Wednesday, November 30, 2011

32: Charged With Pinot, Prose Rime

Mocha2, singing like I’m an eager audience.  1000 words for book, pocketed with today’s Literary Luncheon.  Here in the Roasting Company, this author’s always calm, peace’d.  Can’t stop thinking about my wine project with Katie.  What is it doing right now?  As a winemaker, this is what I’m supposed to be daydreaming, right?  While listening to these Wine Bar beats on my computer?  Back at NWG in 13 minutes.  Good writing pace, today.  Already thinking about next harvest.  Getting too ahead of Self, I know.  Just like I do with my writing.  Switching habit, pattern.  Promise.
Wind, howling like it’s entertaining itself. Just like the forecast stated.  They were right, for once.  Funny.  What if I didn’t go back to work, just stayed here, wrote?  That’s a prompt, if I’ve heard one.  They’d know where to find me, though, I’m sure.  Where else would the writer be, but where he always, EVERYDAY, writes?  Ten minutes, should be able to hit my word target.  Fishing for thoughts, nothing biting.  Bottles, Zinfandel.  Why am I thinking of Zin?  Don’t have any interest in producing one.  Could be my unconscious telling me to revisit the varietal I divorced.  No denying, I put my Self in a Cabernet capsule, coffin, cloud.
Listening to spoken word, now, with this song.  Want to play with syllables, vowels, meter.  Poetry, like when working for my M.A. at Hayward, or East Bay.  Whatever it’s called now.  Love the spontaneity of verse, the invite to play, experiment.
No cease, in my page, a low crease in my day.
Fascinated by barreled panaceas.  Internally,
all Pangeas.  Another worded blend, there’s 
an inverted end in my second book, a session’s
crook.  [1:28p]
9:06p.  Writing more verse.  Prose, not on my night’s menu.  Watching a documentary on one of my favorite poets.  He knew he was going to meet dreamz.  As I, even after being battered by the cube’s hours.  This hour, about sentences, images, like this FULL glass of Pinot to my right.  2009, for your notes, or mine; Hear waging wind, the projected leaves against this office’s glass.  I see Self on stage, reciting this page, the line I just scribbled: “Immaculate.  And tragic, yet.” These pages of scattered rhymes, metered speech bursts, the best way to convey what I feel, see, experience.  Maybe I should follow Kelly’s advice, tell my “story,” whatever that is.  Guess that would work, with my fondness and comfortable seat in consciousness’ stream.
Reading through Ms. Plath’s entries, for the first in a while, reminds me of poetry’s place on, IN, my plight.  “Pinot stretch.  My reach grows vexed.  Write to delight...”
11/30/2011, Wednesday

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


34:  Vineyards, Mist, Blended Books
Six miles.  First run in too long.  Tonight, no wine.  Frankly, quite bluntly, I need something to happen with the writing, somehow.  Playing with ideas, which is fun.  Self-publishing, on solid hold, indefinitely.  Started typing a short story tonight, after a revisit to Mr. Wolff’s work.  Love the control he demonstrates over his works‘ thematic directions, characters, actions, symbols.  Perfectly balanced, carved dialogue.  Going to jump upstairs in a minute to get Our Story Begins, the collection Mom bought me a short while past.
Have Wolff’s pages to my right.  He sits, right arm resting on crossed leg, left shin, left hand cupping right forearm.  He looks relieved, probably from several reads of his collected works.  But this is the wine industry, and this is a wine blog.  I must discuss wine, none of this Literary, freethinking balderdash.  So, wine...  I’m not drinking any.  And don’t plan on removing a cork for a while.  A beer sounds incredible.  But, too late.  Maybe tomorrow night, after a light workout.  Been enjoying beer much more lately, have to say.  But, my wine, mine and Katie’s, swimming around thoughts‘ reef, quite abundantly, recently.  Wonder how ML’s forwarding.  Can I wait for a revisit?  Don’t think I have a choice.  Katie said she might bring some samples by Mom and Dad’s, soon.  Excited to revisit our premier project.  Thinking vineyard blends, of Cabernet, may be my coining winemaker approach, for me.  So, instead of varietal percentages on the bottle, you’d see vineyard or AVA numbers on my labels.  Ideas crackling...   
After this entry, back into my short story, but not for too long.  More drained with each key push.  Lots of fog this morning, talking to me as it used to.  Offering Literary consultation.  My prose, spoken word need stand thick, puzzling on page for readers.  It told me to follow the short story curiosity.  Return to short story, Literary, Theory studies, while studying winemaking.  That blend will make all easier, I felt it suggest.  Let’s see if it waits my commute, come morrow.  Now, sipping cold water, in a short, stout red cup.  Bed.

11/28/2011, Monday
Decided to go with an IPA for the night.  Racer 5, to cap me right.  Great session at the café today.  In this latter hour set, I’m thinking of the budget, my budget.  Relieved of Self-publishing stashes, but more pressured to make submissions precipitate fruition.  Mr. Wolff’s pieces have me more stubborn than ever, in my aims.  An odd statement?  Not at all.  His pages motivate my pen like my sister’s bottles push me to be a winemaker.  The word count, always nagging me.  Shouldn’t let it.  Focus on the project, this morning’s fog instructed.
The vineyards, on my drive this morning, falling into their sleep.  What their fruit delivers, just fantasies of 2011’s vantage, torpedos my visions.  For both writing and winemaking.  But, I have to say, we writers--well, this writer anyway--need be as focused as the winemaker.  Staying in my journals for a while, until I can decide upon one book.  Thought the same at my desk today.  And honestly, that’s all I could think about.  Writing.  My wine, how its growing, preparing itself for palate contact.  My tasks, today, at that desk, were just funny after a while.  Next harvest, vintage, planning something monumental for whoso cellars.  And for the writing.  A perfect marriage, blend.
No one distracting me, but me, now.  My home office, need be more like an operating Room.  Nothing to do, but operate.  No temptation, distraction.  Just cutting, mending manuscript.  In bed tonight, spoken word.  Blending couplets, quatrains.  The mochas, now, my only overhead.  Have coins gathered below my right elbow, on the keyboard pullout, atop my calendar.  One of these mochas’ll shock me to composition of the prize-winning prose, whatever than means, brings.  Wrote this in Comp Book, but I again think of all the clownish morons I’ve worked for in the past, baboons owning their own outfits, Autonomously.  Self-employed, in their passions, laughable as they stray.  If they can stand such, so can I, the writer, right?  I turn from the calm Cabernet, to the committed, carnivorous Cab, caught forever in my compositions, paragraphs, rhymes, lines.  Sip, sip ... 
11/29/2011, Tuesday

Sunday, November 27, 2011

35: Kaz Log, 11/27/2011

Back in the Kaz lab.  Another charging wine day.  Guests, pours, reactions.  Today, I found Kazzy had the 2009 Lenoir delivering it prominence straight from barrel.  What a progression with this wine.  Deep, silky, dark, flavor sparks, from nose to finish.  Before this ’09 Lenoir, the ’05 Dilly Dally, 100% Petite Verdot, was my favorite on the bar.  But, I have to note in this entry, and I anticipate in ones further, my sexy PV will persist in its tempting palate sways, bursting varietal vocals.  I truly don’t know how my brother did this, with a blending grape, no less.

Dan, and Sherrie Perkovich from The Washington Times 
Anne from Pittsburg, PA with her daughter Virginia, from Berkeley 
Guests.  Mostly the reason why I come to work, on Sundays, which is fundamentally a “day off” for the writer.  Even still, wine education, exposure, never hindered.  Anyone.  As wine continues to be in and of itself THE occasion, in my world, I met a fellow writer, along with a fellow academic.  The tasting Room, our Oz, us wine moieties.  Enjoyed scenes with my new friends on the bar’s other side.

Fall tints, ever more entrapping.  During lulls, this 3rd frame following Thanksgiving, I like an obsessed fan snapped photo after photo of all encasing my Kazified stage.  Love my Sundays, continuously in discommoded staunchness I write.  For wine, the tasting Room, our guests, vined evolution.  Getting tired, now in my office, 9:59p, trying to get mySelf to prepare for work tomorrow.  Commute return.  I’ll have these still at which to stare, while in the office.  Reasonable distraction.  I’ll Dilly Dally my way through day, scribbling in my Composition Book, about something having pertInence to today, its ingredients.  Like the Lenoir, I feel new, revived, alive, elementally imbibed. 
Kaz Winery, at day's end ...
In this lab, I just blend my thoughts, following my steps in the Room, hoping they ferment with coherently reflective chants.  “Like what?” a reader could ask.  “No clue,” I answer.  I don’t write for others, so they can “like” my pages, as Kaz doesn’t make wines to ingratiate himSelf to independently-anointed wine critics, or “experts.” That’s artistry.  That’s Autonomy.  That’s wine.  Writing.  Be it through ink or varietal.  sipNscribble ... That’s what today taught me, reminded me.   

Saturday, November 26, 2011

37/36 ...

37:  Tasting Day Notes, post-vino

Wine tasting.  Always an option for day’s plan.  Hit five different tasting Rooms.  One of which, one of my favorites, Boekenoogen.  Love how wines can take the shape they want, regardless of palate particularity.  Back home tomorrow, back to regularity.  Love vacation, get-away, sanctioned escape.  Music in head, from the waves, fog shapes as sun descended.

One of my former students, in Paris.  My city.  Messaged her, told her I missed it.  My journals, getting scattered, slightly lost, disorganized.  But that’s my genre, my form, varietal.  A blend of several blends.  No type specificity, category.  No simplification.  Want it chaotic, as that’s where readers find Aesthetic melody, actual Creativity.  Wrong?  Talk to Picasso. 
Understanding that a book may be a ways away.  Or not.  How do I go about this?  Not sure I can Self-publish right now, other than on my blog, blogs.  The new one, to start 1/1/2012, intended persist with even more Literary ferocity than this one.  But, no matter my effort, singular disseminated piece, ALL writing catalyzes in journals.  All journals, holding pages, as all barrels hold something for our glasses.

Think I’ll do Italian, tomorrow night.  From Roberto’s.  Never get tired of his dishes.  That Spaghetti Calamari, sinful.  So, should I open a red with that?  Was hoping to decork the ’09 Chard I bought today, with tomorrow night’s back-home dinner.  Maybe the vongole, then, white sauce.  There’s an idea, before another one: my character opening up a small bistro; Parisian, with wine, beer, coffee, espresso, desserts, focus on small plates, lunch through dinner.

11/25/2011, Friday
Sipping straight black coffee from my block’s Starbucks.  Change of plans with my Self-publishing.  What is it?  Well, first, I don’t have the funding for such.  Going to submit my pages, in hopes some publisher, any publisher will fund one of my mss [manuscripts].  Not going to bore you with the details of, so...  Topic next.  The ocean, Monterey.  Miss it, dreadfully, already.  Tomorrow, in the tasting Room, with the Kaz Krew.  Looking to gather material for novel, further journals.  All writing, from daily entries, diaries.  This coffee pushing me, in sedating shocks, surprisingly.  All the incredible wine I sipped over this 4-day weekend, holding me, bottles anchoring me in their reverb.
Another picture set in current sight, this Saturday afternoon, that view last night, from the Plaza patio, while sipping some imported beer, snacking on calamari with Jimbo.  Need to get the blog up to speed.  But, my tardiness in “uploads,” or “posts,” I believe quite warranted.  At some point, even writers need vacations.  Although, I did manage 1000 words yesterday, crossing last night, right before my attempt at a full night’s sleep.
Current song reminding me the year’s almost over, that this new book needs to see fruition.  “No more stalls,” it orders.  If I want to travel with these pages, in wine’s Literary vein, I need to have the book done, printed.  Not giving publishers an option.  They have to publish my book.  And they will.  Who doesn’t like wine, fiction, characters?  Who doesn’t love Kelly?  Who doesn’t love the Napa Roasting Company, Jewel’s paintings on the walls?  Those mochas that save my life, efforts, often pushing me over 1500 words in under an hour.
Thinking tonight calls for the Boekenoogen Chardonnay, 2009, that Holly gifted yesterday.  Such a sweet character, Ms. Holly.  Finally had a chance to chat with John Boekenoogen himself, Holly’s father.  What a lesson in viticulture, terroir, the ’09 vintage.
Saturday, 11/26/2011


39:  Imaginary Casks
Night of wine, family.  With my cousin Nick having dinner with Mom, Dad, me.  It was interesting to see Nick’s reaction to the ’08 Spring Mountain Cab.  He enjoyed its harmony with the filet mignon Mom prepared.  Once back at my base, Nick and I fiddled with ideas for my wine business, generating revenue from the other blog,  Just discussion stages, presently, but altogether exciting, encouraging.  The book, haven’t started editing.  Promise to start tomorrow.  And if not, Sunday, when back from the Kaz tasting Room.
Can only hope my and Katie’s Cab has such eloquence in its palate speech, connection.  But I need to stop doing that, all the comparisons.  Suppose it’s only natural, but still.  How I’ll sell my wine, and all the other wines from 1Stop, will be gentle.  I’m not the type to be encroaching, excessive, close obsessive, aggressive.  As I told Nick: I’m a writer, before anything else.  I’m aiming for TOTAL lucrative Autonomy in wine’s industry.  This 2ndary blog, soon to be primary, stands as the leading way to do such, at Writing’s side.
See mySelf, visibly, paginated visions, in a hotel Room, after a talk with wine industry people.  In Georgia.  Atlanta.  Never before been, and here I am.  I was booked from my humble, but not to dismiss respectable, recognition as a writer, blogging wine merchant.  I’d speak of Sonoma County, Napa, Monterey, how I love Cabernet.  I’d field a few probes, respond the best I could, then off to a tasting event with music, apps, conversation with other wine walkers, wonderers/wanderers.  But, at this point, these are only images.  Dreams, really.  Once over the line, they persist reality.  Want to travel as my father did, a pilot, Captain.  See more.  Leave the stationary selection.  That’s what this author needs.  That’s wine.  To me. 
11/23/2011, Wednesday

38:  Wine, thanks ...
Mike, there in his hotel.  Business, away from home.  But...fine.  He was fine with it.  He’d had enough wine as his meeting.  They did supply generous portions, as it was Thanksgiving, all away from home, family.  He sipped a beyond-chilled Aquafina water, slowly chewed some peanut M&M’s.  The room, paid.  Were the movies?  Well, if he ordered one?  Turing on the TV.  Movie selections.  “Pretty Woman” ... “When Harry Met Sally” ... one of the Harry Potter bricks ... “Sideways.” Finally something good.  Wine-sewn.  Fine.  Mike watched, scribbled in his Comp book.  Sitting at that darkened desk, far past charisma drought, he chewed another bite.  Red.  Significance, he thought, none.  “Red: blood, guilt...  communism?  Tomatoes, speedy cars, police lights...” He couldn’t find any gravity, symbolic anchor in consumable red ovality.
He went out to his deck, inhaled.  He could smell, taste, hear, tongue touch the ocean.  But couldn’t see it.  Didn’t matter, he thought.  It was there.  He could write its shapes, appearance, form.  All would be confirmed by morning.  His flight wasn’t until 4:15p.  In the morning, he thought, he could go to the nearest caffein cavern, get out some words like he used to on lunch breaks.  Literary Lunches, he called them.
Red, also seduction, he thought.  Maybe his next novel would be a murder-y, suspense-ish, lustful-esque piece, one that could be further surgeried into a screenplay, film.  But he didn’t want to do that, at all.  He was just brainstorming.  Looking right, between the desk, which was surprisingly nice, and the bed was his six carrier of wines from the event.  Walking over, leaning, opening...  Two 2009 Santa Barbara Chards, an NV Blend from Paso, two Sonoma County Merlots, one 2007, the other ’08, and an ’07 Howell Mountain Cab-caressed cuvée.  He needed a glass, small one.  Howell, perfect.  Strong, romantic, seductive.  A red of reds.  “Oh,” he thought, “wine, red is only wine, the only wine I want, now.” Once sips started, he glided over the newly vacuumed carpet to that balcony.  The waves, seemingly louder.  He noticed the nose emboldening.  Maybe he should, too.
11/24/2011, Thursday

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


The year, fading.  First release, all but complete.  9:07p, sipping a bizarre blend I today bought.  Don’t even know how to deconstruct profile.  And why should I?  I’m sipping it, it’s delicious.  Watching a documentary on Yellowstone.  Need to travel more, as I always write.  These pages’ll take me away.  Today, in the Mayacamas Mountains, I was once more reminded how I need to be outside, as writer wined.  Fall terroir shades, the silence up there, elevation, shook me.  Looking at my pictures pours life into my pen’s skips.  “This is wine, these scenes,” I hear the blend sibilate. 

Cold in this quaint castle.  Maybe that calls for more furious scribbles.  Thinking of new lectures, entirely Literary, nothing to do with bottles.  Plath, her ignored positivism.  Stanford still screams to me.  Eventually, I to Self plead.  This blend, taking on an interesting, even more so, character.  In my winemaking shifts, I hope to bottle something as separatist.  The winery visited today, openly disclosing their aim to be different, recalcitrant.  That’s how I still step in this met clef.  Guess I travel like the Bison do in these frames.  Nowhere near as noble, but thematically concerted, maybe.
Kelly, where?  I can only wonder.  Mike, isolated, in his own page, pages.  Books.  The blend, taking on a more hypnotically wooing persona.  Mike, I, knew he needed to be in bed at time rationale, responsible.  But what would that do, he, I, thought.  Mike poured himSelf another glass.  10:03p, he had to be in bed in 87 minutes.  But, the blend started to urge caution.  Mike wasn’t sure how to process such.  He spilled it, into the disposal.  Water, he thought.  “Desert, a writing Kalahari,” he hummed.  He dumped the H2O.  Pulled another wine glass.  Full pour.  Now, the blend braved boldness.  “Keep writing,” it ordered.  Mike sipped his blend.  Again.  I smiled, smile.
11/22/2011, Tuesday  

Monday, November 21, 2011


Technology, giving me more than grief this evening.  No wine in glass.  No Racer 5.  Actually, and for the first time in many moons, I tilt a Diet Cherry Coke into my center.  Nice change in palate guest.  No Literary Lunch today.  Tomorrow, I vow, seated back in  my treasured 1st & Main café.  Tomorrow night, after box, I plan to sit as soon as I walk through the door, ignite the types.  Have fruition before bed.  I resolved, for yet another round I think, today, that all works, those to be published, or “posted,” come from one of my many journals.  All, from me, from the real logs.  The wine-fined diaries.  So, in narrowed respects, I’d be a journalist of wine.  Is that so, I ask Self.  No.  You’re a writer, just a writer.  Nothing fancy, focused, or forced.
Have the wines picked for tomorrow’s monstrous night writing session.  What do I hope to get from it?  Just a finished piece.  Of ANY length.  Think I capitalize too much.  Part of my molded motif, I suppose, but I shouldn’t overuse it, as winemakers shouldn’t over oak.  Even though, many whose varietal translations predicate themselves oak ballad often get showered in ribbons.  Ridiculous.  Speaking of wine, I miss my barrel, my and Katie’s project, MKCS11.  What that its designator?  Can’t remember.  That means it’s been too long.  Need to call Katie, set up a visit after Thanksgiving.
Autumn’s aesthetic spell, all about the vineyards’ channels.  Wish I could stop to take a couple pics in the morning.  But no.  The There calls.  Well, wait...  I shouldn’t finger point.  Tomorrow, if I leave early, I’ll be able to capture moments for these entries.  Maybe, if I wake appropriately.  As cold as it’s been in the AM, more difficult to rise from under cocooning sheets, encased in paralyzing comfort.  9:12p, my now-time.  Should probably begin preparations for early rest, so I can get those odd sky shades seen from Madrone Road in Glen Ellen.  One time I saw a coyote dart across me, from one vine shelter to another.  Almost hit the desperate creature.  Wonder what he was chasing.  Always have, since.  Also made me wonder what other animals are hiding out there, enjoying the foliage, clusters, sights as we do.
11/21/2011, Monday

Sunday, November 20, 2011

42: Kaz, Seasons, New Wines, Reasonings

Me, with Elizabeth and Mike from Boston, MA

Back in the Kaz Room.  New friends, sharing their experiences on wine, the wine world, wined journeys.  The shades, changing.  As am I, as scribe.  With my projects, my artistic ardor, I’m thinking, “At this point, it’s really all or nothing.” I know some will suggest I temper my tenacity.  But if I start holding back now, for the sake of concern in upsetting someone in this “industry,” where will it stop?  I’m not Self-censoring, not at this stage in my life.  It’s all or nothing, as Mom said last night over the phone.  Tonight, an instance of evaluative contrast with the Particular Palates.  Mom and Dad opened a Zin/Petite Sirah blend, 2009 I believe.  They found it impressive, concerting with the pulled pork dish.  I couldn’t sip it a second time.  And, no skirmish.  Mom suggested I pull an ’09 blend, not yet formally released by its parenting winery, from one of their wine fridges.  That’s what wine should be: civility, enjoyment, occasion.  They weren’t at all offended by my reaction, which could have been tempered, I’ll admit.  Dad sometimes jokes I’m turning into a wine snob.  Jokes.  I hope I’m not.  The last thing I want to be is someone who self-gratifies in “holding court” over a bottle of wine, when I should be grateful for invitation, Humanistically humble.  Or just plain polite.
That’s what I experienced at Kaz today, as always.  People are referred to our winery because we don’t have any governance aspirations.  We just want people to come in, taste, have a memorable time with their ones loved.  Surprised it rained as much as it did, was so brisk.  Honestly, I think it made the shift more fecund.  Saw the guests wanting to spend more time in the Room with me, Kaz, Kristen.  The Cab Franc, 2010, from the barrel, alarmingly impressive at its early stages. Again, what I appreciate, recently especially, about TRUE artistry; Like my sister says, “Don’t second-guess yourSelf.” Kaz doesn’t, has proven to be distinguishably successful in his stance, making wine the way he thinks it should be made.

So what’s in my hand, while typing?  Racer 5.  Haven’t sipped, scribbled with my favorite beer in a while,  I feel.  Tomorrow, Monday.  But it’s not the usual Monday, as the work week is only 3 days long.  Thankful, right before Thanksgiving.  No Hallmark honing in my pulses tonight.  2012, I see, as being a beginning of new Literary reign for me.  And if not a “reign,” a succession of days.  Katie says that we have to wait for our wine, that we won’t be interacting with our inaugural project, our first oenoVoyage till April.  Keep asking Self, “Do I have the patience, maturity, to be a winemaker?” I’m more concerned with the experience, not actuality as its sipped by others.  I’m the artist, I’m the one creating.  Critics, outsiders, those outside my head, don’t sculpt my set.  At all.  I’ll continue to sip, scribble, the same way my brother Kaz bottles his indecipherably aperitive varietal translations.  Me, refusing to ever again second-guess the Self.  Because, now, it’s all or nothing.  vinoLit 4ever ...  
11/20/2011, Sunday

Saturday, November 19, 2011

One more thing to say--year’s coming to a close.  That just means another begins.  Time, what we say it means.  Even in the instances of wine, Literature.  Wine, drinkable when you say it is.  “Oh no, you have to lay this down for another 5 to 7 years, at least.” But if I like the way it tastes now, what’s the problem?  Sophistication of palate, entirely subjective.  Whose palate is more sophisticated, by whose standard(s)?  Which yardstick are they using to establish such “standards?” Should I have laid this ’07 Merlot down for a couple more years?  Plainly, NO.  I love how it taps on my palate, NOW, with forward flavor flirtation.  Wouldn’t change any developed, or underdeveloped, attribute.  Perfect timing.  

43: Merlot, Murder

Should be running a couple more errands, but it’s my day off.  Decided to come home and write for about an hour, fifty minutes.  Same as a Literary Lunch.  No mocha by side.  Would get a Diet Coke, but I think I drank the last one at some point this last week.  While driving home from paying the AT&T bill, at the bee hive of a mall, its carnivorous Christmas shopping crowd, I thought of my sister’s words: “Don’t second-guess yourSelf.” And I won’t, I remember thinking, driving to the overpacked plaza parking lot.  Maintaining my plans.  Almost feel like a glass of wine, funny enough.  But, no, definitely too early.  But, tonight, last night’s ’07 Merlot paired with Wine Bar beats, like those now playing, through an actual speaker, no M&M-sized phones.  Not sure I’m going for a word amount, in this sitting.
All visions, currently.  My book, the planes that’ll carry me to signings, readings, conventions.  Simplifying, that’s all I can do.  And it’ll help, I’m sure.  Even still, following through with all plans, thoughts, no double-clutching.  Following Katie’s advice.  Just put some notebooks in the plastic box.  So many old, past pages in there.  Sad.  But not for long.  There numbers will be called, sooner than even I know.  As winemakers let their varietals, their terroirs, talk, I so shall with my scribbles.  That’s what I’m being told, by something.  Instinct?  Don’t know.
Have to get this clutter off the desk.  That’ll help, I think.  Stressing Self by thinking about it.  Just enjoy the music, I tell.  Not sure where to go, at this point.  No external taunts, as I need.  Should jet to the coffee shop on my block?  Put on one of my writing movies?  I don’t believe in writer’s block, as I can’t afford to catch it at this point in my life, just as winemaker’s can’t permit Creative clots during harvest, or any part in their process, processes.  Not sure I want 1000 words, at the moment.  Maybe eventually in the day.  But not now.  Just want to enjoy the visions, no disruptions in my homeostatic haven...
Think I do want to fit in a couple scenes from one of my favorite films containing a Literary edge.  Which do I pick?  Enjoying this music so much.  Don’t want to mute its scoot.  Which pairs more optimally with page, Wine Bar Beats or film?  Easy, option A.  But, I just crave some characters.  What the types, or scribbles, always need: LIFE.  Might need a break.  But then, a beat comes on that has me reciting spoken WORD.  Want to jump to the Comp book.  Miss the stage, performing.  Getting ideas, that’ll take me to those visions, to those plane rides, my wished travels.  Taking a break in a minute, think the hunger bending my brain.  Like Harold Crick said in “Stranger Than Fiction,” I need my life to be more musical.  And yes, maybe like West Side Story.  Like anything musical, lyrical.
2p.  Remember one of my professors, undergrad, not Coleman (R.I.P.), said to me “Poetry doesn’t sell.” As active as I am, recently especially, with words spoken, what if I make it mission to disprove, disqualify that assertion?  So decreed.  Caffeine talking.  Thinking tonight’s session may be pan2paper, universally.  More an organic sipNscribble.  Could be what I need, what my books need in their infancies.  An inked genesis.
How to market my spoken word, verse.  Why on earth am I thinking about that now?  Shouldn’t I be writing first?  That’s death to writers, weighing Self down with marketing, sales nonsense, commercial superficiality before brush kisses canvas.
Mike typed, about patterns of murders, at wineries, during a tempestuously moiling harvest.  He wanted a short that would sell.  Yes, he wanted to sell.  He wanted publications to pay for his pages.  Sipped, wrote, what he did as the rain whistled to the window, roof.  How should he market it?  Which magazines should get a packet?  He couldn’t let this entertainment thunder in his thoughts.  The character on his page, looking for reasons for these horrible events.  But was the whole ‘I’m going to solve this on my own’ approach a bad idea?  Maybe.  Probably.  But he trusted his vagaries, kept typing.  5 pages.  7.  10.  Mike stopped, read from 1 till last.  Actually agreeing with the read, he wrote more, onward with sip.
On one of the final Merlot back-throws, Mike noticed more chocolate singing alongside spice notes.  Maybe he would produce a Merlot someday.  He wrote the killers name, “Merlot.” Why he did, no idea.  But he loved it.  The police, puzzled.  Mike was onto something.  On his 19th page.  In one day.  He had something, he thought.  Finally.  Deserved sip, of his ’07 killer.  He hopped downstairs, for another menacing sanguinary, plush pour. 
11/19/2011, Saturday

Friday, November 18, 2011

44: Friday, Wining Literarily ... Contently, Crazily

The sun tried to come out, but isn’t sure if it should.  Near the end of this manuscript.  Not sad at all, as I’m just going to write another.  Then another, another.  If I want readers to know anything about me, it would be my love of writing, about anything.  Pen2paper, or just typing at the Roasting Company.  Words, language, Literature: my fanaticism.  Back at the desk in 12 minutes.  Have to type faster.  Need enough time to pick up that Merlot I want.
Last night, Sauv Blanc, still on my mind, for some reason.  SB’s, starting to increase in their engaging abilities, to me.  Maybe I’m looking for it.  The psychosomatic dimension to wine, there always, don’t be deceived.  Like when someone says, “I get a lot of black pepper,” on a Cabernet, or “I get like licorice-y fruity leather.” No surprise, the sipper next to chants, “Oh,, too!” Not a bad thing, just a thing, in wine’s world, on the tasting Room stage.  9 minutes left...
Don’t think I’ll finish the entry.  Oh well, I tried.  Can’t rush the sitting, the same way you can’t rush fermentation, or malolactic in my and Katie’s case.  Have to stop, close the monster, unplug it, as much as I don’t want to.  Why do I have to stop writing?  To be responsible?  What would that get me, seriously?  I listen to some spoken word, currently, feel rebellious, slightly antagonized.  Have a tasting later.  I believe, 4:30p.  Might make the day’s remainder pass more deliciously.  Right?  Now I’m just writing, crazily.  Need 300 words...  Addiction.  It’s the mocha, 2 shots talking, typing.  I might just buy two bottles.  Like what, I wonder.  How about a Merlot, a Syrah.  Five minutes.  Leaving.  Packing up ... 
9:07p.  Home.  Sipping the Merlot I bought from Dan’s shop.  Nice profile, presence on palate.  Haven’t had a Merlot in some time.  Have I?  Same Wine Bar beats played at Roasting Co, now here, in the home study.  Startled, I just felt, realizing how far into the new Comp book I’ve scribbled.  Spoken Word, scattered in its sheets.  Need to do something with them, separate from my prose projects.  Missing the stage, I again scope performance, recital.  Poetry, verse, I’m beginning to appreciate the same way I do wine, winemaking.  This wine, singing like the first Merlot I ever sipped, the first wine I ever appreciated, thought about.  That Blackstone Merlot, think it was a 2000.  Yes, it had to have been, as I opened it in ’03.  Well, I guess it could have been an ’01.  But, I want to say it was a 2000.  I’m almost certain.  How does time dismiss us as it does?
11/18/2011, Friday

Thursday, November 17, 2011


Sauvignon Blanc, the rest in my glass.  On my mind, how the same brain was narrating when I woke at 4:30-something this morning.  Odd, as I listened to mySelf narrate random observations, sentiments.  I guess that’s a symptom of being a writer.  Today, at NWG, I remember writing about it in the Comp book.  The pineapple in this glass, further poignancy.  In my SB, I’d tone down the overt tropicality, and hope to convey a fluid, slightly oaked, flirtatiousness.  Hate when I come to a stall.  Could be from the long day, last night’s run.  Not sure what to target with these key punches.
Found something, from memory...  All the questionably competent characters I’ve met, owning their own business.  If they can follow-through, why can’t I?  Too hard on Self, I reason.  As my sister said, “Don’t second guess yourSelf.” And I won’t, with this first publication, or anything, ever.  Messaged the sister professor about our wine, she responded it’s still a waiting game at this point, for malo to finish.  Can’t wait to take a taste in April, or sooner.  Don’t think winemaking’s off the radar.  It most certainly isn’t.  Another sip of this Sauv reassures me the barrel’s evolving with sweet swagger.  Comically coherent, complementarily.  
Ready for bed.  Dreams of my books on shelves, Sunriver, my Cab, Kelly.  Friday, tomorrow, awaited more than the last.  IS that possible?  Oh yes.  The next sip, more green apple than I remember.  The acidity laments the dialogue between pour and palate.  9:54p, how did it get so late?  Feel like time will be my ever-scenic malady, foe.  The last sips, remaining, waiting.  Do they fear my scrutiny?  Probably...not.  New developments in the wine world for me, but I’m not interested in typing them.  And, believe, please, you shouldn't want to read them, if you’re still reading.  Sip, slight...bright delight, artistic juggle.  Interesting.  That’s settled then, my next wine.  A Sauv B, Katie and I.
11/17/2011, Thursday

46: Diary Blend

10:38p, 11/15/2011, Tuesday.  In bed, finally.  Long day.  Tonight, not a drop.  Saving the rest of last night’s ’09 Carneros Pinot for tomorrow night.  A cap after my run.  Hoping I’ll hit 6.5 miles, but...  Kelly, busy with her Craft, now hard to get ahold of.  No more envy from me, only inspired by her expanding galaxy.  How do I do that?  Keep writing, I guess.  Budget for the business, only dented by this afternoon’s mocha.  Borrowed $40 for gas, used $60 to pay a bill.  Plan on paying back my company.  Taking this seriously, giving Self a lesson, lessonS actually, in entrepreneurism, Self-publishing, budgetary aerobics, among lists else.  Typing in the dark, TV providing sight through shifting transitional, situational, light.  Poetry, Spoken Word, on brain.  Finished a piece last night, then started another.  Next time I write, by type, in my hallowed coffee house at 1st & Main.
Every minute’s invaluable, potentially malleable.
The thought, deplorable, but not at all ignorable.
Like walking down quiet paths, as silent as
Basilica halls.  Distilled in my flaws.  Time, forever
still in its claws...
9:23p, 11/16/2011, Wednesday.  Didn’t have chance to write for log at the Roasting Co.  Only for the book.  Now, with some 2010 Sauv Blanc, Alexander Valley.  Just counted, 1425 words at that small marble table.  Love the coffee house.  Easily my most dependable offsite Literary Lab.  Many times, I forget I’m even at work, on a “lunch break.” Hate that term, for reasons into which I don’t even have to plunge, as I know far too many already relate.  Only pages away from finishing the first project.  Then, I have to send it to print, no matter how scattered it results.  In fact, the messier, the more Literary, Aesthetic.
The SB, not speaking to me as it has with past pours.  Finishing this glass, then taking the remaining Pinot from Tuesday night.  I don’t expect it to still have the same magnetism.  But, it’ll be interesting to see what the profile still pushes onto the palate.  Tiring from the run, only 3 miles, but still strenuous.  Now, just typing to type, as I usually do.  Consciousness quake.  Thinking about what I wrote today, on my “lunch break,” about nothing being wrong with a writer just writing, and what if I did so from here on.  Not sure if I want to go further in explaining, but that’s what’s in my head right now.  An analogy: a runner running just to run; not trying to beat any time, or go any impressive distance at any rate; just running.  In the forest, at the beach, in secluded streets.  For the joy of.  That’s why I write, going into future vintages.
Hate being too tired to write.  So, I’ll give in, this time.  Tomorrow’s Lit Lunch, images only, translations thereof.  No Pinot tonight, I decided.  Want a full night’s sleep.  Need one.  Kelly’s probably painting right now, and will be for a few hours.  Maybe till light.  And why not?  She’s sovereign, her own employer.  AUTONOMOUS.  Me, soon.