Friday, December 31, 2010


Less than 10 hours in the year.  Have to prepare the first of the vinoLitLetterz.  Can’t remember where that document is on this little monster.  That’s one of the drawbacks of writing so much.  Focusing on smaller production, just as I do in appreciation of wine/wineries.  
Thought.  People say, so many say, that life isn’t fair, or easy.  Why can’t I make it that way, with writing?  Missing Paris, with sickening lust.  Avant-garde, French phrase of the day, year approaching.  Now all I need is a kir royales to pair with this reflective pulse.  My list of intents for ’11, more like a wish list, a fantasy menu.  Ridiculous Literary hilarity... 


Mike didn’t know if he wanted to be lazy, or frenzied on this last day of 2010.  Kelly, not near.  He thought about what wine to open tonight, but then thought, “What if I do something completely out of character, and not drink anything?” He wanted to see how, if, his own character would change.  He wanted this last session of the year to be unpolluted, clear, balanced.  Moments ago, he received a call from a student, wondering why she didn’t pass.  “Was it my research paper?” she asked.  Mike told her it was partially that, but more so the actuality that she missed over ten classes.  He wouldn’t miss teaching, at least not in the Developmental capacity.  He thought of his class at Stanford; be it a Fiction seminar, Creative Writing, non-fiction, journaling.  He still wanted that classRoom on the Palo Alto campus.  Maybe he’d be in one of the 2011 Class Schedules.  He felt himself tremor, inner-gallops.  Then, Kelly.  


Friday, 12/31/2010.  Mere hours left in this episode.  Convinced, going into the next installment, that Kelly is the cherished character, the one that’ll put me on that sought-after list, on the shelves.  Need to investigate further.  She’s far too veritable a variable to simply pick a few facts, and embellish, as I often do with characters.  What I do know of this anomaly genre of person, little: 1) She loves art,  signally painting, trying writing; 2) Her avoidance to crowds, commotion, clear but not consistent; 3) Her smile, never used for opportunistic furtherance, although it effortlessly could, stops people, engages them, diffuses, disarms, them; 4) She’s stronger than a Pinot, more soft-spoken than a Cab, or Syrah; she cannot be simplistically sorted.  She is unnamed, a curious quandary. 

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Day of Family Winery Visits

Stop 1, as you may have guessed, my most enshrined, St. Francis.  My close comrade JK took me through some familiar pours.  I asked him to do the “JK Flight,” whatever he thought was optimal.  He started with the graceful 2007 Behler Chardonnay, took me through some of the sumptuous reds, concluding with the 2006 Lagomarsino Cabernet.  I left, whirled in wonderment.  Why do I keep returning to this fantastic forum?  Quite candidly, it’s deserved, warranted.  It’s easy for me, as a writer, to stand with conviction in the presence of such oenological mastery.  The star, in the JK flight, I must say...the 2005 McCoy Malbec.  In my notes, I see scribbled, “Dark, deep, delicious.” Sipping for my most revered Room on the Kenwood stretch...
2, Mayo.  It’s been way too long since I’ve visited the diamond on the corner of 12 and Arnold.  As soon as I enter, into a quite crowded Room mind you, encountering smiles, genuine greetings, and not just ‘cause they know me, that’s how they are.  So nice, hospitable.  Was poured the sparkling, a Grenache, and ’07 Cab.  All superb.  Walked out with a bottle of the bubbly and Cab.  One of the great family wineries, everyone needs to visit, honestly.  Yes, I’ve been here SEVERAL times.  Yes, I’ve poured in their Room before.  BUT, the true epitome of all: I LOVE the wines.  Consistent, distinguished, marvelous. 
What a gorgeously random sprint.  Not new visits, but who cares?  I go where I feel at-home.  I’m a writer, and don’t take kindly to aggressive randomness.  St. Francis, Mayo, innumerable thanks for having me today, and treating me like a noble.  I always tell people, “I’m not a bully blogger, it takes too much energy to be negative.” That’s why I stay in agreeable asylums.  I go where there’s jillion inspiration.  Sip & scribble...

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Fresh Fruition

We decided to go to Fresh, again.  Can’t stay away from this oasis.  Immediately with entry, greeted by my friend Kate.  She delivered one of the most comforting, impressive, hospitality sittings.  Ever.  Mozzarella and exotic mushroom pizza, paired with some Ridge Zinfandel.  But I want to focus on the service at Hemenway’s immaculate immensity.  Our night, was truly flawless, strangely serene, thanks to distinguished cuisine, and truly Human service.  What Kate delivered, not easy to execute.  I can attest, firsthand, exceptional hospitality is not effortlessly rendered.  Cheers, Kate.  Nice to see you, and thank you for being the evening’s pristine luminary.  
After a dinner incredible, I’m in domicile, thinking of what I want to say during 2morrow’s interview.  Realizing,  I need to just let it unfold.  When plans attract tidal waves of priority, they implode.  I won’t be censored, but I won’t be scripted either, even by Self.  Need to get to New York.  Paris, again.  And, Portugal.  This New Year, entailing wishes, those attainable, those distant as well.  The telescopic aim of owning my own wine bar, entertained following the visit to Fresh.  To steer a vessel that offers a relaxing spot, for regular people, true Humans, would be a thrill incomparable.  One of the many acquired thrills from the tasting Room: sharing moments memorable with good people.
The life of hospitality, not easy.  You can ask me, Kate, not that my executions are anywhere near brilliant as hers, my comrades in the Room, those on a table’s wait.  Attributes the industry needs to appreciate: reciprocity and appreciation, kindness, relatable reality, Humanness.  Fresh has pushed this author into a contemplative cave.  For what, who cares.  It’s effect on my authorial frame, lamented.  Glad we decided to eat there.  That Ridge Zin, still in the cognitive corridors.  With a Year New at proximal bow, promise is promised.  My novel, soon forwarded to its deserved fruition, on its nurturing, hospitable, shelf.  Sip, sip...
(Wednesday, 12/29/2010)

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Day's Reaction

Wonderful guests visiting the Room today.  Exemplary, regarding vinoLit.  Preferences, all over the palate range.  With each of these new friends, I entertained: “What if these characters never experienced this interaction?  If I hadn’t, either?” A blended cast, coming to fruition in the form of Literary and Existential enrichment, diversified dialogues, flavorful.  I appreciated how each of them welcomed my poetic/character deconstruction of the wines, prominently the Zins.  I’m finding it universally bedazzling how many shapes this varietal can take, when jumping vintage to vintage, American oak to French, winery, winemaker, appellation, vineyard block.  Above elements all, it’s the guest I appreciate, the character/s across from me, offering their thoughts, histories, reactions.  For them I sip, sip...
(Tuesday 12/28/2010)

Monday, December 27, 2010

A Will...

Monday, 12/27/2010.  Feel a feisty.  Why?  I embrace the reality of the writer.  Just writing to write.  Studying Pac, Capote, tonight.  Need to nestle my notes in the Comp book.  Had enough wine: 2004 Stryker Cab, 2007 Passalacqua Zin, from the Maple Vineyard.  Closing with a Racer 5.  Much of this writer’s life, I find, peppered with predicament.  Antagonizing, annoying.  Why did I have to be one curved to words?  Why couldn’t I have been one to resign Self, not thinking at all, not loving words, not reading?
Tired, but I’m not ceasing session.  Reviewing the Capote piece I last night read, impressed, but still critical.  Not sure what to do, where to turn next.  So many advising me on what to say on Thursday, during my interview.  In respectful repose: I’m me, I’ll be me.  No self-censorship on this side.  Taking another sip, relaxing, with these trip-hop beats, arrangements.  Was up at 6a this morning; too tired to expand forward with this state.  Time for a scribe to sleep ... sip, sip ...     

Rain Night Note

The Room, today, with music from my cannon.  Watching the drops pound puddles in the lot, sent me to illusion.  My wine bar/shop, near.  Listening now, to both drops and echoing drums, here, in the study.  The gray clouds, pair charmingly with wines of all speeds.  Would be sipping tonight, but the exhaustion trumps urges to rendezvous with any varietal.
The song currently, making me think of how the rain smelled, tasted, in Paris.  That view from the hotel Room.  When can I go back?  Songs like this, pushing pages, like this, will buy me the ticket.  When I alight on the runway, I’ll be just as stunned as with virgin visit.
(Sunday, 12/26/2010)

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Entry, Navidad

Finally.  Rest.  But, rushed.  Preparing for gather at the parents’ domain.  Fun little wine competition.  My 2007 Duckhorn Merlot vs. their 2007 Pride Merlot.  Both contain Napa berries, although the Pride may be hybrid.  Perfect example of how wine, its occasion, characters in attendance, the accompanying dished give way to memorable moments.  What wine, vinoLit, is all about.  Raining quite furiously, strict gusts as well.
2010, almost closed.  Already have a simple, straightforward approach/mission for ’11.  Lots more poetry, spoken word, self-publishing.  All I’m going to state now, on record.  Beyond excited about my radio appearance on the coming Thursday, 12/30/10.  Expect wine reflection, poetry, vinoLit, unedited Mike Madigan charisma, venom.
A couple more minutes to type.  Wondering what my favorite authors, those living, are doing now, as I close this sitting?  Mr. King, Mr. Wolff, Ms. Divakaruni, Mos Def, Talib?  I need to read more.  Know I keep saying that, but that is one of my New Year’s reso’s.  AND, I will have a response journal, just as I had my students keep.  Will study the short story, poetry, essays, Literary criticism.  Not sure about the novel.  OH, and I want to study French.  Was reading some of Ms. Plath’s entries a month or two ago, and she wanted to study a language, a couple if I recall correctly.
Quick conclusion.  More Literary.  Each day.  All my movements have to concern art, embody elements worthy of a page, pages.  Need more characters.  Need to explore wine more, its valleys, admirers.  More pushes me, and the pen.  Whose wine will win tonight?  Going to make it a blogging mission, told Mom and Dad last night.  They think it’d make a great entry, really showing how wine is entirely subjective, mysterious.  Why do I say mysterious?  Well, we don’t know which bottle will show better, pair more effectively with the cuisines.  It is not yet known what the consensus will be, with all at the table.  I predict, sadly, that the Pride will present a more coherent, flavorful, and consistent character in the glass.  BUT, who knows...
Will write you later, lovely reader.  Peace... 

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Out then In, to be again Out, then In

While returning from the tasting Room, 101 south, no rain, poetry lines adhered to all outcroppings of my cognition.  Now, can’t recall them.  Should have pulled over, scribbled.  Now, I sip, the ’06 Carignane, hoping they’ll return, be antagonized.  
Opened this bottle tonight, about an hour or so ago, maybe two.  Different than past pours.  Bottle variables.  Lovely.  Heavier, darker, more vampiric....
And the rimes return...
Shielded by books, yielded my brooks.
More time in front of chopping blocks than cooks.
Another pour for me, more to poetry.  Tired,
I the Self hotwired, then got fired.
And then it leaves again.  Time for me to clock out.  Tomorrow, day 6 of the 7 stretch in the Room.  Patience, a bit rattled, embattled, but still sturdy, in tact.
Mike didn’t need to type further.  He stopped.  He needed to stop.  The pages, eager for him to halt for the night.  Even the Carignane, in its separatist profile and song, bored him.  Clocking out, only to clock back in tomorrow.  9am, he’d be there, preparing the bottles, promo-ing, counting.  With his laptop closed, the Carignane’s last droplets of presence fell to his nucleus.  -10:15p 
(Wednesday, 12/22/2010)

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

And, Lines Mine

Oscillated, I caught the jaded, me.
My sanity, serrated, please.  The breeze,
leads to freeze.  Police hate the free speech I 
speak.  Me, creep, sly sneak.  Loaded cannons,
Conscious eroded, heart colder than aspen.
You, about as loud as Charlie Chaplin.
Syllabic craftsman, Madigan.  General like Patton.
Vision, curbed.  Stance, perturbed.  Poet, 
unnerved.  Talentless devils: vile varietal.
I find a pull in breezes.  Opposite
ideology freezes.  I’m like Normandy
beaches, under attack.  Storming beseeches,
wonder in fact.  Sieges retract, their reaches,
lead lack.  I talk to walls, empty halls.  Too much
Plato.  Varied like a rainbow, war like Waco.
Return to mics, burn the spite, when I churn done bites.
(Tuesday, 12/21/2010)

?! Oh, wait...

Long day in tasting Room.  A tad venomous, at present, me.  Writers, not writers if adversed to rejection, contrasting current.  In my wine bar, delusion.  Wine Knot, why not?  Rain whistling at a weary window.
Mike frowns at his screen.  He wants to print, but retreats into an inner incomplete street.
I thought of my wine bar, again, today.  Not everyone smiles with Bordeaux, notably Cab.  Can’t them blame.  Just back from Monti’s.  Need to consider cuisine with more care.  Paris, demanding my delivery.  Want to sip the St. Emilion, again, again, moreover.  What can I do?  Money: tight.  Still, though, beautifully strangled in reflection, rejection.  Île Saint-Louis, I’ll be back, soon, promised.  Hope I spelled it correctly.  Miss waking up in early hours, writing, overlooking dark Parisian pavements.  Solution: a return, much required.   
(Tuesday, 12/21/2010)

Monday, December 20, 2010

2011 Madigan Cabernet, Alexnder Valley

Gothic, evasive, enticing with complicated tones of dark cherry, black pepper, slight vanilla and mint upon olfactory encounter. Spilling to palate, this bottle’s entity becomes even more multilayered with added notes of smoke and delectable night-like chocolate, stepping aside for a whirlwind finish, interlinking with, supplementing, the following sips. Mystery, solution. Bewilderment, ease. Pleasantly puzzling.
As she wakens, buried musty leather surfaces, introducing more confidence, dexterity. The character of this ’11 AV Cab assures a rewarding exodus, affair. Soothing, serene, silk. Ceasing, an option not. Creating it own semblance, the maiden offering promises stories, occasions, reaction. She waits, for palates impatient, insatiable.


Monday, 12/20/2010.  Even more gained from this day’s shift.  In the little notebook, swarm of scribbles.  The picture of my wine bar, materializing.  All captured on page.  Thinking of a Bordeaux-only approach, but I digress in conviction while sipping this Syrah, from the new winery.  Alderbrook, probably the best scene in my vinoLit forward, thus far.  Dry Creek, a phantasmagoric, ethereal plateau, upon which writers like I become willingly lost, disoriented in bizarre flavorful majesty.
Another step closer to making my own wine, today.  Details, can’t yet disclose.  My apologies, beautiful reader.  But, it’s closer to validity, assuredly.  vinoLit, taller than yesterday, more audible, referenced.  Sip, sip...

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Square Operation

Discovered a tasting Room on the Square of Healdsburg today.  thumbprint cellars, with an unrivaled atmospheric appeal and tasting menu.  The highlight for me, aside from hospitality and scenery, each wine poured.  Consistent, confident, and complex.  I couldn’t halt in my roam of the Room.  A Riesling, Syrah, Zin, Cab, not to mention the hooking pieces of illustrative innovation adorning the walls.  And, the little lounge corner.  Would’ve situated longer, on that seductive couch, if I wasn’t working.  Small production, relatable and inspiring beginning, and unforgettable wines.  Might do some more “outreach” tomorrow, just so I can reconnect with today’s flight of quality--no, exceptional--pours.

Selby.  Another winery with a moving past and inculcating tenets on wine, life.  I engaged in a brief tasting, with hostesses Catalina and Maggi.  Just with the three I sipped--the ’07 Russian River Syrah, ’07 Sonoma County Zin, and ’06 Alexander Valley Cabernet--I was even more fervent a follower that I was previous.  These wines present a pleasantly odd grace about their palate approach and presence, leaving the sipper with intrigue, longing for a succeeding sip.  I had a glass of Susie Selby’s magically molded Sauvignon Blanc a few months ago.  Ever since, I posed to Self: “Where are these people?” Glad I ran into them today.  

Today in the Square was like a tornado of curiosity, exploration.  I would sip, scribble.  Repeat.  Realizing to Self, there’s no way I’ll see every tasting Room, taste every wine, in every valley, region, experience ever nuance of ever terroir.  And that’s fine.  I’ll enjoy all able.  Today, supreme exemplification of wine life delight.  Beginning to appreciate wineries’ histories, and winemakers’ pasts and philosophies more by the mission.  I find it garnishing the my Literary wine leaps with surprise, creative and reflective enrichment.  I’m sure there’s more on Healdsburg’s treasured Square in which I’ll marvel and obsess.  Good time to start: tomorrow.  Sip, sip...
(Saturday, 12/18/2010)

Lunch Break Post...Then from Study

On lunch. Not an abundance of time to type. Slow. Rain, on pause. Me, eager for encore. In the mood for Zinfandel, one with gravity, influence, like one of the bottles housed here. Characters visiting the Room, providing pages. Need to collect enough for the first publication. MADIGAN Publishing, finally lifting off with this new year, I assure you. It has to. Salable manuscripts, only. Knowing where all pages go, just as chefs know where the wines will be linked. Can't post the entry from here. Saving as draft, to reconvene from domicile. Suddenly sleepy. Need coffee. My character before this screen crumbles.

6:03p. Home, empty. Not in the frame to scribe. However, I'm in keep of sharp surveillance concerning a winery/tasting Room's operations, obstacles. Will write my way to my Room. Also, going to media less. Meaning, more confined to the page. All but ALL confined to the page. More than anything I can conjure, I wish for my book on a shelf. A guest today asked me why I didn't want a traditional novel. I responded, "What is that?" The line between fiction and non is thin, if at all discernible, much the way certain Cab-rooted blends present themselves to a palate. Looking through a slew of past entries, I see a focus on Picasso, his defiant stride. Self-publishing, entailing the like, I think. What if I’m wrong? The day’s shift, a torpedo to my Equilibrium. Need to toughen, with five more at bow. Less time to write, but I’ll scribble sneakily. Covertly. Spy write.

The travel bug, reproducing in my imagination. I returned to Paris today, while behind the counter, doing “quality control” with one of the Pinots. I miss the language, the food, all unknown, unfamiliars. The mise en scèn of it all. I will write my way to that, as well. I’ll write any reality I wish, to be frank. I’ll produce my own ethereal existential blend.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Perfect Gift

Mike walked slow, through the mall’s hive.  He was frightened, but inspired.  Miniscule, yet massive.  A lady, probably in her late 40s, flies to him like a buzzard to a fresh kill.  “Hi, you here shopping?”
“Yeah, actually I gotta-” he began.
“Let me show you what you can get for some of the women in your life,” she asserts.  The lady grabed him by the right elbow, in a way that one of her fingers press on, dug into, a funny bone-ish zone.  Mike had to bite the inside of his lip, which also hurt, to cope with the discomfort she gifted.
At a table she stopped, releasing Mike’s branch.  In front of him, a florescent selection of shirts that read “SKANK,” in varying fonts, depending on which shirt you snatched.  And on the note of snatching items from a table, a few of the other shirts boasted “SNATCHY.” “Oh that’s okay, I already bought all my gifts.  Thanks...though.”
“These are empowering shirts!  Your women will love them.”
“My women?  What do you mean?” Mike wanted some expansion on that statement.
“Your girlfriend, your mom, your sister.  Whoever.” Her brows were raised, knowing this customer couldn’t walk away from such connection to and belief in a product on the part of the one selling.
“No thank you, really,” Mike said, smiling back.  She rolled her eyes, walked away, snagging another carcass.  Mike continued his steps toward the exit, which was still a ways from his locale.  He looked to his right, looking through the giant glass doors by the Starbucks.  Rain.  As he walked through the congealed plain of consumers, Mike noted as many characters as he could, not that he would remember half of them, or even two-thirds, when back in his study.  He stopped at a bench, up against a marble wall, near an interior entrance to one of the colossal department temples.  Forgot his notebook, at home, he realized, reaching into his back pocket.  With phone out, in “Notes” mode, he noted.
-Girls tending counters in makeup section, with so much makeup on their faces they look like they belong IN an ACTUAL painting.
-So much money spent, such short spans of time, seconds.
-Older man, looking lost, scared.  Feel sorry for him.  One day, will I be that aged?
-Lady at the SKANK/SNATCHY counter...fascinating, really.  How are those monikers empowering?
I’m not judging, at all.  All these varietals of Human life could be beautifully blended into any genre of manuscript.  Love these characters, all of them.  I wonder if they’re looking at me, realizing I’m trapping them, on this page--or, actually, in this phone.  Feel like an obvious spy, which, I guess, nullifies any worthiness as a Literary incognito.
The SKANK lady just passed me, her eyes hurling spiteful shurikens.  The mall feels like it rumbles beneath me, like it’s cognitive, angry with the trampling soles. 
Mike stood up, shot for the doors.  On the drive home, he watched the wipers toss drops off the glass.  He didn’t know if this meant anything.  On the radio, he heard of a fight at a Bay Area mall, in San Jose, that lead to two shoppers being rushed to a nearby ICU.  Mike couldn’t understand this.  He didn’t want to.


Left alone.  Contemplative roam.  Reflexive, like
the throw of a stone.  Again, tilt glass.
The thens, will pass.  Flutter in druthers like a
mutter in buzzers.  Unfinished poems, tossed
in a basket, Literary casket.  My creative
consciousness, drastic.  Unnerving mathematics.
Wishing for rain, like fishing sane.  Drops
drench the concrete on a long street, to a palm
tree.  My desk, no surprise, a mess.  Sip 4,
dip more in Merlot, stirred so.
Slowing down so I don’t drown, or clown around
in an absence of sound.  If only I could
scribble something profound, like Poe, Pac, or Plath.
No, not a sad moment.  If it was, I’d disown it.
(Friday, 12/17/2010)

Thursday, December 16, 2010

V. Sattui Reflection

After the last day as an Adjunct English Professor, at Solano Community College, I decided not to turn left, onto 12 West back to Santa Rosa.  Proceeding on 29, towards my other favorite valley.  “Which winery should I visit?” I thought.  Haven’t seen my old blogging buddy, Napa Chick, Ms. Danica Sattui, in some time.  So how about the V, V. Sattui?
I pulled in, let the partner know I touched down.  She met me in the tasting Room, set me up with a tasting flight.  I felt bad showing up so randomly, as she had to return to her office, back to her projects, obligations.  Danica left me in the impressively capable and knowledgeable presence of Demetrius.  As per D’s urgency, he ignited the experience with an ’08 Napa Sauvignon Blanc.  Refreshing, in the literal and figurative.  Then, to an enlightening and illuminating ’09 Anderson Valley Riesling.  My second favorite, next.  An ’08 Napa Valley Syrah, which I now see I noted as “enveloping.” Demetrius concluded the flight with three Cabs, two from 2007, one from 2006.  Surprisingly, my winner for the day was the 2006 Preston Vineyard Cabernet, which I dubbed as “redolently complex.”  And, to make the occasion even more memorable, I had the pleasure of running into some guests I met at my winery, about a week ago, Myra and Stan.  We took a couple minutes to catch up, discuss wine, cite our wine preferences, and all else that be.

When done, I thanked Mr. Demetrius for his fantastic hospitality, generosity.  I walked to the little house behind the winery, to bid farewell to the blogging partner.  She asked me how it went, and cited that her favorite Cab was the ’07 Morisoli Cabernet, the last one I tasted.  We discussed how beautiful the valley looked at this hour, around 3pm, a descending sun, and emerging dimness.  Didn’t buy today.  But if I would have, it would have been the Riesling, Syrah, and Preston Cab.  I’ll be back soon, trust me.  OH, and be on the watch for Napa Chick & The SoCo Kid, Mission 4!  Sip, sip...

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Sip to Scribble, Scribble2Sip

Thinking my notes could be my manuscript.  And when I’m in the tasting Room, or anywhere else in wine’s universe, I should note, simple-sentence my moments and sentiments.  Wine is full of brevities, quick passes.  But that’s what keeps it so exciting.  Same with the Literary world.  I know some spend five years writing a book that turns out to be only 120 pages, thereabouts.  But I don’t want that creative practice, pattern.  Me, to be on a “write & release” dive.  Deeper, richer, in the quicker.  Sip, sip.  Now I’m clearly seeing.  Now to pair this light Bordeaux, from Argentina’s Mendoza, with pen, lined sheets.  -9:59pm

Note from an Anti

Having a writer’s moment.  Or, just maybe, a Human precipice.  Paths.  Dad told me, “Think for yourself, or others will think for you.” Echoes.  Maybe I shouldn’t continue as the calm Cabernet character.  In adhering to Dad’s advocacy, I summon my defiant strands.  Again, if the wine industry doesn’t want me, a writer, it shouldn’t adopt my words, pages.  Don’t align with my likes.  And certainly don’t solicit only to maliciously dissect.  Me, treasuring my ideological and interpretive sovereignty.  No devil thinks for this poet.  Raising a glass of Malbec, to other true separatist scribblers.  Allowing the Self to settle, enjoy the sips.  
(Wednesday, 12/15/2010)

Unscripted Cuvée

Before the final sprint to Solano, I’m curiously eased.  Or maybe it’s not so odd, as I’m associated with a wonderful new winery, have incredible colleagues, and relentless material for my pages surrounds all clock ticks.  Listening to some beats I made a while ago, scribbling illusionary poetry, prose.  Syllabically irregular webs.
No planning.  All need be ad hoc.  Each drop of ink.  2010 closes, I awake, I feel.
Caffeinated, four shot mocha.  More outspoken
than Kanye and Opera.   
Another skirmish, critics seem nervous.
Counting words in my erratic blurbs.  Repetition,
begets my mission.  Vineyards glisten with early
hour dew.  Recite to blue jays, celebrating new
days.  Tonight, me go to Pinot.  Reactions onto
paper sheets, bleed slow.  More politics, please
(Wednesday, 12/15/2010)

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Interview with St. Francis Winery CEO & President Christopher Silva

Have always wanted to sit and chat with Chris, for the blog, and simply to learn more about one of my top five favorite wineries.  Today I had such a chance, talking about everything from Sonoma Valley, to St. Francis, to Merlot and Chardonnay, to Old Vine Zin, to beer.  Couldn’t get over how beautiful it was over the Wild Oak Vineyard, even with cloud cover.  Tasting through two of the Frannie’s profoundly delicious wines, I realized--or, rather, was reminded--how much I love these reasonably priced, incredibly impressive bottles.  Chris shared provocative ideas about wine, the wine life, why we here in Sonoma County, and Valley, should be so appreciative.  Watching the footage myself, with a little Intatto.  Thanks for the chat, Mr. Silva.  Sip, sip...

Monday, December 13, 2010

Imbroglio’s Portfolio

Another thing that excites me about the end of this final semester: I’ll get to read more, so much more.  Pair fantastic wine with Literature.  Going to start tonight, returning to the Tobias Wolff’s work.  And with my being fully-immersed in the wine world, full-time, I can study the business more closely, jot bays of notes.  Collect material for my pages, as well.  Will miss the students, though.  But I can’t afford emotion at this stage in my progression.  Focus, pragmatism, practicality.  Tonight’s wine, a Dry Creek Syrah.  Been open for about an hour.  All magic encouraged, charged.  Sipping with careful carelessness, whatever that means.  

Edgy Author

Monday, 12/13/2010.  Tomorrow, the T/TH section, done.  Not looking forward to the early drive, but quite delighted for the class’ termination.  To the new winery, afterward.  Couldn’t wait to post to the log, for these videos to upload.  Technology and I, still warring.  I’ve heard that winemakers have similar gripes, with their equipment, asking themselves, “Why couldn’t it be like it was a hundred or more years ago?” I’ve heard only a handful say such, but still.
Want to do some writing at a restaurant, but I need to watch all outflow of cash.  Xmas shopping, still not done.  Not even started.  Not at all looking forward to colliding with those crowds.  The one thing I loathe with this time, the carnivorous swarms of consumers.  This peaceful Room, and the tasting Room, more appealing, soothing.  Not threats, or thought pollutants.

Before Dormancy’s Down

Restart, actually. Going to convey momentary, unexpected reflection, from here till stop. The wine universe doesn’t want the Literary, but I will make it, at least, see it. Arguing with this session’s development. Why? No sense. At least the blend is boldly beautiful, with a flavor profile I’ve never before hugged. Looking through old pages, past journalistic vintages. What do I do? Blend, and see what happens. I might just be one who talks, writes. But at least alive I be, moving with thought. Even if my cognitions unfold irregularly, I’m motioned. This assimilation of varietal, renewing. So thankful to vinoLit...
This may be a “wine blog,” or log, I’m keeping. But I’ll convey candor, pure puissance. Frustrated with the censorship that this industry entails, demands. They’ll say, “be professional, be mature.” What does that mean? I’m a writer. That’s all I know how to do. How be it rational to think that I’m subject to the same statutes of your arena? Even if you have a reasonable response, I’ll reject. I’m a writer, sipping. One with this Bordeaux blend...
I thought this night would benefit the novel. I was right, for once. The pages compile, rile my style. Time for a Racer, that’s how pleased I be. My log, journal, expanding with visions postmodern, paginated, passionate. Now, the sitting getting a tad congealed. That’s what makes it so beautiful, though, to be frank. That’s a beautiful blend.
Mike thought his night was over, his stint typing. Wrong. He couldn’t stop. He sipped, scribbled. His intermittent motto. He thought of Kelly, her aura, bouquet. Tremors, uncontrolled. She conveyed control, peace, in the Now of his qualms with his world, “industry.” Tasting new notes, discovering entities. Sounds trite, he grumbled. But he, reporting real realities with his Equilibrium. If something happens to this author, he thought, “I want all eyes to survey and ingest my progress, vintage. Sip, sip...”

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Morality, Cloud Layers

Mike thought about his long day, after a costly holiday party for the old winery, the night before.  He never knew such a formidable range of Rooms, carrying so many wines, vintners, resided in the quaint streets of Healdsburg.  He knew he had exploring to do, for his pages.  Even with little sleep, and the tariff of last night’s glass-after-glass motif, Mike walked, tasted.  He knew he could, would, one day own a Room with this level of appeal, invitation.  What would owning a wine Room do to his manuscripts?  He envisioned benefits, but knew there was harmful incurrence, somewhere.  But wasn’t there with anything, any topic?  
Tonight’s varietal, Syrah, from the new winery.  Mike remembered his stretch of Syrah encounters, a couple years ago.  The varietal itself was a ghost, to him.  Spinning his courages and anxieties, pleasantly.  He looked at the bottle, wondered if this would be in his shop.  He couldn’t stop with the fantasies.  And why should he?  He loved the moment created, fermenting his sentences with an illusionary handle.  He didn’t write.  Just sipped.  Listened to quelling music, that his patrons would experience, appreciate.  He imagined himself there, in his tasting Room, the characters that would enter, unexpectedly and otherwise. 
One place Mike visited today, a shop, with all elements he would wish for his wine corner.  From the shelves, to the appearance of the wood used for the tasting bar, to the offered bottles.  Sip, listen, leaving reality, again.  No harm could come from such an expedition, not the way he would do it.
In a wine wonderland, dreams.  If these locations can pull it off, I can.  No?  It has to be harder than I’m awarding.  Prestidigitation, ink paired with wine.  Clock tips, I sip.  Meant to write “Clock TICKS.” Love typos, really.  They’re humorous, Human, innocent.  Just like an unintended note in a winemaker’s effort.  Didn’t think I was going to get a session in tonight.  So exhausted all day, then when I arrived in domicile.  Last night, bittersweet.  Delighting in the opportunities with the new winery, but missing the crew at the old.  Moving on.  Can’t afford emotion as an artist, not the type I want to be.
Started a poem yesterday, but didn’t finish.  On one of the small pages in the little red notepad in my back-right pocket.  Just removed it.  Five lines...I can tell they’re mocha-influenced.  This night cap, tempting me to forfeit the evening, close the little monster laptop.  But I’m enjoying these daydreams, during night, of my bar/shop/bar/location.  Life, a blink.  Surplus, not actuality.  Now need priority, planning.
Mike slowing his movement upon the keys.  He was confused.  By what, he didn’t know.  Kelly looked at him, surveying his state.  “Are you okay?” she asked, moving closer to him, pulling the blanket over his core.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said, setting down the little notepad, then pen.    
“That’s the fun part.  That’s what makes me create.  Love it!” she said.
Mike didn’t know what she meant, thankfully.  Without notice, authorial impulse encircled him.  He wanted to kiss her, like a lost explorer would want orientation, safety.  She was that, a security.  For him.
(Saturday, 12/11/2010) 

Thursday, December 9, 2010


Compelling phoenix.  She turns
time into morsels.  How, I don’t care.
No time to analyze her orchestration.
Voluptuous vintage.  Her.
We should write together.  Merely for 
the manner.  Sequestered, with an unseen
character.  You know you’re one of the pen when
the page pockets you.  I’m catapulted, away.
More than a flavorful fray.
Where are you going, she asks.
I say, nowhere.  I have to go, she throws.
My words: don’t dare.
Movement’s nothingness.  Deserted.
Session silenced, no more avidity blurted.

Mike stopped his typing.  There was no coherence.  Wasn’t that what he always conveyed to the minds in the seats?  He felt like a hypocrite.  Shut his laptop.  The letters in this notebook, blemished, terribly tarnished.  Experiencing odd, coagulated guilt.  Meter, disarranged.  But he shined in this blend, and the night’s cessation.  Argentina, he loved, thanked for the Franc interfusion.  The Room, theirs.  Under a kind cloak, he sailed to visions.  Peace...

forwarding innercrowd

Blend.  Like me.  Innumerable
chemistries.  Sipping,
inhibiting the reflection’s motion.
2 oceans for the chapter last.
She navigates melody,
consistency.  If I have rationale,
it’s the character in this compound.
Gauge assembly in Self.  Sip again, smiling,
as it helps.  Faster pen belts.  
(Thursday, 12/9/2010)

2006 Terlato EPISODE, Napa Valley

One of my favorite wine sipping EPISODEs, ever.  An enveloping, confident blend of Bordeauxs.  65% Cab, 28% Merlot, with a couple pinches of Petite Verdot, 7%.  Reasonable alcohol level, 14.2, allows the majestic qualities surface and transcend each frame of the tasting.  Experiencing a confident yet graceful swagger with the interweaving notes: blackberry, cherry, black pepper, leather, a little lick of licorice.  A bit young, but after an hour of exposure...unique delight.
This is wine for which you make plans.  It makes the moment.  A tempting character in this bottle, mastery.  Spellbinding.  Sip 2...eased, curiously more layered in personality.  This wine evokes impassioned reaction.  Sip 3, startling contrast to 1 and 2.  She shifts her movements and presence right in front of me.  I’ll keep pouring, appreciating how her charisma continues.
(Wednesday, 12/9/2010)

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Education, a Single Evening

After a long day in the new Room, Rony and I decided to be on the other side of the bar.  So, we scurried to Williamson Wines, a gorgeous Room on Matheson Street in Healdsburg.  Not only was each wine tasty, but irregularly moving, pleasantly startling.  Winemaker Bill Williamson was very kind in agreeing to an unannounced interview.  Next time I’m there, I’m walking away with a case or more, effortlessly. 
Then, Bear Republic, home of my favorite beer, Racer 5.  Rony insisted we get some calamari, so we did.  Scrumptious, memorable.  Why has it taken this writer so long to return?  Great night, in this vinoLit Life.
Happiest of birthdays, Dad!!!