, it negatively tilted my energy, Literary ethic, what I need tonight to compose an entry.  Thinking of stopping altogether, with the wine.  Have Diet Coke, or Ginger Ale, with xmas eve and day settings.  I’m a writer, so is it “selling out” to have a wine blog that generates revenue?  There’s no way that’s anything close to Literary.  Have to think about this in the next eight days.  Should I wager everything on the page?  Or, should I sell wine, make a living, and write about that?  Have both?  Can’t decide.  But I need to.  Frustrated, flustered again.  Breaking...

Mood, re-blossomed.  Think it’s the Thievery through these little speakers on the monster.  The novel, in each of my steps.  Can hear mySelf narrate as I go.  Kelly, again in thought, but only so much.  It’s this WineBizBlog of mine, thinking of entrepreneurial skips.  I’m not letting some recent passing in this ever so prestigious “industry” dissuade me from starting my shop, my greatest writing project to date.  I will have everything I want in this newest year, believe.  Feeling exceptionally optimistic, in this hour.  Tiring, though.  Have to save energy for holiday’s remainder.  And about the wine, I am going to enjoy it.  As I do enjoy it.  I love the wine, not necessarily its industry.  Wine, universally Literary, if one Literary embraces it.  Reconsidering this life’s evolving varietal, positively; emboldened, in control, empowered.  Sip, sip ...

12/23/2011, Friday 

11: Megatage

Think my book might be one.  A2 and I always make fun of wines that just have varietals thrown into them, but sometimes they hit.  Like the one I’m sipping, or was sipping, tonight.  Magical.  Think I may be tiring a bit from writing.  So I’m just going to pace Self, from now till year’s end.  This wine, telling me to successively, successfully separate.  Dad would understand, DOES understand.  He reaches a point where his convictions entrench.  That’s where this author situates, percolates.  Sitting in the home office, imagining my Wine Bar, listening to its instrumentals.  As often, Thievery Corporation.  It can be known, their music puts my pen in artistry’s pursuit.  Just went outside, can’t believe how cruelly cold the air stands.  I know, I’m Californian, I have no idea what cold is.  But don’t I?  Don’t the dormant vines?  The fruit’s removed by a certain point because of climatic curve.  So, I, my pen, this terroir here in Bennett Valley, all of SoCo, recognize icy hushed gusts. 

Wonder what the winemaker thought of when composing this bottle.  Don’t want to reveal too much of my reaction, as it’ll be partially posted on the other blog.  But, I’m jolted, jubilantly.  Still have the image of me in a hotel Room, writing with a bottle of something incredibly red.  What would I be writing, though?  Probably just expository.  Maybe a couple pours of fiction, verse.  This song, taking me further away than I’ve ever seen Self.  Spain, some islands off its coasts of which I’ve never heard.

That’s what wine does, thread thought, fantasy.  I’d sip this every night, if I could.  Wallet too thin, currently.  But that’ll change, once the check come, from submissions.  This wine blog business [the other blog], already tiring me.  Can’t get lazy.  Can’t afford too, with all I have coming.  Blending my perceptions, hoping it forms a varietal.  Some kind.

12/21/2011, Wednesday