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.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
19th&20th
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!
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?
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.
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.
Daycap
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.
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.
GRADE: A-
(Review Composed on Fri. 2/19/10)
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.
GRADE: A-
(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.
GRADE: A-/A
(Review Composed on Wed. 2/17/10)
GRADE: A-/A
(Review Composed on Wed. 2/17/10)
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