Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Room Notes: Threaded

Mike looked at the red in the bowl. How do they do this, the winemakers? He rose from his chair and walked downstairs. What would he do for the rest of the evening? He could call some of the guys, but his balance couldn’t take anymore hits. Caged in the condo. That’d be a good title for...something. He opened one of his flip- pads. Room Notes would fill the time more effectively than the fucking TV.
Phone. “Hello?” Mike didn’t want to talk, at all. He didn’t know want was to be in this night’s agenda.
“Maddenson, what’s good? You gonna come get a beer with us?” Cameron’s voice charged from the earpiece like a horde of hungry syllables, in need of an eardrum through which to puncture.
“Not tonight, Cam. I have so much to do and I can’t afford to be going out anytime soon. Need to keep myself here, be disciplined, for once,” Mike said, knowing he would regret this as soon as the call dissolved.
“Not even one beer?”
“Sorry buddy. Gotta be good tonight.” It felt good for Mike to say this. Was he finally exercising restraint of some kind?
“Alright. Have a good one, Mikey. Call us if you change your mind.”
“I will.” After the phone was set back on the uninviting, cheap, plastic-ish charger, Mike thought if he should have said yes to going out, gather intel on his characters in a setting social. He was trying to justify a mind change. He knew what they were like outside the Room. He needed to save money. Not just pinch pennies, hide them from himself.
He needed funds now. As much as he adored the Room, it did not pay for what he lunged. The flip-pad open. He surveyed his capturings from shifts past.

T 12/29/09. Watching snow, writing about it. What else would a reader expect me to do? How often does it snow here in the wine country with the sun still a bit visible. With every new year, it seems, follows a canoe of resolutions sure to sink. Not this year, 2010. No more outlining, only action. But that, of itself, is a resolution, hope for a new Now.

Forcing my Self to write. A penman of waste, matterless matter that will never, and should never, matter.

Mike closed the little book of notes. Time for dinner. Cat food, he thought, was sure, all he’d find this night. Decided to stay in front of the screen, ignore his grieving core, the internal tremors, rumbles. He continued to flip through the mini-pages.

Late 20s guy, dropping off his resume. In a good mood, I give him a comp tasting, four wines, Sauv Blanc to a Russian River Cab. He kept on about how much free wine we get working here. He really wanted to work the next barrel tasting. He asked, “So after barrel tastings you guys probably get to take home a bunch of wine, huh?” After moving through the wines, he continued his free wine investigation. Wonder why he wants to pour here.

The vines, out there, just beyond the lawn, wonder what they’re doing that we can’t see.

One of our Zins, the “bully in a bottle,” as I call it, a favorite today, guests and me. Taking a sip...wait...reminded why I love the alpha Zin.

Ate three little trays of the amuse bouche. Still hungry. Hate having to eat on a schedule someone else contrived.

Mike was bored from his notes. He picked up the phone, dialed Cam, but stopped before the last digit. TV, on. Not what he wanted to do. Reality TV, sports, movies de-gutted by censors. Mike picked the pad back up, with its lucrative little scribbles. Read.

Wine, wine, wine. Keep it at all times in this mind.

He opened a bottle of Grenache that Mom and Dad gave him as an unexpected gift a couple months ago. He was going to save it for an outing with Alice, but he needed speed. He needed to be productive to some degree this evening.
First sip, the notes grappled with his cognition. He didn’t want to write, just enjoy the potion tumbling towards his center. He picked up the little pad of pages, made some notes of this now, the Room of the encaging condo.

Wine, for me. Not guests pestering me.

Turning off this malignant TV.

His phone rang. The screen let him know it was Cameron. He wouldn’t pick up. A conversation would wreck the Room, this Room. He delighted in being caged, could breath on his schedule. The Grenache’s cherry and pepper tunes threaded themselves into Mike’s imaginative web. This moment, better than a shift in the Room. He discovered a new Room, a new Now.


Friday 19/2/2010. That kind of dating looks odd on the screen. Anyway, have wits to write tonight. Need to spice up my prose, get crazy and unorthodox with my wording. Like C said, worry how you feel about it later. One thing I’ve been juggling, this blog. Don’t want to get too specific, but I may increase my energy towards this digi-log. My students, this term, tiring me. Teaching the class before Comp is cutting at my core. Just speaking of this term’s actuality warrants a break. Another sip of the Racer. Wine on the mind, literature too, after today’s excursion and review. Love that little Room at Larson. The road to their Room, what a symbol, image that begs expansion in an entry. Pause, me, this ink...
Need to give this log more of a wine knot. I address the stage sporadically, but I’m considering a recalibration. Wine is Literature, my guiding advancement in surveying any pour. So, I’m cordially inviting wine to with this penman reside for an indefinite block of pulses.

Saturday February 20, 2010. Taxes done. While Alice and I were finishing up with Janet, our tax wiz, a gentleman next to use made himself known. Truly, one of the most perturbing roles I’ve ever encountered. As Alice and Janet finalized a few specificities, I was in the mode of the penman spy, ink peppering my flip-pad. He was born in 1968, works, I guess you could say, in construction. He didn’t pay his taxes last year, and hasn’t worked for about a year. He is divorced, with two kids. His ex is on welfare. His situation I did not in any way find annoying, it was his voice. His loud, raspy, over-enunciating voice. He kept on repeating the name of his tax person, with every statement and inquiry. After essentially explaining the entire concept of taxes to this man, Suzanne revealed that he had owed money. He then said, “Suzanne, why are they stingin‘ me so hard?” She went item by item, with charges incurred by this man. He then said politely, but quite loud, “I just wanna get it done, Suzanne.” She tired to find areas where he could make deductions, asking him if he went to school, took any classes, expenses, etc. To each question, he replied, again quite elevated in decibel, “nope.” Nope, nope, nope. The word was like a series of belches that wouldn’t halt. Even Janet laughed a bit. Alice looked at me, said “I have a headache.” His phone went off, louder than his tone. A call from his son, one he had to advertise to the entire building, room. Suzanne asked him if he has ever filed electronically before. He then replied, “I don’t even own a computer, Suzanne.”
The forecast promises rain, but nothing arrives.

WRITING PROMPT: Capture three characters from your nearest grocery store. Give them identities, and have them go on a voyage, or trip of some sort, together. Rules...they can’t be related, you must include both genders, and one has to die. Please submit at least 500 words for this exercise. Let me know what happens!

1:44p. Can’t stay away from the Stanford website. These professors are incredible expansive in their fields of focus. Want to lecture in those halls one day, but will I ever be qualified?
“What kind of talk is that?” the Self says to me. I realize I have to move with unorthodoxy, difference. I have an approach. Brewing, like the espresso for my morning mocha. Like Martin Eden, I’ve tired of regular labor. Sometime today, need to break out some of my theory books, Philosophy texts. Alchemy, a certain thoughtful sorcery on the menu for this day. I am energized, now.

WRITING PROMPT: 500 words right when you wake, another 500 right before sleep, the day’s repose. What do you have, in that thousand? Edit only once or twice. Keep this one authentic, honest.

4:15p. Poetry in my person. Inspired just by pushing these keys. Picturing myself in “whoso,” my envisioned ambient cafe. See Self sipping Syrah. Peace, all corners, in each level of my situation.

If I close my eyes, what will I see? Pond or tree? I’m wondering
to a corner for certain order. A coast away, miles from where
most would stay. Final pages in the book, many minutes me took.
Arms shield the page, I’m in the presence of many a crook.

BOOK ONE, now a work of 65k, down from 80. Brevity and wit, reminding my Self, and students. They don’t listen. Told one of my former students, when he asked how my semester was progressing, that I was only doing two sections of English 90 (again, the class before Comp). He then wrote, via IM, “...nothing more substantial?” I wrote back citing that I felt the same. English 90 is not substance, not for me, the rate at which my vision stretches, my interpretive and creative tools operative.
Going to Mom and Dad’s tonight for dinner, getting a drink with Miss Alice prior to. Her dedication to teaching, even with the impending slip of pink and all the other treachery, humbles me. I need to have her attitude, to remedy mine.
Freezing in this home study. Unorthodoxy, all about my shell. Now, forever. Critics, devils, beware. ANTI on the rise!

Monday, February 22, 2010

2nd Note, Monday 2/22/10

Assembling my chapters. Not just in the manuscripts, universally, all corners of the Now. The Grenache, spicier with each of the digital clock’s new red combinations. “I write too fast and too much they say, the next day offer me praise,” I said in one of the lines, in one of the first EP’s songs. Critics have so much to say, and how they adore hearing themselves saying it. Funny to me. Will go for a drive tomorrow, take a pic or two.

Couple more sips, and I’m done for the night. Watching this rare Tupac footage. That man’s fury is truly worthy of study, praise. I realize, that no matter how persistent I am with these words, scribbles, my additions will one day halt. There is no forever. Must keep up the contributions. Why breathe when I can write?

Note, Monday 2/22/10

Any critic of my writing should just withhold their infantile inferences. Those that cannot do, like my sister says, teach, or critique. BOOK ONE, will shut them all up. And, quite frankly, to any critic reading, present your qualms to me in person, in the street. Don’t hide within rumor, or a column in a rudimentary periodical. You can’t decry an ANTI. You’re a pawn, critic. Me, and all the like, rebels, shapers of collective and individual Nows.

These colleges boast acceptance, fairness. Then why are so many of us, educators, summarily shed. Creating a more conducive Now. Another sip of the Grenache.


Going to post a slew of entries on the morrow. Going to take a bit of a cesura from the reviewing of wine, I’m thinking. Not sure. Great day today in the Room. Worked alongside Stan, Lonny, Jack. Not much traffic. But, the character that did enter, delectable in both aesthetic and application, especially a group of girls from the South. Polite, vibrant, beautiful, each one. Pages, deluges of pages, they would inject into any manuscript.
Tomorrow, a day off. Many tasks before this author. BOOK ONE, its 60k requisite, almost attained. MUST dive into the box of old writings. Will I? Want to drive around and take a couple more pictures, like I did last week in Dry Creek. So much I want to do. This literary art is pain peppered with pleasure. And sometimes, that’s reversed.
Hating this 730a section of 90. Too early, not enough connection to my lectures from the surrendered scholars, that possess no scholarly acuity. I am going to focus on my lectures, a writing project, new leap. I’m not concerned with apathy, not any more. I’m not philanthropic, not for disingenuous and ungrateful, not to mention opportunistic, students. This term, my last. Off to Stanford.
Can see my Self there. Can see my book on shelves. Stop, topic next, Mike. The weather today, faultless, supreme. Rain projected for morrow. We’ll see. No mocha this day for Mike. Probably good, saved a couple legal tenders.
Journal jumping a lot lately. Need to stop, use only one 8.5X11, and my little one for the Room. If I get too thin, the pages will never be printed, no publication shall disseminate. Dinner, hungry, ebb lowering. Where is my Capote book?
7:31p. So glad to be in tonight. In this humble Madigan castle. Already over 1k. That was fast. Tiring. Had a couple beers last night with George, Stan, Lonny, and Jack at the Gnarly Thorn. Nightcap. Best way to unwind. Best crew to unwind with. Now, in this Now, trying to relax, but not too much.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Review of Larson, Petite Sirah, Sonoma Valley, 2007

“Defying Lines and Confines”

Bumpy road to winery, smoothness in this bottle. A nose of fruit, spice, rich earth. Tamed, yet unchained. It paints its portrait on your palate with angelic movements, a graceful glide through the notes on mouthfeel and mid-palate. Balanced, not too hyper in texture, as many PS’s appear to be. It leads me. Refined, rich patches of earth and spice maneuver around the fruit towards the finish line. Just as this varietal is a hybrid, this bottle from Larson envelopes me. Merging with her majesty. Leading through fruit, earth, spice, creamy finish. A romantic stroll, a blanket of brilliance. Royal, ravishing. Even when the fruitful finish leaves, I’m still pleased. Flawless transitions between stages of taste. A guide through an unfamiliar dimension, this bottle from the secluded sanctuary of Larson. Delightfully different for a Petite Sirah, but that’s its splendor, treasure, what it gently renders. Infatuation I’ve never know with this hybrid.

(Review Composed on Fri. 2/19/10)

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Review of Blackstone, Sonoma Reserve, RUBRIC, 2007

Truly, I am incommunicado. Surveying the shade, sensuality. Already enticed. A blend, spread over seven varietals, that works, sings, displays. How did they do this? Fragrant, vibrant, savory. Initial notes: smoke, oak. On nose and front-palate, a darkness delivering delight, almost too much. Looking for incongruity. None. The notes of deep, thick, endless blackberry swirl my spirits and propel my palate to paradise. Immovable structure, colossal consistency. The character, a proud, charming emissary of fulfillment, contentment. I keep sipping, slowly. Why rush time with beauty never before seen? Clouds of flavor, what me surround and lift. Nearly perfectly balanced tannins, a mouthfeel so remarkable that you don’t want the taste to terminate. On the finish, the awe is solidified. In a wonderland of sorts with this wondrous wish of a blend. Harmony and unpredictability interwoven. Great sips, each round.

(Review Composed on Wed. 2/17/10)

Wednesday, February 17, 2010


Review of Rosenblum Cellars, Zinfandel, California, Vintner’s Cuvee XXXII

The nose is a little light. I swirl, some chords unlocked. Thin pepper, slight red berry. Was hoping for the vanilla promised by the label’s vows, description, but no. Mouthfeel and mid-palate provide more complexity and personality, but not quite the character I look for in a Zin. Putting my bias to the side. The jam layer is a bit scattered, but still noticeable and enjoyable. The finish, by far the most formidable and profound portion of the presentation. A lovely progressive tease of a fadeout, revealing chocolate and a tannic tickle. In this concluding phase of the taste, I am coerced to take another sip. Not the most colorful of characters, but something I would recommend for pouring.

Review Composed on F. 2/12/10

Review of Joel Gott, 815, Cabernet Sauvignon, California, 2007

Mildly pleased to meet, but not excited. Never heard of this winery. But then, this bottle presents wonderful structure, delivering darkness of fruit, mocha, herbaceous blades. The finish is wonderfully wicked in its spell. Bedazzled with its beauty, truly. Truth in this sleuth. Slow in intro, but more dedicated in the latter portion of presentation. Supple, pulsating with presence and pleasure. Each sip is more informative. The finish is a fadeless fade. Lovely, celestial. Angelic, austere. As I sip further, a certain chewy curtain is thrown before my palate. Cabernet cabaret, flirtatiously floral. Great continuity and character. Sipping again. This is love, baby.

Review Composed on F. 2/12/10

another quick note

F/2/12/10. I’m just writing now, beyond 1k. Feeling stupid, yet triumphant. I strive, push, to be the most hardworking and successful man in literature. Writing and releasing at a rate unseen in this arena. Keep sipping this Cabernet, typing. That’s what an ANTI does. Clocking out, I think. What did I accomplish today? 1k, a wine review, two, and a brief ramble. Hooray for Madigan.
Didn’t record any poetry, rime, today. Sneezing, not sure if I’m out of the mud yet with this fucking bug. Still writing. Was thinking about strolling down the block to the Gnarly Thorn for a nightcap, but no. I want to remain here in the Madigan Castle, write till I call it a night.


She, a simple slice of sedation.
I’m enamored, clamored in this sphere.
It’s clear, she’s an orchestra in every
tear. The components, anything but
onerous. Love, a certain pond odorous,
floral, compounding an astounding moral.

(F 2/12/2010)

quick note

Sunday 2/14/10. Whatever I thought left my system has returned. Vehement, pragmatic, cruel. Just called the Room to let them know I wouldn’t be in. I could have gone in, and probably pushed through the shift, but the guests wouldn’t have been happy. And any piggish club member, well that’s all the grounds they need to complain, or get something extra out of us. I could just see that one member, Zebla Alotti, saying someting like “He shouldn’t be here.” Then adding, “I want my employees to be healthy when they wait on my. I want to be compensated.” Feel terrible about leaving the crew short on a busy and superficial weekend, Valentine’s and Presidents’ Day, but I need to sequester the Self for recover’s fortune.
2:25p. Definitely not pushing aside the self-publishing option. Opened a document for such. Chap, 35 pages of content, that’s it. Has to be affordable and marketable. Going to create my own brand, genre. If others can execute such with their hackish pages, then I certainly will (notice no “can”). This whatever I have still exhausts me. Off to rest a bit. Will try2log later. With the self-publishing, can’t spread Self too thin. Project by project, a lucrative mindstate.

Lazy, as the Stage be Hazy

Tuesday 2/16/2010. Spoke to a close family friend last nite, Kathleen, and she persuaded me to join Facebook. and twitter. Yes, persuaded. It can only help with readership, having more eyes connect with my entries, the log/blog. Need to remain simple, with vision tunnelesque. When you inform me that readers will swarm, I act.
11:19a. Okay, so I have everything set up, I think. Back to the fundamentals, the log itself. Only connecting with these two fads for the sake of the writing. No need to continue on about that. Not so enthused about returning to the classroom on the morrow. Or should I be? Had some interesting ideas for the lecture, need to examine a bit more. Woke up before 5a. Never fell back asleep. Had to go out to NVC to fill out a letter of rec for one of my stronger students. Shouldn’t have let it slip to the last.
1k, my goal for today. 3k is unrealistic, maniacal, unhealthy. In fact, nothing over 1k. A couple extra words is permitted. But that’s it. Alice, the funny little critter, called me at 11-something-p.m. last night to inform me that she had finished reading my blog. I’ve been giggling all day. I want to impress and startle readers that I don’t know personally, but making family proud is an incomparable bonus. Need a break. Feel my prose is pour.
4:28p. Back from nap. Thankful I’m not groggy. Anyway, I’m on Facebook and Twitter (is Twitter capitalized?). Never thought that would happen. Not aiming to have a large number of “friends,” be some social digi-butterfly. Simply trying to expand reader base. Nice outside. Miss the crew in the Room. Jack moved in down the street, which is a good thing. Went to the Gnarly Thorn last night for a beer with him and Stan. Can’t believe I called in sick Sunday. Quite at peace with that decision, I’ll state in this log with credible crystalization.
Should I be worried, with this new level of log broadcasting, about coworkers from the Room or students surveying the occasional virulency, surprising honesty, in the entries? Am I to be preoccupied with consequences, fallout? Simply, no. Not at all, never. First, and this is all I will elaborate and expand on such a stream, this is my log, my literary lair. I am ultimately and undeniably free. I will not self-censor again, ever. If someone is addressed, be it with venom or veneration, it is my election. I rule these pages. Anything can happen, and I will not explain beyond these lines, and I definitely won’t ever apologize. I’m not running for office. I’m already seated in throne. ANTI!
Tonight, I hope to get around to unearthing some old entries in this plastic tub under my desk, the one housing retired scribbles. I’m afraid of this box. Why? I view it like a composition’s crypt, a manuscript mausoleum of sorts, a journalistic jail. Can’t be frightful. I will dive in, armed with ink and line.
Went to Stanford’s site again. One day, I tell myself. Didn’t take many Room notes over the last two shifts, especially not on Saturday (which I tagged “asshole day,” on account of the amount of animalistic visitors). But there a couple jots in the little flip pad. Need to review those. Saturday, as harsh and horrible as it was, was one of my biggest tips days in months. Love irony, even when it tires my core. Going for a drive. Praise the Craft.
6:03p. Went to deposit the winery checks. My balance, emaciated. Hate depending on others for income. Exposure and readers are wonderful, but my goal is to live, subsist, by the pen, by these lines, entries. Reminded that time is an element worthy of concern, when I saw an elderly man in Safeway, the same one housing my bank’s branch, who could barely move, even with the assistance of the four-legged device. Felt sorry him, felt sorry for Self. Speedily. It’s good to be delicate, meticulous, but not to excess.
Saturday, in the Room, many on vacation, Valentines Day. One gentleman who came in with his other significant reminded me of something, someone, from a 1990s music video. Cheesiest character I’ve seen in some time. His cologne was suffocating me like I stepped on scared stones, left scars. His shirt’s buttons were unhinged to the middle of his chest, revealing a gold chain of medium girth. His arms were all around, over and about his exotic acquaintance, who must have been fifteen years his junior. Another character that day, with his wife, was quite patient as I jumped from guest to guest, group to group. He tipped me ten dollars. I didn’t charge for his tasting. Maybe I should have, but I’ve been told I can be generous using my judgement and discretion. The first guest I mentioned, the 90s character, was attired in a white shirt with a sparkly design on the back, up around the shoulder area, stretching from left to right. I told him about the bell in the tower, how it goes off every hour on, and how one shouldn’t be in the tour unless they want a taste of brief deafness. He said, “So the bell rings your bell, huh?” Ugh, annoyed me even more. Couldn’t wait to get him out of our Room. Worked with the best of crews on the Day of the Asshole. Will, Stan, Augustus, Joey, Lonny, Dan, Cameron. I think that’s it. If it wasn’t for Auggie pouring me intermittent doses of Sauv Blanc, and my vixenish Viogner, I would have surrendered. There were times during the day where I just wanted to leave, go home sick, but I didn’t want to abandon my brothers. Interesting cast in the Room. Invaluable.
My place, whoso, still under consideration, thawing in thought. I think it should have a revolving menu of starters paired with wines. Still want to investigate champagne/sparkling wine pairings. Lights, lazy. Seating, seductive, sexy. Music, perfect. It would be a place at which I would go, take Alice for an outing. Miss little Alice, her smile, jokes, funny voices. Thinking about her call last night, that woke me. If I’m to be pulled from slumber, that way is lovely. Not just because it contained praise for the log. My wife’s joyous octave was in my ear, laughing, complementary.
Don’t think I’m going to get around to excavating the tomb of tablets. I’ll concede, I’m afraid. Hate reading my past work. Why is that?

Beyond the Day’s 1k

Writing is a bit painful today. Why can’t I stop? Don’t want to teach tomorrow, but I will have a successful session. I’m determined. Stanford awaits. The city of New York, also invites. Feel like my words today are lazy, stale. Is it the nap, still crawling in my components? Grouchy now. Goddamnit. It’s only 7p, what does a figure of the pen do? Need time to ponder, and not compose prose. Sometimes thoughts need to be left alone as just that, in their home. One jingle I want to expel from this brain, a return to my master’s thesis, Apocalypse in Wonderland. This world, the Now, unraveling into such a landscape.
7:21p. Where did the day go? See? A Wonderland, this Now. Still need to get ahold of some muscular Bordeaux blends, some bottled bullies. Need a wallet for such. Generating revenue, that’s what the chapbooks will do. I don’t give a fuck what critics will say, do say, did say, about such an advancement. These words, keeping me alive. Need to keep poetry in mind, allow it not to be unsung, for it is what will keep you young. Some robotic salesman came to my door earlier today. Pushy, annoying, condescending. His kind, should be gassed. Do I have any red in house? Have that Opus One, but Alice would kill me if I touched it. Don’t want to, wouldn’t, anyway. It would better with her.
7:53p. Did I mention that I was only pulses away from starting, or enabling, a podcast? I selected a host, or whatever it’s called, input my credit card. But, then, soon after, aborted. It cost me about $10, my indecisiveness, for the creation of the space. I don’t know. I was lost. Again, I am a writer, not a phony sage, pompous personality with no personality, or character. I am a creator, a charismatic and tenacious character. Of that, certain. Watching a documentary on Leopards and Tigers, how man keeps hunting, poaching them. Angers me in ways that frighten me. People that hunt rare and beautiful animals for sport, as to gather trophies, are cowards, devils. They are the ones that deserve to be hunted, put to an unfair death, although I would see it as quite fair, warranted.
8:10p. Miss my Alice, as I sip what remains of her Mondavi Chard. Still can’t believe what I saw on that documentary, about the cats. Have to shift subjects, otherwise I’ll implode. St. Francis has this new Zin, in extremely limited quantity, the Sonoma Valley Montecillo Vineyard Kaarin’s Terrace, 2007, that is unbelievable. I don’t want to write an “official” review of it, as I feel any of my wording would only wrap it in disservice. Either way, it would receive an “A,” How do winemakers flex their alchemical mastery? My sister, need to interview. When I think further, my family is unbelievably intriguing. Mom, Dad, Sis, all novels, sagas.
8:41p. This day passed me, not past me, laughing. I’m more aged than I was at 5a, when I rose. Alice’s Chard, throwing notes of orange, or nectarine. Mystery, alluring genus. Should I attempt it, with my cop character? What makes me tango with this idea? “Basic Instinct,” I confess, no pun meant. Looking at the bowl that houses the Chard. The condensation reminds me of a fine fir. Feline? Certain areas have a direction, other portions contrast. What an image. Wish you could see, dear reader. These moist patterns are impressionist, imagist, abstract. Feeling odd. Definitely in the scribe’s stance.
9:05p. Over 1500, so why am I not calm? Why am I still quite frantic? This Craft, the life and death of me, I can promise. While here, I’ll keep scribing. Scribing what? Observations, reflections, moments. BOOK ONE, approaching. Running out of the integral impetus for my objective. You know, this existence is funny, to me. What can I do...I know what I went upstairs for now, the Pac doc(umentary). What would I do, if ever sent to cage? I want to say write, but that’s easier said. Now, irresponsible. I should be asleep. Fuck that. I’m on the watch mine. Would I be able to handle “fame?” What is fame, true fame?
10:22p. Ahead if sched, or behind? I’m writing, directionless. Chapbooks on my matter, in it. Van Gough, what would he say? Wish I was back in Paris, with the famiglia. Watching “The Departed” on cable. I hate anything censored. My quick-wittedness, stalled. Loving it. Have to be under covers at 11:30p, latest. The pain of this day’s session, still in the circuitry. Why am I so spiteful towards my words? Obsessively critical as I type. People say, “You’re your harshest of judges.” Yes, of this, abundantly aware. So why do I do this? Passion, its fucking price. Wonder what my brothers from the Room are doing right now?
10:39p. Last installment for the day’s shift. Hate censorship. So very much. Won’t ever censor Self again. Consequences, I hope they find me. I must be strong, for my family, wife. IF dignity is ever given up, what does the author truly hold? ANTI, 4ever. Me, a Leopard that can never be poached, hunted. Some of my pitches are fiction, but the umbrella, a total truth. I’m circling the Self with this session. Feel like it’s karaoke. At whoso, a fine quail dish. Would need to hire a militant, magical chef. Wish I could cook. Wish the time wasn’t so progressed. I’m older than I was when I woke this early a.m. Now what do I do, reader?
11p. When I leap, I get into trouble. Leaping, fun. Trouble, even more so. Living the role of the ANTI. Always in CAPS. The title deserves such. Over 2k. How did that happen? Truthfully, the propulsion Alice provides. Ten years behind, never would have foreseen this. A real rebel of the ink, married. Alice deserves better, something more stable, I infrequently think. Why do I say that? I’m decaying, with this day. So, should I clock out? Wish I could get your survey, reader. I need you.
Remembering San Ramon, that apartment. Nice, that water in the background, how I’d keep my window open, to aid in my descent into dreams.
11:18p. Actors, yes, possess “talent.” But what about us, writers? Actors are like paintings, something you observe. The level of interpretation is quick, reflexive. I sound like an envious viper. I’m not, just scribing a thought. The wine that I taste usually, needs to be recognized, what I sip from the winery at which I work. It’s amazing. Do I have a “house palate,” whatever the fuck that means? Maybe. But I resent that term, because it discredits my wherewithal, my ability to analyze, criticize. Everyone thinks the Self so sagacious. Back to the classroom tomorrow. A different room. A deplorable plume. Need to get Self a bottle of that Montecillo Zin. Did I spell that correctly? Don’t care. Miss Alice.
11:30p. Why can’t I clock out? Am I a workaholic? Sounds admirable, commendable, what have. But it’s sick. I should be leaning into these cushions, drinking my nightcap. But I can’t. Thinking of whoso, what it would look like, what it would be like to take little Alice on a date there. Just stumbled upon an episode of “Paranormal State” on A&E. What a fucking hoax. Am I supposed to be startled by this shit? Now, some girl is crying as she recalls an accounts. Unbelievable. Do people invest in these episodes? I’m sure there’s something out there we can’t explain with mortal deduction, but this depiction is quite comical. Fuck this show. Now, a “medium” is commenting on the “energy” in a room. Wow. Maybe my notes should convey more the energy in our Room, what the guests deliver to us behind the shinny marble.
The classroom, 2morrow. One day, I will speak of a classroom for the following day, at Stanford, I promise. Failure, not in this ANTI’s future. My log, hopefully helpful in some way. Fishing, with uncle Stevie, remember it vividly. He was a passionate character, I’ll give him that. Odd, but quite determined to find a fish. He always showed Katie and I a good time, be it on river or lake. One of the last times I saw him, he shared a short story about rock climbing. Wish I had that manuscript now. Surprised at 2/16/10’s progress. My oracle, Ms. Alice. Wish she sat in this seat with me.
Looking at the winery checks. My own income, from art, need to produce, now. BOOK ONE, soon, I promise. Why am I still typing. Clocking out, making Self.

2.5k. Mecca in my malaise.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

2 a Wine Review

Imagery, 2005 Petite Verdot, Sonoma Valley.
Excellent presence. Gorgeous girl in the glass. A fox. Elegance, in the rustic, dark fruit. Leather on the nose. After letting it open on its own, the tannins are playful, somewhat passive. Not at all obnoxious. The finish reveals more dark berry, and a bit of tar, or coal, damp dirt(?). This is 100% of the Bordeaux blending grape usually added for color and tannic support. Definitely stands on its own, reveals the level of complexity of one of the blends to which it often contributes. The character of this bottle is persistent and pleasurable. Definitely going back to the artistic Room to snag more.

Enkidu, 2006, Petite Sirah, Fazekas Vineyard, Napa Valley
What I expect from a PS, dark in the glass. Spreads itself onto the palate with pepper, earth, blackberry, and a smooch of vanilla on the back and finish, slight slice of cinnamon. A strong, pervasive character. This bottle does present unique threats of development, and I say that because I love Petite Sirah, and have sampled, what seems like, a lifeload. Eniku’s PS is like a new invention in a world of repetition and regurgitation. A relief, a remedy, for me. Splendid structure. Coherent, creative, and, as I stated, quite inventive. A temptress in the glass. Liquified night of amour, romantically rough. On a less dire octave, I love the label, and this winery’s name, its connection to literature and legend. Cheers, peers.

2 Installations and a Cold, or Flu, Can't Tell

W 10Feb2010 - Mad at my Self. I self-censored. I was going to insert an entry into this log, but decided that it may cause a ripple that would entail a certain fallout. Should have just posted the words. They didn’t go to waste, into my 100k project, which is no longer an 80k sprint. I hate censorship. That would have to be my ultimate opposite, even if and when it comes from Self. Enemies, puny. I will envelop your bravado, muffle your elevation. I am truly unstoppable in these pages, daring anyone to halt my assault, these creations from blooming into fruition.
Must set afore more metaphor. I’ll project, and the simpleton foe won’t even realize, know.

Th 11Feb2010 - Trying to write my way through and out of this cold, or flu. Alice, my little gem, asked me yesterday if I had a cold or a flu. I told her that I wasn’t sure, just feeling lousy. Right now, 7:41am. Why did I have to have this on my days off?
Going to take a break, a serious moment, moments, of motionlessness from this log. BOOK ONE needs hardy consciousness, real attention. A predator’s eye. Regret that I didn’t post that wine review from 4Feb. I will eventually. Today’s goal, 500-1000 words. Feel like a decaying elder. Must pace my Self today.
Readers, have a wonderful day. If I can leave you with anything, it would be a prompt:
Write your ideal house in 500 words. Address everything from the floors, to the windows, kitchen, master bedroom. Take us, the readers, there. Invite us into your home.

Certain Character

The one who has a high opinion of himself, thinks he’s witty, astute, poignant in his position. He moves fast, talks more speedily, and often just makes things up. Con artistry incarnate. Establishes association, then turns if it him benefits. Snake, wolf. Crocodile. Devil.
Authority expands to self-endowment, entitlement. Clouded brain. What annoys me about this character, is that he doesn’t see any flaws about his person. None. No remedy needed. He’s flawless in his “authority.” The grin is death, if you believe it. Does this character deserve this entry, this much analysis, focus? No. But you, the innocent, should be informed. His vocalizations are rapid, don’t permit him to blind you.
I sit here, disgusted. Not just with this character, but with my Self. Why has it taken me this long for an enriching and therapeutic deconstruction of such a filthy fiend. He, or she, loves to hear their own words. Each syllable is a bucket of savory opiates. Put this character in my fiction just so I can kill him, her. Take out a certain Shakespearian vendetta. Delight in my commission of homicide.
They think they’re incredible, when they’re really quite innocuous. Here is where my irritation, pique, dissolves to laughter and entertainment. This character is a clown. A clumsy buffoon, which is glorious for me because s/he thinks the self (notice no capital, this pig doesn’t deserve it) rather adroit, graceful, skilled. They are one of my favorite shows.
The best way to kill this character? I’d have to think. It’d have to be marketable, for a manuscript. The reader will want them dead. Maybe even butchered. Poison, Shakespeare might approve that. But what do I want? Maybe I won’t commit literary lethality, because they are so comical. Maybe this haughty hog will burn out, and self-conclude. Brilliant.

(T. 2/9/10)

Pushing, Even in the Typo Cyclone

Thursday February 4th, 2010. Tasted another wine tonight. Will post the review tomorrow, or the day next, if I can. Celebrated my sister’s 29th tonight. How is that possible? She’s 29? Time is a vindictive vulture, pecking at my patience. Tired. Wondering if BOOK ONE will please readers. Should I care?
The wine I’m tasting tonight...can’t tell you, although I want to. Hearing Katie, the sis, talk about her winemaking life injects visions of stories. Need to interview her. Not as brother, but as journalist, writer, a professional. She made a remark tonight about how critics critique wine, correlating to the phrase of ‘those who can’t do, teach’. Precisely why this is the last term for me as adjunct English goof. Now, finally, a being of the pen.
Should I put this blog/log into BOOK ONE somehow? No. At least that’s what I’m seeing now. Forgetting what I wanted to record in these concluding lines. Tomorrow, I do something out of character. 31. Time to be crazy, Hunter S. Thompson crazy. Can’t put this sensation into literary shade. I’m bold, belligerent. The Anti again protrudes. My calls ferment in these entries. Who will hear them? Hopefully you, the reader, the one of note. No transformation, I’m the same, just utterly unchained.

F 2/5/10. 1k, reached. This, icing. Met a character today. Full-time Math Professor, Dianna. Didn’t go to college till she was 31. Had first child, a daughter, when she was 26. She used to wait tables. She had an epiphany about life, where she was headed, how her daughter would see her. Wonderful story.
All the characters around, all of them, wonderful. My freewrites should focus more on these random beings. Need to be a spy, always. Monitor behavior, trap dialogue. They work for me, although they don’t know.

Sun. 2/7/10. Only in the mood to do nothing. Think I lost a $10 tip that I received in the Room today. I blame my affair with Viogner for that. Seriously don’t want to write tonight. Saints won the Superbowl. Wow. I care. Interesting how much emphasis we put on sports. Sports are wonderful, but do they have the substance we think they do? Just thinking, and I’m grumpy, so I’m thinking straight, definitely not. Don’t want to do tomorrow, the early rise, then after class back to the Room.
The 100k master project is now an 80k aim. More poetry. Had rimes in the head all day. On Tuesday, 1) add 3k to master project, old or new words, 2) record 1 spoken word song. Easy, as I have the entire day to Self. Self-publishing, also threading through thoughts. “Poems and Entries,” a sequence unique to me, could be my first release to the world. 35-40 pages, 100 copy run. That’s affordable. Waiting for these fucking elitist lit mags to get back to me is laughable. Need to take this year, this life by the throat, and if you know my personality that is exactly what I’m capable of.
The Room bugged me today, tremendously. One guest actually poured himself wine, twice. Are you serious? I should have been at home with Alice, watching the pre-game show, relaxing. Instead, I get home and the game is more that half-over. But Alice, the bewilderingly caring presence that she is, had a lovely little spread for us. I’ll be quite candid, she has settled for far less than she deserves, with me. Why me? Why did she choose me? I’m selfish, career-obsessed. Won’t complain about my immeasurable and invaluable fortune.
The poetry’s back. Need to jump over to another document on this little monster. Most healthy of eves to you, kind reader. A little aggressive, so permit me please to voice the following...DEATH TO CRITICS, PIGS, MANAGERS, AND DEPARTMENT HEADS! That’s 333 words, and I didn’t prognosticate scribing more than 50-100. ANTI!

Wednesday, February 3, 2010


Wednesday 2/3/2010. Still drained from yesterday’s 2k. So, forgive the brevity of this sitting. A student raised his voice and unjustifiably embittered his wittiness, accusing me of “putting him on the spot.” I did. Toughen up, coward. Not at all fearful of consequences that may unravel from my candor. This term, certainly the last. Another thing, the critics of my prose, poems. Lock your jaw, devil. I’m tired of being the kind, passive writer at times. I will unfasten my inhibitions, hurl barbs whenever tremors tumult. Feeling audacious, aggressive, antagonistic, belligerent with a certain barbarism, boldness, bravado.
Had a great dinner with Mom and Dad tonight. I still don’t get how she, Mom, works her culinary magic. She always says something to the tilt of ‘oh, it’s not that big a deal’, or ‘it’s really not that hard’. She’s amazing, beyond her cooking. Mom is an odd Muse. Her brilliance and gentle presence is unrivaled. Dad, so much experience, so many stories. Each of his stories could be a series of novels. He is a character that I should use. When I say “use,” it sounds negative, but please know it’s the most purified state of praise.
Clocking out. Readers, I apologize for slumbering so fortuitously. My spirits, descending like planes out of fuel. Looking through my Room notes in my little flip pad. Good material. These characters I’ve recorded, a career for me. I swear, the Room is a well of weltering wealth. Sipping what remains of the Anthem I opened last night. Almost better tonight. How do these winemakers weave continuous perfection? Maybe I should ask sis tomorrow night. It’ll be her 29th tomorrow. My baby sister is twenty-nine years old. How?
Ending utterances: 1) Death to critics, 2) fuck over-confident students, you don’t know shit, and 3) POETRY4EVER!

Review of St. Francis 2005 Anthem, Meritage, Red Wine

Gorgeous bottle. This is a reverse blend, as I understand it, with Malbec and Petite Verdot as the dominant varietals, at the wheel. Next in line, Cabernet Franc, then Merlot and Cabernet. On the nose, I’m greeted by a light handshake of cherry, leather, a bit of earth. Chocolate too, but only because I think I’m looking for it, with the Merlot in the room. A nudge of rich soil. Tipping the glass, a dark cape, an ambient abyss advertising an agreeable aesthetic. Thank the PV for that.
The mouthfeel and mid-palate, delicious, extravagant, like a distant historical landmark. Gentle, not too tannic. The flavors and winks present in the nose embolden in this stage. Now, floral, licorice. On palate, and when I skip back to nose. I’m one in the seats at an opera house, listening to a symphony boast it collective prowess.
Back-pal’ and finish, truly ethereal, a phantasmagoric tapestry of wizardry. This Anthem is singing to me, prompting movement of soul. The opus, the Anthem, the music that I was expecting. A pervading hymn of praise. Perfect sync, harmony. I’m more than impressed, I’m propelled to express my pleasure on this page. So much to consider, but it intermingles absent of folly. The notes, flavors, still taunting, haunting, flaunting. Poetry, and not just from me. Smokey, but only a filmy spread.
Very coherent presentation, presence. The finish is relentless, a pleasurable dream that won’t let me wake, doesn’t want me to. I feel this bottle is celebratory, a dance. It works idealistically, it’s what a winemaker should shoot for in terms of a five-grape merger. This “Anthem” leaves me with an impression, one that I’m sure will follow me, tap my memory’s shoulder on unexpected occasions. It coerces my pen to parade and paddle, and I, the penman, am a buffoon with efforts to stop it. Influenced by its influence. Yes, this bottle is influential. Other Bordeaux blends attempt. But this one most piquant, exalting, and distinguished puzzle does what other can’t. Provide, inspire.
This character and its five sides, putting me on my own high tide.


Review Composed on T. 2/2/2010


Tuesday 2February2010. Interesting way to write the date. Anyway, shooting for 2k today. Why haven’t they called me about my car? It’s not some futuristic carriage. What’s the deal? Been trapped in these walls the entire day. At least I’ve been writing. Reviewing a wine tonight. That’ll be 3 official reviews, literary, of wine. I in no way claim to know a lot about wine. But I do know criticism, I do know language, and I most assuredly am capable of deconstructing character. Waiting for the rain, the rain that these wanna-be wizard, crystal ball-gloating weather folk claim approaches. I’m waiting.
4:13p. Just called. The guy I spoke to said the service was done, and that the little XA of mine was being washed. The shuttle’s on the way, I guess. Need to go for a drive, or get a beer. Now, the cabin fever sets in. My journalistic productivity has been an advantageous distraction, but now its medicinal benefit almost entirely erodes.

8:31p. Have a rental. A hybrid car from Toyota. Would rather have this one than mine. Didn’t get around to reading that Capote short that I wanted to, but I did look at some menus of some Sonoma and Napa restaurants. Learning, for my little wine bar/cafe. Still no rain. The clouds tease, but deliver disappointment. Boredom in the form of dry streets, a quiet roof.
My poetry, still seething in my sternum. So many thoughts, verses. Not sure what I want to do now. Tired. Need a break. No I don’t. Instrumentals in my ears. Topic next, Hawaii. Went there only once, to Maui with Mom, Dad, and Katie. Have always wanted to go back. Speaking of the sis, winemaking. Maybe she and I could produce a wine. But I don’t know shit about production. I could sell it, perhaps, write the tasting notes, promotional lit.
In James Joyce mode, if you know what I mean. Pushing for 2k. I may be too lazy for such. Still not used to the feel of this laptop’s futuristic buttons. Fucking sci-fi pad. Wondering how far this technology will go, how lost in it we’ll get. We’re becoming robots ourselves. It’s part of a plan, I’m sure. What we think is our government, is really a collection of figures, meant for diversion. There is a governing body, some order ordering us. My solution to the problem, these words and thoughts. I’ll never be stopped. And if I am, people have read my words, they will share, so I’ll live forever, in this planet’s air.
2000 words in a day. I am a true writer, living the life literary. Mad. I should reside in Carroll’s neighborhood. The cat said “we’re all mad here.” That’s where I should be. My syllables are scattered, like my mind, mental arrangements. I persist in artistic derangements. I think about the coffee house characters that I see, what they say, how they interact with each other, with me.
9:43pm. Hate the 7:30a class. Not the students, necessarily. The time. Too fucking early. I know, I agreed to the assignment, but what choice did I have. Didn’t have so many other offerings, you know? Whatever. Today’s been a good day, a productive session. The entire collection of ticks, moving the pen, or typing. Hopefully exhibiting an ethic with a slight semblance of Mr. Shakur. As I journaled in Oregon over winter break, I aim to be the most successful and hard-working human in literature. The world outside these walls, here in Bennett Valley, frightens me, so I choose to recluse. I’ll stay hidden.
10:18p. In a little over 12 hrs. I’ll be back here, probably on this couch, recording Self. This word processor just acted funny, or “goofy,” as that lady said over her cell this morning at the dealership. So, now that I think about it, I’m already over 2k for the day. In the pages of my newest composition book, this a.m., I carved, easily, near 600 words. What’s the matter with me? I’m writing quite possibly more than I’m living. Maybe that’s admirable. Or sad. Reminding my Self of the Louisa May Alcott program I saw on PBS, while in Sunriver. I miss the snow so much, the honest air. So cold, harsh, refreshing. Miss the walks with Alice, by myself. Bennett Valley, too plain, boring, dirty.
Let’s discuss the approach the approach of the ANTI. We’re more than audacious. We’re ultimately autonomous. We embrace separatism for the sake of Self. Art, we savor. Start, re-slather. Do I want to better the state of affairs for other humans? Of course I do. I endorse mental vivacity, sovereignty. Still sipping this St. Francis blend. Some rimes. Actually, just a couplet.
Stuck. Notebook in the truck. No looks in the rut. No strut, my gut,
abrupt. Can’t trust a soul. They may be death to my goal.

A bit more of a sprint to my paradise, Heaven. Does it exist? Is there wine there? Find my Self getting a bit disgruntled. With what? Much. Fucking education budget of CA, department heads (even the ones I thought I respected), co-workers claiming to be my friends when they’re really just as snake-ish as females from my past.
Now, at 10:51, I’m realizing much about Self. I can do whatever I want. No one controls this ANTI, this rebel by pen. My 100k project, no matter what it’s titled, will wobble this world. My opus will trump Joyce’s most successful work, Updike’s, Woolf’s, even Mr. Capote’s. I write. What did Mr. Shakur do when behind metal? Write. Time ticking, tickling, stickling.
Another sip due. After this sip, I’ll pause, think about morrow. The students I’ll have to face, enter space. They work, or wail. Love this progress. When I clock out for the day, which I will in a second, I’ll lean into these cushions. 2k in a day. Wow. One say, done day. Fun, lay.
Now, I’m punching this clock. Well, there is no clock, actually. Need to get paid, I’m so glad that I stayed. Stalwart. Well over a 2k day. Success. Why can’t I clock out, relax? Forcing Self to forfeit, retire for 2/2/2010. Should be preparing for class 2morrow, but there’s a strong chance that NVC may let me go. Fucking budget cuts.
“I am large, I contain multitudes.” -Walt Whitman

Notes, Th. 1/28/2010

Need to develop a workout routine, stick to.

What is my obsession with PV (Petite Verdot)? Come to think, all blending grapes, from a region many, seduce me easily.
Murder mystery. Would write one of those before I would some trite barely literary vampire vapidity.

Should I do a podcast? I could write notes for the cast, so it would have some writing involved, not just me bickering and snickering. What do you think? Please let me know, if a soul this log reads.

Wondering what they’re going to serve for dinner at 2nite’s meeting.

Reading over the entries in this journal. I’m scattered, but sometimes a bit charming, I would argue.

10:08p. My car, such a pain in the ass. Wish I lived in Manhattan. Those people live without cars, right? Public tran everywhere. Sounds like paradise.

Salespeople should be put to death. The phony, plastic ones. They annoy me to the point of rage, rampage. Their insincere charisma is like indoctrination from theological fanatics. Evil. Devils.

12:03am. Haven’t gone to sleep yet. So technically it’s the same day. I should be asleep, but I’m enjoying my day, night. Still fuming from corporate serum. Where’s my piece? they speak of incentives, but that’s an amalgamation of fabrication, embellishment. Devils can’t fool me.

Typing in the dark, with a glowing keypad, interesting, strangely inspiring.

Back to these pigs that want me to do their devilish doings. They must be demented.