mikeslognoblog

NEW BLOG ...

2012-01-01T18:16:00.000-08:00

mikeslognoblog has been closed!!! Go to www.bottledaux.com for new wine writings!!! See you there ...

1

2012-01-01T00:12:00.000-08:00

First pour of Cab, lovely. ’08, Alexander Valley. Bought the URL for the new blog. And, I can’t say this’ll be the last. Again, I believe part of my writing “Style,” or motion, is the surety of an entry. Hard for me to end this first blog, this “wine blog”? I suppose a bit, somewhat, yes. But, there’ll be a successor. And this new one, bottledaux, presents a more unfettered author. One unafraid, unconcerned with consequences from writing, reflecting. Of course, wine will find its way to the paragraphs, posts. But, bottledaux’s intention is immovably, unequivocally, steadfastly Literary. So, I’m writing, sipping. This Cab seems a bit bolder than I remember. Maybe this is the New Year speaking to me, telling me to write louder, scribble with more staunchness.

Today, definitely different. Delectably so. Thinking about all the jobs I’ve had. The only logical Next: Writer. Job title, waiting. No, I already hold.

11:40p. 20 minutes away, this New Year. Tonight’s varietal, Cabernet Sauvignon, of course. Can’t believe this is the end of mikeslognoblog. But why is it so hard to believe? The books ends. I should be thankful. I should sip again. And I am. Here goes that cliché countdown. Finally bought that URL, for bottledaux. Can’t believe it. So, mikeslognoblog lives. Just with a different book cover. Kelly, in NYC. I’ll be joining her, shortly. Clocking out. Watching my own film progress, with no stress. Only ease. But, I still think, time’s far too brief. I will steal more. Aren’t I, now? Either way, Therapy with each entry. Signing off, clocking out, only to clock back in. Off to see Kelly, feel sane, safe...

12/31/2011, Saturday

1, pt2: Another Pour, please ...

2012-01-01T00:06:00.000-08:00

Going through steps to start this new blog, “bottledaux”. Technology, successfully frustrating me. 1:06p. Wasted enough of my day on it, already. Want to write books, not do another blog. But, I’m still of intent in showing my writing habits, thought stream. Only have a couple hours to make a decision. Do I want to buy another URL? Isn’t that like paying to write? I shouldn’t have to do that, I’m thinking. Glass of Chardonnay, sounds gorgeous right now. Wonder what Kell’s doing out there, in New York. 4:09, now, out there. Wish I was walking in those crowded metropolitan corridors.

“So do you have plans for tonight?” Kelly asked.

“No, just keeping it cool. Opening some wine, doing some writing. Usual. Nothing exciting. How about you, out there in New York? That’s incredible. So happy for you. What’s it like?” Mike asked, muting his music. Leaning in his chair’s crook, waiting for her details, tales.

“I’ve actually been here before, a few years ago with my mom. But we were only here for like two days, I think. But it’s amazing. It’s New York. I’ve already sold a few glasses, and have some pending orders. You need to come out here soon, Mikey, being a writer. There’s books stores, coffee shops...you’d love it.”

“I know. I want to make it out there, soon, believe me-”

“Are you still working at the winery?”

“Which one? I’ve poured at more than one, recently.”

“The one your friend Lonny works at. A friend of mine’ll be in San Francisco mid-January, and we were gonna do some tasting. And I wanted to know if you could show us around, come taste with us. I was thinking of booking a limo, or wine tour van, or winnebago or whatever.”

“That’d be fun, yeah. But, no, I don’t pour there anymore. My sister’s the winemaker there, and I stop by every so often, so we can taste there, definitely. What kind of wine are you drinking these days?” Mike asks. Curious pause, followed by voices in Kelly’s distance. But not too distant. “Do you need to go?”

“No. No, the lobby’s just getting kind of busy. Sorry. Actually, I just ordered a glass of ’08 Sonoma County Carignane. What are you opening tonight?” she said, laughing a bit, almost to convey that she felt like she were there, sipping with Mike, in one of their funny wine chats again.

Mike laughed. “Cab, of course. But I might open this new Chardonnay from my sis, maybe. It’s early still. Here, anyway.”

“Yeah,” she said, before taking a sip. Mike could tell by the new silence that wine connected with her palate. He wished he were there, in NYC, to see.

12/31/2011, Saturday

1: Last Pours, Pages

2011-12-31T16:54:00.001-08:00

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

No line, right to register.

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

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

Just write.

Write faster. Write more.

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

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

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

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

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

12/31/2011, Saturday

2: rewritten bottle

2011-12-31T12:09:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

12/30/2011, Friday

3: Racing Portrayal

2011-12-29T22:48:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4: NewNovel

2011-12-28T21:02:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

= Mountain climbing

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

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

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

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

12/28/2011, Wednesday

5: Early

2011-12-27T21:36:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

12/27/2011, Tuesday

6, pt. 2

2011-12-27T21:31:00.001-08:00

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

EVERY. DAY.

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

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

= Literary Theory; etymological ties ...

= Active reading; Deconstruction ...

-Text significance, Response significance.

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

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

12/26/2011, Monday

6: New Wine Blog Biz

2011-12-26T21:19:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

12/26/2011, Monday

7: Christmas Carafes

2011-12-26T19:00:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

LITERARY & OENOLOGICAL AUTONOMY ...

12/25/2011, Sunday

8: Been Told Love - Grenache

2011-12-25T12:58:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

notes -

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

And 2morrow night’s wines.

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

12/24/2011, Saturday

oenoTurn

2011-12-24T23:29:00.000-08:00

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

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

12/22/2011, Thursday

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

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

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

12/23/2011, Friday

11: Megatage

2011-12-22T21:44:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

12/21/2011, Wednesday

12: Writing Ad Hoc, Cab Franc

2011-12-20T22:07:00.000-08:00

This may be a 2010, if you can believe. Nice little palate skip about it. Anyway, tonight, printing 3 pages from book, for editing tomorrow, on Lit Lunch. Will follow through with this. 3 pages of the 40 I’m to submit. So much writing today, I somewhat startled Self. 1540, typed at Roasting Co. And in cube, over 3 pages scribbled. This book, changing everything, bringing me to that image I always see. Me, late hour, hotel Room, after event. Be it a signing, lecture, conference. Sipping a deeply layered, rumbling Cabernet, writing to Wine beats. Nothing to do next morning, only have to catch my afternoon flight. I can see the desk in the Room, the wine bottle, aside the keyboard, my right hand. I sip... Think of the next trip, what I’ll be doing.

The nose, floral, romantically patterned. Wine out there, for me to write about. Maybe I should do another wine blog, after this one dies. One similar? There is 1Stop, that’s a blog. Informational, visual, commercial. Not with a voice, not like this one. You know, I should save such for the book, books. In my Comp book, journal, details, just as I premeditated. How do I organize all this research, these flashing reflections? Should study Capote some more, film and author. How he organized that masterwork from the Clutter murders, Kansas 1959. I’m convinced, following several strung-together screenings of this piece, that I have more than enough in this very Room, in my own home, to complete three best-selling novels. Or books. Could go fiction, or non. Sometimes I think the latter’s more auspicious, just as it is for poets, songwriters. This blending grape, Cab Franc, I see many times overlooked. Too bad. Silencing serious sippers into sad. Not me, I’m celebrating. Full cup, half page. Printing...

12/20/2011, Tuesday

13: No Wine, Only Books

2011-12-19T22:27:00.000-08:00

Going the opposite way of Mr. Capote tonight, with resounding respect. As soon as I arrived back home, sped to the gym. 3 mile run, then basketball. Now, sipping some Ginger Ale, gloriously cold, listening to cars speed by my Yulupa condo. Forgot my earphones for today’s Lit Lunch, where I triumphantly trampled past 1k. Tomorrow, no forgetting. They’re already in my bag. Hoping Katie, my winemaking painter sibling, brings some samples of our Cab either on xmas eve or day. Want to see how our collaborative barreled character’s stretching, enrooting in its early life.

Ready for bed, this writer. Ready for another foggy drive, morrow. Today’s foggy 12, what prompted, fueled all the cube notes. The book, closer to fruition that I estimated. Need more dialogue, though, I’m realizing. Don’t want it to be excessively monologuing, narratively reflective. Have to listen more, maybe write less. Listen to all speech around me. Write that, all of it, no matter how seemingly insignificant it self-presents. Would love to pocket some tasting Room dialogue, but no winery last Sunday, yesterday I mean, or next, which happens to be Christmas. Then, Sunday after is New Year’s Day. Going to affect the wallet. Need to submit these chapters. Get my advance check, from somewhere, so I can finish the book. No, I should finish the book before submitting a single typed sheet, right? Feel like I need a glass of wine, now, thinking about money, how I depend on others for it. Only temporary, Mike tells himself, picking up the Canada Dry, wishing it were Howell Mountain Cab.

Notes in so many places, for the book. Now I do feel like Truman, as he gathered all his scribbles in the first types of his championing, masterfully bloody, manuscript. Just have to be patient, as I’m always told. Do I? Stream-of-thought writing isn’t anchored in contemplativeness. It thrives in constancy, whimsicality. That’s what I’ll do, with these first chapter gatherings. Trust my Self.

12/19/2011, Monday

14

2011-12-18T21:30:00.000-08:00

Mike had enough of journal jumping. Going into this new year, their’d be one journal. That’s it. From that would come all his books. That’s it. “That’s it,” he kept telling himself. He saw what his flaw was. The scatter. True, it was part of his style, but it had also kept him stationary for years. He knew he had to trust himself, his Self’s sight. A book at time. Submit his stories, his pages, not fear any rejection, ever. His exhaustion forced him to see something, to see a lively Literary Life.

He thought of stopping the blog early, not following through with his countdown. But he would. For him. To show his Self that he could. “The first day of the rest of his Literary Life,” he thought. He began to write about Kelly. Details, a bit of direction, character movement, habit, scene. But mostly object orientation. What situated in her Room. Brushes, obviously. Paintings, hers and others. Some clothes on the floor, only one corner. A short story started to take place, but he wasn’t ready to type. Not yet. Mike had grown disgusted with typing in the last couple weeks. Probably from work, all the typing he was expected to do in duty’s grip. He just made notes, in that Comp book. The same one he used in the cube.

How was it the year threw itself to point, so soon? Mike could only be disgusted with time, write faster. The only thing he could do was write. About her. Going into this year new, he needed more. Much more. He needed to bug her. But he didn’t need that much from his favored varietal. Only enough to embellish. That was artistic, conveniently. Enough for a book, or short story stream. He kept typing. His alarm might not ever be set. That, floated his sphere.

12/18/2011, Sunday

15: Painting, Wining, Writing ...

2011-12-18T20:49:00.000-08:00

It was artistic, I found. Quite, really. And yes, I plan on drawing. Soon. Eventually painting. Like Kelly, Jewel. I want colors on canvas, put them there. What Katie and I did to that Room, adding that gentler blue shade to the dry wall, changed the Room’s personality, feel, identity. Going up to Mom and Dad’s to spend the night, dodging paint scents within the castle walls. Bringing what’s left of the Pinot with me. With what I said in the last entry, about Social Media, I’m deciding to scale back on usage therein, somewhere from 60-75%. More writing, less frivolous fiddling.

Next day, Mike typed in the other Room, while his sister gently stroked the summarizing coats to the walls. With the brush, she appeared unusually artisan, meticulous with each blot. The next day, back in that office for Mike. Not sleeping well the night before, and the caffeine from coffee #3 dissipating, his spirits sank. He avoided another dose of liquid revival, in fears of getting sick, or lightheaded as he did that one time he was out at a tasting the night before, thinking all symptoms would vanish like fleeing phantasms if he drank mochas, straight coffee, and Diet Cokes for hours strung together. No. Not today. He’d use the exhaustion as his emboldenment.

Last night’s wine, the ’08 Sonoma County Cab, tickling him, reminding him that his wine was still in barrel. Katie yesterday said that ML may be a bit slow in scheduled or expected progression. Distracted by the issue of Poets & Writers atop his printer, that arrived in the mail yesterday, with a bold covering tear-off reminding him to renew his subscription, Mike typed forward, even ignoring his quaking cell phone. Screen read “Blocked,” so he certainly felt not a drop of urgency to answer. He journaled jumped, followed his delirious druthers to his short story efforts, touched ones he thought needed bumps from his brush.

12/18/2011, Sunday

16: 12/16-17

2011-12-17T17:16:00.000-08:00

Technically, it’s 2morrow. But, in my convenient mind, it’s still today, as I’m not yet asleep. Tonight’s wine, a Monterey Pinot. A little more herbal than I’d like. But, overall, nice palate dance, confident character, nose to finish. Busy weekend ahead. Katie, my winemaking sis, coming over tomorrow, to help paint a room here in the condo castle. Should I get some orange, for mimosas? Would it be wrong to talk biz while we roll rollers? Or are we using brushes? Not sure. She’s in charge, again. Don’t mind being under the sister’s command. She’s one of few that I trust, like spending time with, talking to, in “the industry.” -12:34am

Yesterday, I left the office ready for wine. On the mind, just the Pinot I wound up opening. I remember its palate sprints. Subtle, unique, almost scenic in the way it provokes reflection. Yes, it was herbal. But theatrically herbal, like it knew it could show this writer of wine a chord quite new. The Pinot made me think of a bare bones approach with my art. Less technology, this social media nonsense. More art; boastful, confident displays of talent, Craft. Less reliance on marketing, slithery sales struts. Last night’s Pinot also made me think of picking up a brush, just the way Kelly does. Or one of those sketching pencils. And draw. Anything. Practice. I also movingly remember the Pinot ordering me to embrace the painting day with Katie as something artistic. “How can that be artistic, painting a room?” I remember thinking.

So dark when I drive home. Not much to see anyway, with the vines being so stripped. Still though, it’s odd, the day’s curt play. Seems more 1 act, than 3. Might take a couple pictures tomorrow, if I have time. See how the vines look to the lens. Just want to take pictures, really. Drive around in Kenwood’s wine stretch, just see what I see.

18/17: Black Blend Waves

2011-12-16T23:26:00.000-08:00

It had been a while since he had an actual free freewrite. There was always time, telling him what to do, why, how fast, when, to where, for whom. But not tonight. His ’08 Alexander Valley Cabernet ordered separatism. He couldn’t, though. Wasn’t time, yet. He enjoyed a tidal sip, let his concerns away slip. He was about a page away from finishing this short. Seemed to him like he’d been writing in circles, back-and-forth’s, inside-out’s. So he stopped. He was done, for the moment.

Then, he found himself opening an atlas. He just stared at it. Looked for countries, areas he’d never heard of, or maybe shamefully forgotten. Slovenia. He’d heard of Slovenia, in fact he had a friend in college, at SSU, from there. A loudly shy kid named Ben, who loved wrestling, 60s music, Indian food. He remembered how Ben would share his grandfather’s stories at Thursday night dinners, a habit in his home. His grandfather told him a story of how Nazi spies approached him, but then quickly left, how frightened his “pop-pop” was, hiding indoors from that day on. Mike thought of investigating Nazi presence in Slovenian land during the brimstoning times of World War 2. Traveling there, taking pictures. Just walking around, stopping sporadically, writing. The mooring work week was coffining him, he thought. He wanted adventure, escape. Even the wine knew this was pattern detrimental, that it needed euthanizing, soon. He wished it would talk to him more. Possible he needed pour more. Possibly.

Wine tasting, he thought. This weekend. He owed it to himself. He just wanted to drive, maybe not taste a thing. Just wander, around wine’s country, zone. Find nonfiction peregrinations, for himself. Or any characters he’d push onto a page. He took a chunk of old writings from that plastic container. A 17-page piece he wrote in graduate school, about a young man, early twenties--how old he was when he typed it one night, after class, around 11:30p--that wanted to coerce the friendship with his neighbor, Cindy, into something miles beyond normal cordial association. Mike didn’t know what to do with it. There was a paper shredder in the closet. But no. He couldn’t. The Cab wouldn’t let him. And it was an ’08. He was shocked it was so forward, forceful.

Bed. Calling. But he wanted to read his work. Mike wanted to see how he typed, then. 2003, was it? He missed the scholarly days. Those, missed, dearly. He read a little. “...Carl sipped the beer she sipped, before she left. He was kissing her, he thought. How was he doing this? He should have stopped her, but that would have been...” Looking at his wine, he realized that tomorrow was closer. Is that what the wine wanted, for him to be closer to duty return? He wasn’t finished, at all, yet. He wanted to read more. There was something in these pages, he was convinced, like a child figuring out a maze, puzzle, math problem. Surprising himself, with his own effort. Not that it was anything absorbingly sumptuous. But it was his. Pages. Moments. His work. But, no. Clock called.

10:35p. Still awake. I always wonder when I’m going to have THAT sitting, write that page that’ll be the first step in a work splendrous. I remember when I wrote that Carl short story. Carl Taylor was his full name. Think I only edited it two or three times, then passed the copies to my colleagues, in that graduate Fiction workshop in Warren Hall. At the time, I was writing poetry, spoken word, song verses, for the most part. Feel like I did the night I wrote it. What was its title... Think it was... Oh yeah, “Now.” Chose the title in hopes of emphasizing the significance of single moments. Cindy, there in his apartment, kissing him, then leaving. Carl couldn’t believe she left, chose responsible behavior, early to bed for early work, over him. 2003, eight years ago. Time, defeating me, inevitably.

Seeing a certain disconnect with my writings, that merely need an immediate re-connect. No Lit Lunch in café today. Tomorrow, types, for sure, at one of those little marble table, with one of my midday mochas. Feasible that this late session’s the one that’ll purchase the new car I NEED, desperately? And I’m not asking for a porsche. Not yet. Just a new ship. Can’t afford. But these words can. Just waiting for the right ones to land on one my pages. Me, just the bridge. A puzzle, I’m tasked with solving. Christmas, nearing. Maybe the words map their attack, before the sapidly celebrated marker of gift exchanges, disfunctionality, massing messy masses.

Look at this weather man, channel 2, talking about the slight rain that MAYBE approaches, like some climatic cataclysm about to crack our comfort. What a clown.

Mike turned off his laptop, hid under sheeted shelter. News, over. Thankfully, he thought. So depressing. Tomorrow, he would commit to a “good” day. He needed to finish his submission packet, but where would he submit? Should he just post it all on that chthonian “wine blog?” He was so sick of that thing, he didn’t know where to start in his berating. He heard his phone shake, but only once. Text, he thought. He sat up, read screen. “Hey,” it read. From Kelly.

He didn’t know where to go with his words. With her, he never did. “Hey...” he typed, unable to believe that’s how he responded.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. R u painting?” Mike wrote, ashamed of his texttalk.

“Taking a break. Just wanted to C what U were up2...”

Was she making fun of him? He couldn’t tell. “Just getting ready for bed.”

12/14/2011, Wednesday

17: 12/15/2011, Thursday [noted...]

Lit Lunch. 1:27p. Have to be back in ten, exactly. Came here today with a goal. And, if you can believe it, I didn’t change my mind. I wasn’t at all distracted, discouraged. 500-750 words, submission-intended piece. Short fictional narrative. Actually, wound up being 775 words. I’ll allow it. And I am going to submit this piece. Today, payday, and I plan on scooping what I can for submitting to publications. What do you think, 2-3 mss per week? Mss = manuscripts, by the way. Little rain, last night, this morning. Had that fog on my AM commute, that I endlessly love. Something about that thick mist, generate, enlivens a Literary carnivore under my skeptical skin. “Confidence,” I kept thinking, from Kenwood to 1st & Main, downtown Napa. Need more confidence in Self, I have to admit. Maybe that’s why I’m despicably coy with my work, why so much of it goes into that plastic container in my closet (formerly under desk), or just indefinitely ferments in this little monster of laptop. 1:34p, have to pack. Barely touched mocha2. Wonder what she’s doing, right now. Painting, I’m sure. Enjoying her day. Can’t fault her for her newfound fame. On me, shell-shocking shame...

8:55p. Last pour of the AV Cab, right. Today, providing reason, with blend of fog encased drive and verbose cubeNOTES. Now, eased in castle. As Adrianna always encourages at work, with clients, “swag.” Swagger, what I’m trusting. No more withholding. This wine, telling me to study, return my winemaking studies. Katie, too busy to field my naiveté. And I don’t fault her, even a little. Don’t want to sip this glass too fast. As it is, honestly, my last. From that bottle. Cabernet, what encourages my mind to just play. Enjoy night, all day.

Not ready for bed, by any sight. Loving these Wine Bar beats, intently. Can’t believe the speed of this year’s closure. Meant to read some Capote tonight. And I will, downstairs in a bit, while not watching the sickeningly sensationalized news. Do I want short stories from Mr. Capote, or Portraits and Observations? Decide in a few. Decided to blend the short piece I wrote at lunch today into the book. One of my cubeNOTES today stressed that freewriting will always have commitment. No more scribbles whose only fate’s to be stuffed into a file, or container of folders. Not more tombed sessions. All alive, with each other, in one way. Some way. The fog told me that, too, I think...

Starting with short stories, as I’m one writing fiction, day2day. Ten minutes, going downstairs. Didn’t get a run in this evening, but tomorrow I’m demanding my structure be on that relentless belt. Find spoken word always landing in my cognition’s cage when running. Hardly ever fiction. Pretty certain I know why, with poetry’s more fluid, less-regimented, more liberated stream-of-consciousness. I do think of characters, occasionally. But, most often I’m reciting, playing with rhyme connections, meter, with breath patterns. Last sip. Cab, past. Now, news. Capote. Tomorrow, all fiction. No verse. Character obsession. Lists of them. Kelsey, Jewel, at the café. The new paintings on that wall, their pained voice, darker contrasts; the write that goes there everyday on his lunch break, scribble what he sees, living on his pages before his Equilibrium is cracked by occupation’s string avulsion.

10:53p. Tomorrow, only fiction. Character obsession. Kelsey, aside from her nettling humor, persists in revealing Literary value. Innocent, but mischievous. Perfect for a coffee shop. What does she do in her spare time? How old is she? I’m estimating hang out with friends, for A. 22, B. Doesn’t really matter, as I can make her what I need be in these pages. Fair, wrong? Not sure. It’s fiction. I don’t think it’s anything, but everything.

19: Slowing Sentence, colder

2011-12-13T21:10:00.001-08:00

Cold. More, on this window’s reverse. Me, comfortable, quite, in reclined Literary night. Another great day at work. Had a Lit Lunch, all pen to paper. Which felt perplexingly pleasant, to be descriptively restrained. But, I realized, I should institute just the opposite of what I wrote in my cubeNOTES, “Day, write. Night, type.” Should save inked lines for when I’m in mode unwind, latter hours. The Lit Lunch is meant for performance, not puddled prose postures. My novel needs completion, fruition. Want to watch “Capote” again. Why don’t I? What do I want? Music, movie? Thinking again, which leaps more Literarily? Should just stay where I am, seated with types.

Thinking of Aspen, for some reason. Probably because of the website I visited today, while cubed. Travel, squeezing my patience. Writing for wander, what wonder it’ll eventually gift. Writing for randomness, and, almost shamed to state, “adventure.” I put it in quotes only as I’m sure it’s been said so many times, by so many, for so many insignificant warrants. But, for these pages, I zealously delve for impetuous emprises. And it’ll happen soon. ‘Cause it has to. I see mySelf, SOON, in New York, Texas somewhere, Florida, Georgia, Canada, and, Craft willing, Paris. This is more what I need, than my writings.

Mike opened his Composition book, sipped from his beaded beer bottle like it was Friday night again. He thought of Kelly, but stopped himSelf. He needed to focus, or nothing would see a finish. He’d be writing in some unexpected hotel Room, before long. He, somehow, was certain of it. It had to happen, he told himself. He’d see waters, new characters, streets, street signs, stores, plates, wines, views. “New books,” he thought, “finally.” A detest for normality encased his sense. He wrote faster, opened another. What if he saw her on the road, somehow? Their victories colliding, colorfully.

12/13/2011, Tuesday

20: Monday Sipper

2011-12-13T19:26:00.001-08:00

Sipped a nice ’06 Petite Sirah from David Bruce. Think the fruit may have been from the Central Coast, but I’ll have to verify. Successful day at NWG, furthering my love of selling wine, proselytizing me further into 1Stop’s potential. Need to sip more wines, in my spare time, when/wherever I can some scoop. Not Lit Lunch today, as Lisa returned from her wedding/honeymoon in Mexico. Good to have my work sister back. Made me realize, again, that travel is necessitated not just by my love of writing, wine, writing about wines I love, but life’s totality, brevity. I need to be roaming, seeing. NOT stationary. That’s poison to these pages, to my books.

The movie from Friday night, still in head. Capote’s research habits, the steps that led him to super-writer-fame, that championing opus. Such a journey for him, for me watching the film translation of his project. Now, sipping some ’10 Lancaster Sauv Blanc to cap night, listening to Wine Bar beats. After this entry, only 19 more. What do I do with all this writing, in this blog, or, log? Maybe these tropical melon keys in my glass will provide some map. Should they? Should I want them to? I should solve puzzles by Self. Right?

Tomorrow, hoping to have such a day at work. I will, if I just stay focused. Embrace the lessons, apprenticeship. Wish I had some of that David Bruce now, strangely. Would love its dark, ghostly, flavor fog on my palate. May help me finish some of those suspense shorts I’ve been intermittently brushing, during Literary Lunch hours. This song, without doubt orders me to hop on a plane. To Portugal, Italy, Spain. Morocco. Would love to visit that northwest side of Africa. Dreaming, sipping, scribbling, ending my savory sequel to Sunday.

(Yep, Central Coast ...)

12/12/2011, Monday

21: Uncorked Author; Liftoff, unplug ...

2011-12-11T22:12:00.000-08:00

First serious step for 1Stop today. Collaborative motion with Kaz. More details later. Easy pace today. Nice to work with Luke. Didn’t sip a thing today in the Room. Was difficult, though. Especially with that 2010 Cab Franc being poured straight for the barrel. Brought the Comp book with me, into the Room. Took a few notes, mostly when Kaz and I were discussing our joint venture. At the home office, now. Funny to see my desk completely clear, no clutter. Not a single random item on this surface. Freedom, I feel, finally.

Back at NWG, tomorrow. Comp book coming with. Need to stick to these deadlines with 1Stop. Tomorrow, Lit Lunch will be more of a 1Stop Lunch. Want to get this piece done for Kaz, along with a couple other pieces for this new blog, my “biz.” May rain tonight. What I heard. Would be nice. Miss the drops. Love what they to to my writing. In Wine Bar mode, now. No wine sipping, though.

Mike sat there, at that strangely neat desk. Thought of the year’s nearness to adjournment. Did Kelly think of the year’s stage development? Did she paint it, or was she only doing those glasses, with her little signature animated critters? Mike couldn’t help but envision her movements. He knew she loved the rain as he did, but wasn’t certain if she thought of how they both enjoyed sky pours, similarly. And Jewel, did she like the rain? Mike never thought to ask. He really didn’t know her. And, he didn’t know how much he should. He didn’t want his focus off his character, his initial. But was she his, anymore, Kelly? Was she ever? She could be if he wrote it that way. Jewel, may not be the character that Mike’s pages needed. Or, maybe they could use her movements in that café, her tireless tending to simultaneous tasks. Volume, elevated, slightly, to his Wine Bar beats. He envisioned his shop, the tasting area, Kelly visiting. He wrote a conversation between them. A dialogue freewrite, he thought, reasoned, rationalized. Missing her, no. Wishing she were over, as in times not so distantly past, he wasn’t sure. The thoughts were enough. Fantasies, pages populated, controlled, by her. She was like a perfect blend. For him. His eventual readers. Wrong? Not at all. And he didn’t care.

She. Was. His. Book.

Books. Hers.

He, hers.

12/11/2011, Sunday

22

2011-12-11T22:00:00.000-08:00

After a wine club event in AV, dinner with Mom and Dad, I’m emptied. No energy. Me, sipping...nothing. No energy. Ecstatic that dreams are only a couple breaths away. Even more motivated to mold my own business, build my brand. No, “brand building” sounds so clinical, sterile. But, my business has to be built. Now. Today taught me that, some of the characters with whom I interchanged. Need to just leap, stop talking about it. So, in light so encouraging, I link wine with intelligence, like up-to-date news, for generating sales for wineries symphonic with my preference. Informational retail. Hmmm... One example, Kaz Winery, where I’ll be tomorrow. Where else in Sonoma County can you find Lenoir, bottle your own wine, meet such an animated winemaker? That’s what guests want: accessibility. The new blog, 1StopWineBlogShop, furthering similar scenes, for the consumer.

Thinking about last night’s session. Watching Capote, sipping that ’04, writing. Peace in my space. Want to have such for my eventual office. And I will. That’s what motivates me, pushes me to lucrative Creativity. Can’t forget about the wine, though. Ever. All for me, about these wines. Today, that blend, some Estate Cab, then a little Chardonnay at Mom and Dad’s. Then back to Cab, followed by another Cab, from St. Francis, 2008. Talked to Katie tonight about opening a wine shop. Still my aim, my Wine Bar/Shop. But how do I gather capital for liftoff? Can’t worry about that now. All starts with 1Stop. Wines, selling them. And, anyone who knows me knows I can move bottles. But I want to do so with Humanness, no slithery salesman steps. I see my shop having tastings daily, events like at Dan’s place on 1st (downtown Napa), paintings, books, music, local wineries (smaller case prod)... Was a dream, now I’m shoving it towards everyday’s consciousness. The remainder of this countdown, updates on business’ steps, findings, development. Have the blog, now all I need do is sell, set up MY shop. Sip, scribble ...

Wait, before clock-out, just had another idea for 1Stop. Have a “wines with voice” segment. Meaning, wines that really speak to their sippers. Just playing with the idea, taking it into sleep ...

12/10/2011, Saturday

23 ...

2011-12-09T23:21:00.001-08:00

My Friday night. Capote, wine. And, I have to say, this wine isn’t as splendid, moving, nor cinematic as I was told it’d be. Can’t help but notice Capote isn’t looking at his cell phone every three seconds in this film. Or typing on a laptop. So much simpler in that day. All focus on the project, the paper. Actual paper. No distractions. My usage of Facebook [facecrook] and Twitter [splitter] from here forward, tremendously minimized. Why? I’m reminded of the line from Godfather where Vito commands Sony: “Never tell someone outside the family what you’re thinking again.” Enacted, with me. Social Media, too compromising. And not in any way Literary.

Truth, I haven’t actually sipped the wine, yet. Finishing my burrito, a beer. But, I did smell the cork, the bottle. Nothing impressive flew to my sensory traps. Remember Katie saying a couple nights ago, at Dad’s dinner, that she doesn’t smell corks. Can’t help but wonder why. It does say something, or at least it can. Her explanation was that “it just smells like cork.” But does it? I think the point to smelling corks is to determine the might of the wine, to some point, how many of the notes cling to that stopping body. If the wine were to be of a certain delicious staunchness, then you would get something from nosing the cork. My view, from MY experience...

Noticing how dedicated Truman is to his project, the research in which he embeds himSelf. What I view, true, is merely a modern film. BUT, nevertheless, it’s one I discern as altogether credible, valuable. So, this wine, finally sipping. There’s a presence, the one I expected; slightly spicy raspberry, plum, maybe some chocolate, mint. But, the tannins, far too tamed. Yes, I know, it’s an ’04. But, still, from this vineyard (nameless, intentional), I expect more song, more push, gravity. Too bad.

23, part 2: a reading

Still in the film’s grips. Capote has me captivated, encapsulated. My left hand, drying, painfully. Is there any lotion in this condo? This happens every winter, with the heater on, almost everyday. Glass 2 of the ’04 Napa Cabernet. Intensifying, appreciating in stance, delivery. I’m being to sit here, while scribbling, typing really, quite impressed. Didn’t think I would be, but... Learning I need to be more patient, let the wine breathe more. Only 22 more lognoblog sittings after 2nite. Hard to believe. But I’m not ending anything. I’m beginning something, a new something. This wine: suave, distingué. I’ve been charmed. Smooth, dark, earth-woven love in this glass. Who cared for these grapes? They’re prodigious, prophetically percipient.

This new log I start, 1/1/12, going to be more ME. Less push to please. I won’t be gentle with this new book. And, yes, that’s just what it’ll be. A book. Watching Mr. Capote come apart with the furtherance of his opus. Won’t be me, ever. Feel I’m too strong, I write too much too fast, and I’m too fiery. Like Mr. Shakur. Always writing, thinking, talking. I’m a professor. Need another Cab glass, one more full. Was just thinking, what would others think of me drinking this level bottle by mySelf? First, don’t care. Second, and rather finally, it’s wine. That’s it. Some act as though drinking a certain wine in the “wrong” circumstance set is like burning books. Again, let me say for record, in this log, MY blog, wine is consumable, a liquid. A book, any book, is substance, effort, sonorous. Words always discomfit fermented pours.

Time, 9:10p. Glass 2, past. Another? Yes, for the pages. I will hit 1000 words 2nite. This sitting, must be one of my coining, championing compositions. Here, one different, like this wine, teaching me something, about Self. My Self. Not as cold in the condo tonight as it has been. Kelly, I’ve been trying to ignore her, forget about her, reservedly. But, no. Foolish, funny, me. It’ll always be her.

23, pt. 3: scripted Sip

Realizing that I am still a professor, and that I always will be. Me, completely. With what I’m at odds, in “the industry.” Everyone tells me to be careful, of what I write, say. Who are they more concerned for? Their own state, or mine? I’m a writer, Literary. So, I’ll write, talk. Or, speak, and then scribble. Reminded of my undergrad, from Foothill to SSU. Then, grad school. The perceptive, analytical vivacity. In wine’s world, not a drop, or pour of equaling score. Watching a Black Panther documentary... This is what I need, voice. Purpose. Literary shifts, segues. London, speaking again. “The function of man is to live, not to exist.” Just thinking, reminded of days in rearview, of when I was MORE alive. Why does age do that? With wine, age follows positively. Mortals, we’re burdened, cursed. Time, 9:45p. Not going halt in these sips, scribbles. I could be out, going to bars, fooling around in fiery hoops. But, no. I’m here. Thought-whirled. Dad said, ‘it’s fallen into your lap.’ And that’s what I mean when I say, “I’m still a professor. This all can be shaped for my palate, I’m realizing. Now, I realize I’ve forgotten about this wine. I’m focused on my home, the comfort it provides. My Dad, Mom, the wisdom they gift. This wine, a simplistic additive. That’s it. And it’s lucky to be ribboned such merit.

Bob Coleman (R.I.P.) one time told me that most associations are contractual. So, how do I know who is who? That class, makes me realize what holds now, in certain realities, “obligations.” His lectures would make anyone shiver. My syllabi, always modeled after his. “Being the person I am, I said no, no, I’m changing his,” Mr. Shakur said. That’s how I feel now. Some reading this, in wine’s world, may be dismayed by my candor. And that’s precisely what I’m aiming to introduce. Unfiltered fervor, honesty But, honestly, I need to calm Self, enjoy what remains of this ’04. Amazing, honestly. Much thanks to the gifter.

Last paragraph for this path’s crass math. Need to more colorfully internalize my impulses. Enact. Closing session. But, I’m thinking I need to adjust my intensity. Can’t blame others, every time. Last Cab glass. What am I surveying? Magic, honestly. This glass grasps a glimmering glory, to be honest. Want poetry on this “blog,” for the year’s rest. Like I wrote earlier, I want more music. Know it’s getting late, 10:40p. But, this night belongs to the poet. Time bobs as long as I gong. Another sip, please. Then, to sleep. Have some caricatured wine confession, no. I’m like Pac, spitting at cameras. But, should I slow? Still attempting computation, equation. Not in a state to reality debate. Finished, in 2004’s call, curtained... Manuscript-driven.

12/9/2011, Friday, vinoLit ...

24

2011-12-09T20:29:00.001-08:00

Tired. No run tonight, as the day beat me, persistently. No matter. I’m writing. Today, didn’t have a Lit Lunch. Profoundly disappointed in Self. Tried something different, resulting in no fortune. It’s alright, thought, I reason. I learned. Sipping the last of this Kaz blend, then to bed. Today, in cube, took over 3 FULL pages of notes. All to book, the novel. Going to finish this bloody novel. Almost cursed, but refrained. Somehow.

Tomorrow night, writing binge. I demand of Self something lengthy, but focused, simple. All for novel. I want my project to have fifty solid pages. Granted, not yet edited. But, still, 50 pages. Last of the 50/50 Cab/Petite Verdot blend, sipped. For tomorrow night’s session, opening an ’04 Napa Cab that SHOULD be mind-blowing. That’s what I’ve been told, but I’ll let my continuously particular palate evaluate the bottle’s contents.

But, I need to chip away--no, seriously contribute, significantly add to--the novel. The novel needs to be finished. Need a deadline, like with log. This log ends at this year’s end. Unavoidable. I need one similar, but mental, with my fiction debut. Keep piling material from the cubeNOTES. Wine for tomorrow night, maybe the Pinot I just bought in Monterey, with Jimbo. Haven’t opened a Pinot in a while, it seems. Have to break out my Computer tomorrow, in my adored café, from 12:30-something to 1:30-ish. Need to write more narrowly, I’m thinking. I’m also of mind, now, that the new blog, next to 1Stop, will be completely Literary; addressing theory, criticism, fiction, verse, everything. Even history. Sure, I’ll throw in a wine word every so often, but it won’t be like mikeslognoblog, in the there’ll be more Lit than vino, if you catch. When my book lands on a shelf, or in an inevitable category, I want it to be Literary, fiction, or nonfiction. Or poetry. Not anything wined. I’m an author, one from a world COMPLETELY Literary, academic. Nothing touching wine’s wobble.

Missing studies. Missing grad school. Teaching, lecturing, helping my beloved students with their papers. Seeing their eyes widen. Wine, no matter how amazing it tastes, or how provocatively it cuddles palate, could never have that caliber gravity grabbing me. Sipping to tomorrow, scribbling for now.

12/8/2011, Thursday

25: 12/7 Afterthought, Wining

2011-12-09T20:23:00.001-08:00

Yesterday: work, followed by incredible dinner. Wine, family, artisanal pizza at Rosso. Gorgeous. Not a lot upon which to reflect, which is probably why I waited till tonight to write entry. Well, that’s not true. There are paragraphs in the 7’s sequence...from the first pen-to-paper Lit Lunch I had. So simple. No overweight bag to carry, no concern for its nearness to my table. Just the Comp book, Wine Bar beats through earphones, from phone. I scribbled:

“12:49p. A first. Pen2Paper Lit Lunch...Again thinking of all the incompetently tyrannical, disorganized ‘entrepreneurs’ I had the displeasure of working for. How inept they were, in ways innumerable, in their own business. Their supposed passion! I’m more than convinced I can do better...No obsession with word count. Relieved. Know I’ll get hooked in this habit.”

And I hope I do keep taking just my phone and the Comp book to the Roasting Company. So simple, so organic. The real Literary. didn’t make it to the café today to write. Won’t happen again. I’m always talking about acting out-of-character, but today poignantly was instructed that there’s potential harm in divergence. Oh well, I tried.

“I’m like Jewel, at one of her canvases, when she’s not here constructing flawlessly balanced mochas for Mike Madigan...Headed to Dan’s shop in a few, want a bottle for tonight, and maybe to review (content for 1Shop).”

The bottle I brought to Dad’s dinner wasn’t the favorite, among us civilian wine scouters. That 50/50 Sangio/Barbera blend was. I preferred my bottle, the crazy blend of Syrah, Zin, Grenache, Mourvedre, and whatever else was in there. But that’s fine. That’s wine, the collection and gather, discussion, of contrasting palates. We have to remember that “the industry” depends on the consumer, as we discussed at that Rosso table. But, I ask, and did pose, when does the acknowledgement of and adjustment for that reality compromise artistic integrity? Because, yes, wine most certainly qualifies as art. Or, some does, like this ’05 Kaz Mary Tauge I’m sipping. Thoughts, wine thoughts, always ...

12/8/2011, Thursday

26: Counting Cabernet Clock [1000 words, unfiltered]

2011-12-06T22:39:00.001-08:00

No writing for novel. Decided to bounce from book to jump around in these journals. More attention to these blogs, just putting everything in the Wine realm’s Literary, viral, air. Hope it pays, fruitions, somehow. All I can do is write, release. This Friday, tasting of a couple Cabernets, different price-points. Not sure what I’m looking for, but I am most assuredly looking FORWARD to tasting. No wine tonight, either. Need to stay focused with the other blog. “biz,” as I call it. As that’s what it is, MY business.

In the Roasting Company. My usual seat, taken. That’s fine. I like being by these stairs, my back to a shelf of books, view of 1st, Main. Not sure if I want another mocha, as I feel plenty caffeinated, presently. The coffee from the office, still hopping in wires under my irritated shell. Turning my computer’s situated state, don’t want eyes on these sentences. Not yet, anyway. Re-entrenching chair. My usual table, free. But I’m not moving. That takes time. Staying here, with my view of the coffee cockpit, cash register, biscottis, tip jar, empty milk containers, neglected behind their counter. This coffee temple always makes me think of Paris. Each sitting. Need to go back. Next year, I reason. Somehow this writing’ll bring me a plane ticket, I’m sure. It has to. And if not next year, pages forbid(!), I’ll write till I AM on a plane to my city.

Clocked out at 12:40p, I think. Power running low on this keyed monster. May have to move to usual chair, to access power. This poor machine, abused my my frantic paginations. No wine around me, today. Or at all, this week. Need to see barrels, views, barrel Rooms, tasting Rooms, bottles, PEOPLE. I want to taste. Is that wrong, to want to be near wine’s total essence, so frequently? The wine stage, even the “industry,” entails passion, does it not? That’s why I boarded the wine life train. Something, uneven.

Patrons, occupying my table, over by the cord. So that option, no longer available. Maybe I’ll fit in one glass of Petite Verdot tonight, from Kaz. I remember in ’09, on the Paris trip, tasting in Burgundy. The scents in that cellar, airborne history. For me, my reflective synergy. Getting tired, think I need that 2nd mocha. No, refraining. focus on wine thoughts, I tell Self. My tasting Room, one day. A Wine Bar, paired with the music flickering from these earphones. Vacation, for writing, Wine-anchored scribbles. Want to taste from producers of whom I’ve never heard the faintest rumor, or press. Want to explore. Doesn’t Wine encourage that? What does Wine want me to do with these pages, in its presence. Well, it tells me that right now, week to week, I’m not wading in its fermented puddle. Or, not enough. If I want to “know” Wine, I need commit my Self to her, fully. In all her forms, flavors, frolics.

This Literary Lunch, offering something. A radiating reasoning. Allowing Self to cling, harnessed to comet, fantasy. See the tasting Room, mine. Before opening, I sip an espresso, read The New Yorker. I take my time. No characters over this writer’s shoulder. Not in this dream.

A cyclist sits down next to me, removes the pastry he just bought from its bag, loud. Can even hear it through this current song’s pungent drum kicks, snarings. One of the uniformed wheel athletes sits especially close to me, right. I scoot left. Don’t need nearness, too much distraction. Not now. They look like professionals, free to be outside, riding when they wish. They never think about their freedom, as it’s always there, continuous with each revolution. The one with the pastry, texts a long message, smiles. Can’t help but appreciate how free, peace’d, they both seem. Me, sitting in a rushed page sitting, altogether jealous. No envy, just roasted, well-done, juicy jealousy. I’m a writer. One thematically shackled to Wine. So how do I not sip similarly, to these peddlers? Both set their helmets atop the small, crumb-covered table next to them. A third one walks in, slugs to main bar. I see a forth outside, leaning his vessel against the house’s wall, close to window so he can supervise, I’m sure. One of the newcomers ordered a morning bun. Jewel, the tending barista, or the owner who’s also behind the main bar, set it on a small, vintage white plate. Thinking I need a mocha, a treat. I deserve, don’t I?

1:12p. 48% power left in this machine. Why didn’t I bring the Composition Book over here? Do I use the laptop for the music? That’s not a valid reason. Sure it is. What am I saying? Certainly not a Literary one, reason that is. Want to check my word count, but that would be anything by Literary, artistic. May keep this monster home, tomorrow. Have the next session on an actual page. Wonder what my sister’s doing now, in harvest’s wake? Wonder what our wine is doing. Is it angry that I haven’t visited in a few weeks, given it any tweaks?

Think I may be close to 1000 words. The biker at my 1 o’clock sight corner took one of my table’s chairs, used it as a second resting station for helmets. Their dialogue climbs in decibel, trumping my tracks, which I hate, especially after understanding I only bring this stout computer with me for the songs, I think. Older I walk, I grasp knowing less than previously inventoried.

More people march through the door. Getting louder, disruptive, inescapably bothersome. Winemakers can’t have such, neither can erratic wine writers like I. 21 minutes till I’m back at the desk, cubed. Wine, swirling sights, imaginary circles for my sanity. Selective sedative, these bottled barrel thoughts. Looking at pictures in my cell, of a winery’s vineyard view, one I visited a couple weeks ago. Need more. Exploration, randomness, planned lack of plan. Wine is whimsicality, witty Life whirlings, for my writing. A mocha, another really, sounds erotically enveloping right now, just what this pen pusher needs. One of the bikers, talking with his mouth full, barbarically loud. Now, I’m bugged. Need to leave. But I can’t be mad at him, enjoying his day. Just need to record, document, reflect on his character, trap it. May be able to use it one day, in one work.

12/6/2011, Tuesday

27

2011-12-06T22:21:00.001-08:00

No Lit Lunch today. Decided to go for a walk, gather material for new blog. An article. So glad I didn’t discontinue the new wine blog project. Remember being so close to doing so. Time, 10:59p. Have to clock out AT 11:30, not a second later. No wine tonight, only a 6 mile run, and now, a little writing. cubeNOTES from today, definitely thrown into the book. Sample chapters arranged, now just writing to book’s completion. And hopefully before too long, full fruition. This new blog, as I label in cubeNOTES “biz,” is an honest sprint to starting my own Autonomous wine operation. BUT, it’s also a writing assignment; And in some respects, more so.

My shell, still feeling the run. So glad I didn’t have any wine tonight. Don’t think it’d pair well with the intensely cold numbers expected 2nite’s hours. Tonight may fall as low at 20-something. Wish I could experience such in Sunriver, as I did in late ’09. Remember writing fiercely to snowy sights. Travel, coming soon for these pages. My Comp book, to my left. By bed, all night. Wish I would be woken, compelled to note something. Has happened a couple times in my continuation, only. Actually, I hope it only happens on weekends. During my weeks, which are beyond exhausting, I’d rather rest. This water I’m sipping, should be, could be--no, SHOULD BE--colder. Random, yes, but consistent with consciousness stream, I think, hope.

Morning mocha, already singing. Definitely a deserved writing expense, with the vastness, detail of the cubeNOTES. Time, 11:13p. Sleepier than I was only minutes ago. Tomorrow’s Literary Lunch, devoted to book. And, just freely writing, what my genre embodies, embraces, enacts. Colder in this Room. Sleepier. Shouldn’t be writing. This Friday, will be tasting some new wines here in my wine writing hut. Can’t believe that I’ll only have 23 days, entries, left then (counting that day, Friday). Night, reader ...

12/5/2011, Monday

29/28

2011-12-04T20:07:00.001-08:00

29: 1StopWineBlogShop ...

This, my new blog, MY business. The path to wine-oriented, and writing, Autonomy. How will I “monetize” [hate that word] it? Have a couple ideas. One slapped me in the face this morning, a couple hours ago, as if to say, “Hey, stupid, this is how to do it. You haven’t thought of this, yet?” I agree, follow its unorthodoxly encouraging lead. The focus, WINE. Selling Wine, educating on wine, writing about wines. ALL WINE. No real Literary steps in its content, as that’s not its intention. And before you ask, yes, there will be another Literary Wine Blog in 2012. Already have its name, sitting tight. So, sit tight, lovely readers.

Today, in the tasting Room, Kaz Castle. Can’t wait. With harvest finally behind us, I’m hopping Kazzapalooza will be there so I can get some incredible winemaking tips, and possibly some content for the new blog. Would love to work with him on a few things. We’ll see. Cold outside, and this 3 shot mocha hugs me like a lover in the morning, like we’re in Aspen, looking out at snow, passers with their skis. Last night, while on the couch, was writing about travel, quite a bit actually. Need to euthanize all stationary figments of my days, hindering my fortitude. Wine encourages exploration, not lockdown. It demands Autonomy, especially from writers, thinkers like me. Another mocha tip...

Been so into these types, that I haven’t yet lit the music wick. Have to leave in exactly 10 minutes. Maybe 15, if I feel like I can push it. Need to get this blog out there, taste more wines, offer notes, insights, relate to all lovers of wine. Not trying to impress experts, get mainstream acclaim, certainly not approval. I’m just reaching out, Humanly, to all lovers of wine, especially those who just consider themselves wine lovers, even though they very well may be grape sages. This blog, meant for the more cordial, humble consumer. Sip, sip ...

If you haven’t yet, please check out 1StopWineBlogShop.com!!! Thanks, and ENJOY!!!

12/3/2011

28: Kazzified, After the Vines Died

Maybe “died” is too curt of a word. But, none less, they’re dormant for the next few months. Incredible weather. Traffic, rather sparse, but that’s how I prefer it, if it need be such, given season. Thievery Corporation, playing all day. Relaxed, just as I’d have my tasting Room be, everyday. Of course, I want to make money. But, I don’t want to compromise my envisioned, pragmatically projected troposphere. No herds allowed in my Room, the whoso Room. Today invited much time for me to clearly see what I want in my wine journey. Found Self outside, staring at dormant vines, thinking of what they would recite in ’12.

The vines, yes, dormant, technically. But they spoke to me, adamantly. Just when I thought the day was intent on following in stagnancy, I had a stream of indelible visitors, that would only grace the Kaz floor. Two, from Portland, made the day worth every silent second. This is precisely what I hope for my Room. Life, more that short. And this writer figures, why not fill it with wine, new friends, “the tangential,” as I shared with my new friend Katie. Tomorrow, back in NWG character. My morning, and Lit Lunch, mocha waiting. That Roasting Company, more significant than they’ll ever know, I’m sure.

So what’s the writer doing now? Sipping Racer 5, enjoying reflections in the day, these Wine Bar beats, thoughts of future, the Autonomy that inadvertently mentors me. All can know, I stretch for sovereignty. I’m from the Literary world, is it so surprising that I target scenes of my own Self subsistence? Not anticipating others’ evaluations. It’s just what I’m doing. Now through speakers, “Numero Deux,” by The Dining Rooms. Se my Self walking around my Wine Bar, greeting guests, having a glass of wine when I wish. Heaven. And why not, in this shortest of lives? Sipping to sip, writing2write ...

Katie <left> and Christa <right> from Portland, OR, and me, sipping Kaz potion out back ...

12/4/2011, Sunday

30: cLUSTer rhymez

2011-12-03T09:41:00.001-08:00

Only poetry, today. Saw the Napa Valley in a way I never before have. Learned, like a writer’s meant to, with wine, his Craft. Tomorrow, day off. Morning mocha, of course. Allowing Self hour bursts, like with the Lit Lunches. No such hour today, as I was about valley’s floor, Howell Mountain. Sipping Racer for cap, now. Can’t remove these random rimes from head, even with forceful deliberation. Wine, encouraging the random session, not one mapped.

Maps, attract what’s meant to compensate lack. Drown Self

in Zinfandel well. Only wandering rimes written, pondering

why I’m visioned. Play like guitars from afar, pour Self another

bottle at undiscovered bars. No cruising in others’ cars. Cards

dealt, the scars help me learn to life appreciate, nights mediate.

Think of thoughts to voice, applaud all noise, devotion commotion ...

So many pages of these random pulses scribbled. Most in cubeNOTES. Only poetry, me, currently. Still reveling in that professor, when I was undergrad, telling me “poetry doesn’t sell.” What about song writers, performing poets? Thinking my versed efforts need more attention, as they blend more advantageously with my Creative urges. Consciousness stream, obviously. Love the sight of this black ink populating the page; open notebooks, compensating my age, delayed. Like winemaking processes, these sittings, following the pages’ collective terroir’s intentions, if that makes sense. All this, my verses, incandescence colliding with wild wine writing. No concentration ...

As I settle, no longer a smoldering kettle. Like

those who embezzle, out for Self, about wealth, so I

persist in scribble, enlist my inner drizzle, turn it into a

storm. I’m like a Cabernet that won’t conform. I’m not the

one to be forlorn. Befuddle like sights of a shuttle, outer space,

louder base. Why so complicated, this economy? Obvious robbery ...

- - - - - - - -

wind, leaving, but i’m still

writing. the scraping, on paper,

enough. metered lust, reading

to my calendar, numbers annoyed.

12/2/2011, Friday

31: classRoom, Kaz Room

2011-12-02T22:16:00.001-08:00

Here, at rear table, with Self-anchored writer’s... No. Not accepting any blockage. Mocha2, yes. Hard for this writer to fill sheet, populate page. 49 minutes left in sitting. 31 days left in this log. Then, BOOKS. Only BOOKS. First couple sips, paired with current song, waking me. Autonomy, in scope. Hard to judge distance. Something amiss, though, in this Lit Lunch. Do winemakers experience this? Not concerned, not now, as I’m a writer, right now, and always. Writing way to scenes once dreamed. Life, too short to not live. Seems like whenever I’m pouring at Kaz’s, I remember I’m living, I’m with wine, actual wine. I see bottles, people, vines. Interesting.

Not even entertaining wine thoughts in this short “lunch break,” for which I’m expected to be exceedingly excited. Who knows what’s ahead. Can only be positive, I’m humming. Café, starting to fill. Time, 12:56. 43 minutes left to Self, to this project. Not sure if this log is a project, if it’s ever been. Does it have to be? What if I’m just writing to write? That’s fine, for me. But not if I want to survive from words, live by my pen, its birthed pages. My newest character, Ethan Martin; adjunct English Instructor, specializing in Composition, Literature, no part-time job on side. He loves working 6, 7 classes a term. His colleagues call him crazy, but he doesn’t have a choice, or care, at all. He loves arranging lectures and lessons that captivate his students. He was recently approached by a visiting Stanford Professor, one specializing in Victorian Literature. They had a glass of wine, two, three, discovered they both possessed palpable penchants for Victorian authors, and Viognier. Ethan knew he wanted to see where else his lectures could carry him, his career.

He sees himSelf in lecture mode, but on different campuses, touring with his ideas. He loves the discussion, the ideas’ transference, transcendence. Maybe this is me, or what I see as me, in one or more immediacies. Who knows.

8:57p. Bed, before long. Sipping my brother Kaz’s Stomp Merlot, 2010. The stance of this Bordeaux interpretation, even more formidably enveloping than I remember. I always ask this of Kazzy’s wines, but, how did he do this? No chemicals, predominantly neutral oak on an ’10, if not entirely neutral. Nose, herbal blueberry, blackberry; clean, distinct, cognitive. Mouth, gentle tannic tickled, wild berry, mint, maybe a phantasmic presence of cocoa powder. Finish, enigmatically resonant. It has developed, since last Sunday, distinctly. No wonder he named it “Stomp.” But curious, as it’s not annoyingly invasive with its notes, flavor chords. It haunts, pleasantly. You’ll sip again, just as I am, now. Again, once more... Pairs wonderfully with my Wine Bar beats. This is a wine I would be honored to carry in my Parisian café, not matter where located. Can’t wait to be back in the Kaz Room, come Sunday. Or “Sunday Funday,” as my brother messaged me earlier. A Human approach to wine, no ostentation. We’re not focused on “status,” at Kaz. We embrace the occasion, family, the wine. Many forget the wine, the winemaker. We don’t. I never do. Peace, readers... Pleasant evening.

12/1/2011, Thursday

32: Charged With Pinot, Prose Rime

2011-11-30T21:34:00.001-08:00

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

34/33

2011-11-29T22:09:00.001-08:00

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

35: Kaz Log, 11/27/2011

2011-11-27T22:08:00.001-08:00

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.

37/36 ...

2011-11-26T17:55:00.001-08:00

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

39/38

2011-11-26T16:08:00.001-08:00

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, 1StopWineBlogShop.com. 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

40

2011-11-23T17:37:00.001-08:00

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

41

2011-11-21T21:39:00.001-08:00

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

42: Kaz, Seasons, New Wines, Reasonings

2011-11-20T22:40:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-19T21:57:00.001-08:00

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.

[11/19/2011]

43: Merlot, Murder

2011-11-19T21:24:00.001-08:00

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

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

2011-11-18T21:26:00.001-08:00

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, yeah...me, 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

45

2011-11-17T22:30:00.001-08:00

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

2011-11-17T22:04:00.001-08:00

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.

47: Lunching on & in My Own Literature

2011-11-15T13:34:00.001-08:00

Don’t like being rushed with my writings, but at times it produces unexpected’s. All the songs playing into these phones, sending me overseas. On travel, needed exoduses, for the BOOKS. Was just writing about last night’s ’09 Pinot, from Carneros. Need to sip more Pinot. Feel like I placed mySelf in a Cabernet coffin. No, not that extreme, but along lines around there, that. Was just writing as well about this day, on which I’m paid. The Self-publishing budget cut from total. Never going back in. It belongs to vinoLit now, forever. Battery fading, on this fragile, perhaps slightly overused laptop. My little monster. So glad it’s here with me, collaborating with the mocha. The invisible aromatic coffee fog in this building, enough to make anyone not go back to work. Read, write, relax, all three. Whatever you want, I suppose. Mocha2, almost gone. How did that happen? This morning, odd shades to sun. Would have pulled over to capture a couple stills, but, had to be There. At work.

Mike looked through his old entries, with what remained of the time allocated for lunch, his break. He had 13 minutes left, yes. But he wanted 13 hours. Double. An entire week, away, just to write, like one of his former students had done. He would do that, soon. The publishing money would take all tickets, tabs. He had to make it work this time, he knew. He was out of second chances, retakes with budgets, he knew. Should he try to stop the mochas? Were they rational expenses, writing overhead? He somehow saw them warranted, managed to approve them as pen expenses till now. So, would it be foolish to stop? No more clock tick. No tocks, either. He packed his bag, frustrated, but with a mocha. Tomorrow’s cup, or cups, also approved. It was his company, right? -1:30pm

11/15/2011, Tuesday

48: Vino’s Throws2Pinot Prose

2011-11-14T21:17:00.001-08:00

Mike sipped his ’09 Carneros Burgundy, surprisingly. He wasn’t much of a Pinot pupil. But either way, it paired smoothly with the chilled beats. He didn’t want to write about his day, because, frankly, it wasn’t worth scribing. What was there to work, really? He wanted to write wine-theme paragraphs. There was no wine at his work, and he was there over eight hours, multiplied five. That was his day. Change, he entertained, soon. Sipping... A chewy slightly leathered fruit to his the present, slight spice on finish. He would love to make a Pinot, like a 60-something case project. He was positively charged, perplexed how dark it stood in that chubby stemless. The year closed around him, tomorrow as halfway point to this 11th month. “Why was time doing this?” he thought. Kelly probably didn’t care, involved in all she touches with her art, those gorgeous glasses. At least he had this time, this song, “Sunny Road” by Emiliana Torrini. His page, Pinot. Envisioning the Paris Wine Bar, he saw the character sitting down after a shift, all his employees having left. Just him, her. They promo out a bottle of 2005 Howell Mountain Cabernet. Opened, two full glasses, sips, laughs, time theirs. That’s what Mike, the author needed. More than his character.

Another Pinot gulp... Telling him how curtailed existence is. It told him stop worrying about everything, especially what surrounded him most of the week. It, entirely meaningless. That wasn’t wine. This was. The Pinot pour, the music, his prose. The peace it gave him. That was wine. If he was going to separate from the elements that him ailed, he need do it now, the wine said. “Bold Pinot,” he wrote, in the margin of the Comp book’s 24th page. Mike again poured the Pinot into his sequencing. Like a nebula’s hum, it sedated his frustration’s turbulent tremolo.

11/14/2011, Monday

50/49

2011-11-13T20:32:00.001-08:00

Mike, more than just depleted from the day. He had not a drop of motivation, inspiration to type. Even after the views to which he was exposed during the day’s assignment. He didn’t even have the energy to walk downstairs and pour himself a glass of the cuvée he brought home. That was nice of them, he thought, how the tasting Room staff let him have the practically not-at-all-poured bottle. Music on. He just listened. Closed his eyes for a couple seconds. It was Saturday night, he had to do something. But what? Call Kelly, of course. But that would be odd, right?

And tomorrow, pouring in his friend’s tasting Room. Day seven, straight. He was thankful that tomorrow was his usual Sunday at his friend’s, and nothing more. Yes, he took his duties there seriously, but not too seriously. His friend’s Room was more intent on making sure the guests had fun, that Mike stayed himself, had fun with them. If it were anything more, some position that was even the slightest bit pretentious, or scripted, Mike didn’t know what he would do. He could write about such, maybe, he thought. No. He was enjoying the laziness.

He listened to the washing machine, the laundry throw its weight in that old thing. Yet another thing to add to the “When on the NYT List” list, right after, or before, a new car, house. Freewriting, needed. He opened the blog’s document, just started typing. No money for Self-publishing, so all to the puerile wine blog. What was a “wine blog” anyway, he thought. “How does one ‘wine blog’?” Mike bored quickly with the wine blog topic. Looking at his desktop picture of France’s southern region, he was set on adventure. Whatever that meant. Sipping wines far away, writing about them, all around him, there. Nothing moved him, here, in Sonoma’s pattern, at least not lately.

10:40p. Bringing the monster downstairs, he started his night’s session, with an almost derisory dexterity. Warranted, he felt. If he didn’t see promise in his prose, who would? He typed, for the weather, the changing outside, air above unoccupied vines. A glass of the blend he took home, at left, on one of the painted coasters, boasting the scene of a black rodded table, atop it a bottle of some red, full glass, cheese, vineyard-gripped hills, distanced gently. Profile in glass: suave, direct, expansive, animated. Made him think of his wine, how he missed it. But, all he could do was wait, for ML to finish. He didn’t want to forget about Kelly, though. Was she sleeping right now, or was she at some event, showing her pieces? Mike found himself slipping from his sips of her, lessening in obsession. It disgusted him. He would re-blend his compositional cuvée.

Kelly stepped toward the shower, thinking of her day, her Now. Then, what it was only months ago, at the restaurant, taking orders, obligatorily sequencing her stepping for a flap of moronic mumbles, her “superior.” She thought about it, from time to another. But, mostly, reveled in the fact that they could order her no more. She was done with them, that place, that stench sector. She set her glass of sparkling on the counter, by the sink. She loved sipping chilled bubbles just after the temperatured lanes on her frame.

Mike clicked the monster off, into sleep mode. Sipping his blend, he ended his night, with a more forward sight, wined write light. Tomorrow, the tasting Room, the bottles, pours, guests. Characters, for the BOOKS. The cuvée, now talking with softer offers. Punching clock, out, officially, sort of.

11/12/2011, Saturday

49: Wine, Life, Writing it ALL ...

Had a plan to devote the sitting to a project, be organized with the efforts tonight. Only going to be organized, scheduled, plan in so much as I’m here, with wine, Wine Bar beats, the pen, paper, moment. Had a firm reminder today that life is shorter than anyone needs it be. So, I’m not planning, anything, anymore. I have aims, and when I get there, I get there. This ’08 Cab I opened a couple nights ago agrees, directly. Sipping slow, not in analysis, but appreciation. I’m not trying to think of how I’d market, sell, it. I don’t care. This wine, one I love, and I’m sipping, enjoying its spiritual sync with these songs.

Today at Kaz, with Kristen, Luke, Nate, just enjoying the day. Yes, work needing attention. Bottling, corking, labeling, some punchdowns. But, in total, we merely enjoyed the day, our “work.” Isn’t that how wine life, vinoLit Life, should be? I’m now sipping, quite freely, to life, coming pages, these journals that’ll give way to BOOKS. Tomorrow, a Literary Lunch, of course. But I need it different, in shape, sequence. Just saw a random highlighter on the floor. Symbol? Maybe. Not one I’m particularly fond of, as it recalls obligation’s reality. Not my space, any Autonomy. So, I move on, focusing on the wine, music.

See my character entering his café in the morning, going through mail, pouring Self a cup of coffee, reading the paper before engaging in any mandatories. He doesn’t open for four hours, so he knows he can relax, be at his own pace, at least for a little. But he wants to get ahead of schedule, fairly. He runs the glasses a couple times, dries them, wipes down the counters, sinks (which he’s particularly particular about), tastes through the wines, runs some coffee, espressos. He loves this part of the day, the tastings. The employees arrive in a couple hours. Only two of them, today, night. He then runs though some CDs, playlists on his computer, thinking of some music stretches, new ones, for his guests. Today, he thinks, more jazz co-mingled with the ambient strokes, beats. I want my character to have a different day, today. On my page. Sipping for him, his shift, his sovereignty, in his shop.

11/13/2011, Sunday

51: Cabernet, had to Play

2011-11-11T21:47:00.001-08:00

Mike didn’t have to write, but he wanted to. The email from Kelly, just over an hour ago, from Los Angeles, sent him to placidity, tranquility. Why she wasn’t calling him--she was away, selling her art. He knew he needed a sip. Celebration, or permeation, of sorts? He didn’t know. He just wanted to enjoy his night, the wine, music, thoughts of her. Tilting his glass, he thought of his wine, how it must be developing, how its artful pose would stand on palate, his especially. Smooth, convinced, coercing Cabernet, just what he wanted from the ’08 vintage. Everyone talked about 2007, almost all of his colleagues, mentors, and obviously the critics. He had enough, ’08 was his golden gate.

He was sure Kelly was doing well with her brand. His needed launching, already. A non-deliberative dive. What did he have to lose, he thought. Looking at his phone, hoping it would somehow ring. He couldn’t be up too late, as he had to pour at a new winery, early tomorrow. The Room felt uneven, probably on account he did have to wake early. Why did he do this to himself? He needed a day off, he knew. But to do what? Write, right? No, he needed some extra funds, for the Self publishing, his scribbled sessions. With another sip of the ’08 AV Cab, he fell Self-convinced there was need to fill the little black book, meant to be his winemaker journal; where he’d stuff findings, discoveries, research, observations. He still wanted to make wine, almost as bad as he needed his books out there, with every reader’s eyes that could reflectively, or even passively, casually, lazily, read. With all the wine he sold at NWG, he was positive he could sell his, better than any firm or sales serpent sect. His wine waited for him, he knew it would connect with her palate, eventually. So he needed it to deliver nothing short of effulgent song. He wanted it to be her, his wine. Soft, direct, imbricated, entreating. Sipping his wine, fantasy fold, following clouds into more titillating transitions.

11/11/2011, Friday