Posts Tagged With: Diary

4th dream sketch

Listening to music. And that’s all. Some Indonesian electronic fusion. And reading Dostoevsky, trying to understand him as others do– I’m relaxing, a day off. Of course, it’s a dream. I’m just listening to music. I put my book down. Think of Paris. It’s a dream, and with me, around me, the thought of the street and the walk down whatever street that was.. sure I remember but I don’t want to be one of those Americans that misspells it. Now a guitar, light but consistent with chords; musical all like the wine I sipped last night, what probably gave me this dream.

I lost the way to where I was going and I never have a way. Had it. Now gone.


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Work Log, 5/24/15

Up with Jack but I’m going to wait a bit to step into my novel’s area and focus. Jackie woke quite early this A.M. and I needed coffee before even touching the keys. Time I saw before going upstairs (as he again wanted to sleep with mama) was, believed, 6:04. Now the coffee and another busy day I’m quite sure ahead of me, thoughts of the novel and Mr. Massamen’s story, me having to translate, having to figure something out for him, like Kerouac down in Sur, and me here in the Autumn Walk base. How I’d love to be home for the day and just work on and in the novel, its circuitry and all the dimensions I’m maybe not seeing. it’s obvious what he wants to do, get away from the adjunct world and into wine, but he doesn’t want to stop teaching, he doesn’t even necessarily want to leave the classroom, it’s the other matters he wants not a fraction of a part of. So there you go.. I have a novel, done in my head and I just need to write it or type it here in this new house in one sitting to several cups of this breakfast roast.

Jack, coughing, not in the mood for his waffles. And he’s such a great eater and acceptor of foods, as I disclosed to some of the neighbors the other day, two of the wives. They said I should be grateful or it’s great that he’s so agreeable when it comes to food. One of the two I can’t remember I’m still waking up and I feel pressured for some reason.. well, with all the papers I have to grade of course. I’ll make a gorgeous dent on Tuesday, then enjoy the rest of my day maybe go for a run or just write from somewhere– and that’s a lesson from this novel worklog, already: don’t work on the serious projects at home.. just freewriting or small projects or poems, or other entries. There needs to be isolation with the novels, especially the Massamen work. Finish it, finish it! I tell myself, over and over, and I want to conventionally submit it, and have it read and disseminated properly, have a Tobias Wolff-type career. Just write and live from it, not have to do what I don’t want.

Back to entry. 204 words of dialogue in novel to get me to new page, page 18. So I want to set one word onto page 21 by day’s close. I’m eating J’s waffles now, as he made it clear he was in no mood for what I heated for him. He makes me laugh, walking over here to the island and saying “Oh, Daddy, you work like that?” Not sure what he meant but I laugh, and I think of his character in the novel, Jim’s son, Mike’s best friend and essential brother. Then there’s Massamen’s sister, the winemaker.. should re-read what I’ve written so far, but the two grounding characters in his life have to be his best friend, his nephew, and his sis. And Lila, his friend from undergrad, I guess. But not too many– oh, and Michael, the PhD friend of his at the JC. But expand upon the idea and concept of Mike Massamen, I tell myself. Then wine. That’s where you want him, I tell myself, and that’s where he can build. He can’t build as an adjunct. The adjunct gig is just something on the side, he realizes, and his energies are meant to be missioned in wine and its world; there’s room for growth and expansion and play, fun, learning.. it’s wine! Certainly more fun that battling with an institution and its sweeping disregard for what he and other adjuncts do.

Looking at clock expecting to see a time after 7AM, I see 6:53. So very early for the writer but not Jack, he seems quite at peace with the hour and his cartoon and not having the breakfast I heated for him. And I’m still hungry. But I need more coffee, I see that as more necessary for the writer at the moment than actual sustenance. I know that’s unhealthy and I can see Mom reading this and thinking “You should eat breakfast!” And she’s right. She’s always right, I’ve found. And that’s candor from me, not sarcasm. She’s amazing, my mother, and she sees it fitting for me the form of shorter writings, fiction and other. And again, she’s right! But it’s an apexing aim to be a novelist. Yes, I’ll still write short fiction, but I want novels– I compare it to an actor who’s harnessed somehow to TV Shows, and just wants to do film, full movies, and stay, grow in that medium.

The Massamen novel starts with him noting the significance of a single morning, and he’s eating breakfast, ironically, a breakfast sandwich of sausage and egg if I remember right, and sees something– so then, like I tell my students to expand upon singular words and ideas/concepts, I think of ‘vision’, having a vision and seeing something out there for yourself, wanting to see yourself doing something, and if you don’t know precisely what then you’re at an advantage, propelled beneficially, you have something to find and hunt. That’s how I feel this morning, this first entry of the Massamen Work Log–

Another word for expansion, for the day’s 2000+ words: tell. Massamen telling his story and his dreams, his story, and that’s all the wine industry is, and that’s what he loves about it– you don’t see that in academia, no matter how noble they say it is and how honorable it is what they’re doing or how they see themselves.. where do you go? h thinks.. with wine, with having his own label maybe some day and writing about his journey and blogging it and somehow infusing it with his favorite Literary works. Have it all come together. A blend.. see? The wine solves everything. It’s world, not so much the “industry” moiety.

There. A thousand words in the work log. Now ready to work. The novel. Here I leap…..

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At the kitchen island

on one of the stools. Needed coffee. Went upstairs to check on Alice and found Jackie in our bed– Sleeping he looked so safe next to his mother, and comfortable– the scene served its own apothegm. Now I hear someone up there stirring, who probably Jack. That wine I opened last night, not with much voice, I have to say, in that the general composition and print of the wine on my senses was rushed, minimal. But I’m spoiled now, I understand, working at Arista.

How to approach the day differently than yester’… Took some notes, but… how….. I know! Try ardently and with angry intent to speak at little as possible. Write EVERYTHING down. And I mean everything. Be a true journalist– which reminds me I need to write Dav a letter, the first in months. Need to write more letters to several people: Amber in India.. Lila, Dav as I said, Mom, Steve Gutierrez (whom if you remember is my grad school fiction instructor, I mean PROFESSOR)– he’d be a lovely character to stay communicatively harnessed to.

Breaking up my thoughts with the wine still a bit tactile in my functionality. But the coffee mends.. hoping ot reach a thousand words before Kerouac and Ms. Alice wake, but who knows, this morning if I had to use it as a barometer for how the day’s to go is metaphysically endorsing, but that’s just hyperbole– I feel quite well, and motivated, how’s that? And I’ll keep writing till I leave the property. Wanted to run after work yesterday on Westside Rd but Mom’s warning shook me and made me realize it’d be foolish execution. And this morning, no, as well, more in the mood to log this mood and momentum and think of how I want to note the day’s minutes, even seconds in my little book, the little pages of the blue-covered notebook I bought at the store by the condo castle (which is now ready to list and sell, finally, my aunt the property agent proclaiming it “looks great,” Alice told me she expressed).

Decided I don’t want an office here in home. Too many distracts and too much activity. I’m a roaming notetaker like Kerouac, like Hem in the cafés. Writing at home– well I guess I will do it more when the blog and my novels are seen by a vast audience and I can benefit from such tangibility and visual, but for now it has to be offsite as much as I can. In fact I may stay on property for a bit to write, after shift. Maybe, depends on how much the sun is hitting that deck and how carnivorous the mosquitos are– was bit more than four times, with educating depth, teaching me how persistent those little bastards really are.

sample note for day/fiction: Couple from Iowa, on honeymoon, first time to winery; “This place is so pretty. How long have you been here?” “About a month and a half.” “No I meant the winery, how long has ‘Arista’ been in business?” I feel stupid. This has already happened a couple times. This exact conversational design.


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My mood, a mood, and

I think I’m of the character type that’s flawed. What if I go outside the expected with myIMG_6336 aims, actions. When I came home today, Jackie played with our new neighbors, this one little girl, 4, driving her mechanized Jeep or SUV around the street, talking to Jackie while she navigated her ship. So grown-up, he appeared, and when he and I played basketball prior to his interaction with her, I could see him growing, becoming his own character– Time with another victory over the sensitive me, writer, and what can I do but write about it.
This Meritage from K—- helps me reason this life sequence. Again with Kerouac’s Dreams, thinking of my own, and my life and sequence and passage of all things– the students past and present, and my son and next baby– what am I doing, how will I get us ahead with this writing. Normal fatherly worries, I’m sure, but even still I’m uneasy. It must be my mood, and the Meritage talking. But I’m safe in the Autumn Walk base, and with my thoughts. It’s been well over a week since I reached out to SCC and Mendo, and nothing, not a call not an email not an update. This again reiterates and is proverbially demonstrative of their solar disregard for us, adjuncts. And to be honest, who needs them– THEM. The ‘Them’, those pigs that allot our assignments and livelihood and sustenance like it’s some bloody lottery. I know I said I’d stop talking about this but it’s more than criminal, and the adjunct that just remain quiet and follow the fold and flock only stimulate the virulency of this academic ailment. And yes, ‘academic’, meaning the students, the ones we’re meant to service and actually educate are harmed, intensively. And of course these pigs’ll have some scripted counterargument, but we’re, or at least ‘I’ am not interested anymore. Not in debate not in negotiation– I’m choosing to be vocal, to be written and heard and known as a speaker, as one speaking against this, lambasting the reality of “higher education”, only lowering the morale and path itself for both educator and matriculant. And I can see it now: “He said earlier in the entry that he’s drinking wine…” Oh yes, as I need another job to support my family as anything full-time is about as feasible as Oz, and I need a couple classes, or three, 4, to calm over 9 years of subordinate uneasiness. But I was never and am NOT subordinate! These devils will hear my furious fang milling, finally.

Huh, the revered traversings I’ve spawned about the norther parcel of the state. California. Mine. My state. MINE. From Santa Cruz to here, on Autumn Walk– Avenues and El Camino, over tracks of all complexions and codes– me with the Composition Book, in new nodes. But I’m distracted in symmetrical scope, the vocational skirmish I never wanted but now somehow have– cultural betrayal and professional pitfall. And now I have children and a wife depending on me….. Dreary, yes, but I’m Montresor, not Fortunato.


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Noir Walking

IMG_6288And in my new whirl I think of possibilities and what to build and I just think of the wine brokering notion, creative wine brokering.. and why not. All the research I’ve done and I can’t find one with a creative, engaging, even FUN edge or theme or tone to it (the collection of outfits out there). Not one.. I’m dumbfounded, frankly… No wine tonight, only a beer or two as I want to do more research and make a list of wineries I’d like to “represent” if that’s the right word– and I know it’s not as I need my entire approach to wine to be outside the box, energetic and thorough and just impassioned as no one else is, and Creative as no one else is.. visuals and descriptive prose and narrative and visual over visual. This is just the beginning– and I know, what about the novel? Well, was too busy today to give it attention.. maybe tonight. What’s on my mind now is MONEY.. supporting my family and this new Autumn Walk base.
I look at Jack playing and know I have to take this seriously, and have everything I do with wine be written and narrated and, again, convey that not just passion but FERVOR.. that devoutness in wine and its story and character and what it does to a moment.
At Arista tomorrow and am already thinking of new ways to narrate the wines, somewhat as an experiment but also to see how people react. Those wines are at the level where they more or less sell themselves but get a writer like me behind them and they can only move in mass amount. The Zins, holding a cinematic, very narrative interest for. They’ll be my focus wines for morrow. Them, and the RRV Chardonnay. Going into the day and shift with my own “campaign” motives.

And then I think, hours later, maybe this is all a novel, maybe this is all the story, and maybe I’m more Massamen than Massamen. Consumed by the thought and idea of freedom and the notion of writing my novel and actually finishing it. Having two little cinnamon buns for night’s cap, and I know I shouldn’t. Wanted to run today but had no chance.. none. Would love to run along Westside Road tomorrow after work, but it’s dangerous. But.. maybe that will motivate the writer to run better, concentrate more on form and rid myself forever of knee trouble.. again, outside the box. And run away from the box entirely.. just post everything and keep running and stay situated in wine’s eat, scribble madly and type even more madly–
Ready for bed but I don’t want to stop with these words, and the images, what I’ll see tomorrow and what I’ll taste in the wines we’re pouring. The Chardonnay, two AVA Pinots, then that Zin; that defiant and expository Zin that always says something different every time I taste it.
English 5, ending today. So much more now to grade. Not sure how long I can keep with the adjunct key-and-lock. We’ll see, and it’s hard for me to stop especially when students proclaim repeatedly how much they take away and how the literature changed their lens’ shape and intensity.

Yes I’m backing off a bit, or maybe entirely, but the fact I’m planning a novel is problematic and flawed. This journal is a novel, I just need to market it better, that’s all, truly embrace it as my brand.. have to run tomorrow, right along Westside Rd. Dodge the cars. And so what I need that danger and that dodging exercise.. remember to pack running gear, and keep writing. Glad I stopped at 2 beers, and now I have the energy and push to wake early as I did this morning. This is all a novel, this is all a story and that’s what will free me, I know it–


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New Everything

Not five oclock but close enough.. 5:41, had a thought last night before falling asleep of beating Kerouac at his speed, writing a novel faster than he did. AND, with the end of this semester is the end of many of my self defeating way when it comes to writing. One of those being blogging, to an extent, that’s why the teaching blog has to die. I will submit only pages to students, not tell them to go to some post. And with this novel I complete in TEN days, today being day one and I’ll use the 17 I have for the Massamen novel, I’ll shop it, traditionally, sending it to, yes, agents and publishers. I don’t want to but I want to play THEIR game and destroy them at it.
Fridge stopped humming, and when I push these keys it echoes in a way, the act of pushing them, you didn’t hear in the condo– got confused by the syntax of that sentence for some reason. Anyway, I’m up writing, and I think today is going to be rather magnanimous, and yes mostly with the writing but as well with meditation, just sitting and thinking (what I’ll do when back from Petaluma Campus). So quiet, and close to these other houses, or maybe it merely appears that way with all these windows. No dreams to write of, last night or this morning. I just find myself in a certain meditation, now. And what better than the first session of this kind in this new Autumn Walk house. Cleaning up this bloody laptop, using the Comp Book for novel writing, and then typing, have to plug in the printer after the internet guy comes. Want these pages printed, and no obsession over editing. I don’t have time to edit so monstrously. They get the manuscript they get. And that’s that.
Not so much wanting coffee. And I just noticed I indented in this paragraph, and I haven’t been doing that from my disgusting blog habits. The only way for me to be happy with myself as a living American writer is to print, to have books on shelves at bookstores across the country; to submit and have they say or write back or even email me a ‘yes’. Another instructor at the JC with me, Craig, a full-timer is now retiring. He’s the one who gave me a second chance and brought me back to the JC in Fall ’12, when Jackie wasn’t even a year old. Should write him a letter from the P-Campus, just let him know he’s appreciated from my corner of teaching or pedagogical efforts, of from this writing disposition, whatever I do and whatever whoever I am.
5:54AM– And that’s another thing I’ve had trouble with, or troubled myself with any idea of a novel.. that I have to have these time stamps and informational anchors as to where I am time-wise. So I’ll only do so in these worklogs or journals, and maybe sometimes in shorter pieces, but NOT in the novel. The reader needs to work hard and estimate for themselves where I am. And it saddens me, my blog, that I posted those pieces yesterday, had been thinking about doing so for DAYS prior, and now it’s done, and it’d be bloody forgotten if I weren’t such a devoted writer, that I wasn’t proud of it as I am. Going to print it, I think, and sell it of course, filling in those income gaps I mentioned in the haircut sketch. So quiet in this new house and I again think of Newness and doing things differently with the end of this semester, the end of any compromising way or habit connected with the writing. And that’s today. And that’s the novel. The long piece of quasi-fictive flexing I’m about to put out into the world and not just on some blog of mine. And my character, him wanting wine and teaching and writing and just to be himself and manytimes by himself. When watching his nephew, Jack, all the parents on his buddy’s new block appeared, their children as well, all playing while the adults socialized and chatted and tried to chat with him, but it was too much; too much activity and too much speech and too much aggression with them being “neighborly”. “I’d seen you here before with Jack but didn’t know you were Jim’s friend and Jack’s uncle…we’ve been waiting for you to join us,” one of the wives, Amanda said. It’s just not what he wants. He loves his nephew but doing that whole thing, sitting in one of those chairs on the driveway eating chips and guacamole like Amanda and that other lady did, isn’t him. He needs quiet, he needs his mind completely tethered to what he’s doing and or what he’s trying to do: LECTURE. WINE. BE the adjunct he wants to be, not the one They’d have him be.

And speaking of Jackie, I hear him coughing upstairs.. should go check on him and stop being so selfish with this sitting and how much I’m seeing and reviving myself as I’m doing with this new novel idea.
After 6, 6:04… This is when the morning starts; Jackie wakes wanting to play then Alice gets in the shower I get my coffee or try and the stress cakes itself to my mentality like that mold from the condo, disgusting.. what if I didn’t stress at all, this morning? What if I just let the Story carry me, and not me it? Light found its way to this room much faster than it did in the condo, much more a writing space for me with the wood floors, and the new bar stool Alice and I assembled last night, and that kitchen island which I decidedly adore. This is a writer’s house I know, so I need to write with more organization, less clutter and clots, more curb-appeal if you would, to use one of my aunt’s real estate terms. I’ll make it quick with the 1B meeting, then fly to the library and work on the novel.. I’ll shoot for 3 FULL pages, and not stop, stay caffeinated, and not look back, not edit obsessively or excessively.. purity like the unfind and unfiltered wines of Arista. Be the best novelist I can and show Them they have to publish my work, there’s not choice in that matter. That I will be read.

7:05 and J’s watching a cartoon, I’ve all but completely cleaned the desktop of this device, finding old writings that I’ve somewhat forgotten about. See? that’s horrible. I’ll post all of them to the blog and print a couple, TODAY, atop my noveling obligation. The morning quick, and I too quite quick. One cup down, another cued, take J to school then go straight to PC. Then start with the last word that I wrote in the Massamen piece.. and go from there. And exercise in my appreciation of singularity, this novel is, and all will boil down to–or be LCD’d to–WINE. A love for it, and an exploration of it. Not just drinking it! No.. wine is about observation and Art and growth, thought and freethinking and freedom. Not so much wine itself but the idea of wine and the atmospheric perpetuation of what wine tells– now I know, some somms will say “what the hell” or “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Well I merely consider the origin of such a remark, from a sommelier, and I stop. I approach wine as my character does, as a professor of Composition, Literature, Wring, and TRUE ideas.

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New Cask

9:18 and at the Starbucks on the old block, Yulupa.. dealing again with a mood this morning but I refuse to let it wrap me any longer, and why should I? The collection, ‘interim stratum’ was published and now I just have to push and push and push it on readers and wouldbe readers. “Keep writing,” I tell myself. I don’t have to be stressed, I don’t have to be in a mood, and I don’t have to let anyone get to me. I thrive in transparency and affairs with wine and writing and literature and my own independent thinking, and with this coffee. There’s no judgement of me here, there’s no lack of faith, only support and jazzing vibes and the ZEN I need. After this I rush to Arista to be enveloped in more Zen and beauty and Literature. I will only grow in what I want and know I did my best and those strings Emerson spoke of, being true to myself and not letting any perception of me or what I’ve never done or what I do execute on page slither to my senses, ever! And I disregard that I pocket another number, an additional age, nine days. I don’t care and others shouldn’t either, ever, and not with this one especially, pushing into the technical “late thirties..” Goddamnit, why did I write that? I just acknowledged it.
I stretch and yawn and am bored with my words already, probably from re-reading the pieces in ‘interim stratum’.. oh well. Just heard someone here, a woman waiting for her coffee say “you attract what you want to attract”. Huh, I think, unexpected counsel in this corporate coffee brothel. I sip my coffee but it’s colding, or cooling, not interested in and or my present inferno. Want to write the dream I had last night, or sketch it, no more than 250 words, short like Kerouac’s sketches, and have it be more imagist than narrative, but how do I do that? I’m an imagist writer, and narrator, so I’m a mess, Mikey-a-Mess, again. Sipping this coffee more than slow now as I need to use the washroom, but I won’t give up or stop I need to accumulate in Zen and Self in this entry and shake this mood and forget about the negative claws that follow me. Transparency, my love with writing and words and Life, the characters around me and wine.. the making of it and the story in it, not quite or empirically the wine itself or the act of drinking or tasting it– not so. In fact that’s such a minor and trivial part or experience of the experience and story OF wine. If you must know, I’ve always held that the act of drinking wine completely if not overabundantly minimizes and degrade wine. Look at all the pictures you see on social media of people DRINKING [wine], and even tasting it to bring attention to themselves, have their persona elevated so that they’re look at as some brand or icon or authority, like the sommelier movement– that is NOT for an exploration or appreciation of wine as a artful and cognitive, LIVING, entity. Rather, it’s so the sommelier can be recognized as a sommelier, or “somm”. Watch that ratsbane documentary, and you’ll see that the “somm” is more interested in their image and appearance rather than the wine. There is no respect for the wine is haphazardly drinking it, or sipping it, or even blogging about it as so many of them do.
9:31, and I’m tired of this place. My mood returns and puts me in Montresor’s mind. I fear for my writing, my character, and the characters around me, what will happen to them in the next entry…..

Whomever embarks upon my insult, will enjoy the fruition of my revenge.


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Haircut Sketch–

Haircut Writing, in “salon” if that’s what you could call this place.. “I want to be a winemaker so I can write about it.” But it’s also about a boa-constrictor-esque desire to know wine better. Busy day today with new house, cleaning condo… No time to write but now. Income gaps I noticed, also stressing the writer; paid by JC on the 10th then Arista 15th and 30th. I need writing to sell, so yes, I’m returning to idea of printing, but I need keep all costs at a low 20 pages, 20 copies, 400 pages printed so that should be well less that $100, but that’s what I’ll budget– self-publish short stories and narratives & sketches. That will, or should, fill these incomegaps, and maybe get me to my Road, my travels. Mary from K—- in Peru with her husband Greg, texting me pictures and sharing her movement through ancient landscapes and artifactual structures and ‘scapes.. making the writer more a motivated manuscript molder, bold and animalistic, but also sinking my vessel, saddening me a bit. But I hone no time for such mood even though it persists as today is the day of the Santa Cruz run, what I was waiting for forever and now it’s here and I’m not running, I’m sitting in a goddamn hair salon or whatever this is to be called, I’m not running I’m simply getting closer to 36. 12 days. That’s it. Why am I so afraid of this new death reminder? I don’t know but this haircut hut also slows and sinks and taunts me with what it sings. I just have to keep this pen in stream and aim for those Kerouac word counts for day; 2000, 3000, 3500 words. For a goddamn novel, one I can afford to print, funded by my wine media and blogging ways, efforts and visibility, my projects. Love this little tablet writing while others read these smutty gossip publications (which I almost did, but then remembered I had these little pages in my backpocket).

= Older man walks in, cane, almost circus-like striped pants; 80s I’m guessing. Reminded again as my soul takes a spill that I age and I need to move quicker. Words & wine & work! Truthful & fervent work!

= Are people looking at me? Thinking, “What the hell is he doing? What is he writing?”

12:36PM; Chaos unpacking boxes from garage and Jack more than full of energy, got coffee on way home, grande medium roast, the mocha from earlier and its 3 shots worn off, so I need more energy with what’s at plate’s knock, present, so what now– more sips, keep up with electric motioned reality going on around me, move move move!


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Today, wine. All of it. Wine.

Research tastings with a co-worker then the pouring at Honor Mansion to Mom and Dad’s and pairing that Pinot with mom’s crustless quiche. It was all about wine, and how wine finds food and the unintended notes in whatever dish is called. Wine. All of it. And I know my label is close, starting small, a barrel this semester– I mean vintage, then more in ’16. Just grow. And grow quick. Want to write a short piece, fiction, this evening but I merely want to relax, unwind and detach with this nightcap, the Racer 5, over there by the sink. Cajoling myself to early wakeup, somehow. But HOW. Yes.. set my alarm? But I should sleep as late as possible since I have to be at the winery at 9:30, for the club event. So I’ll be waking early in any case.. so I fall asleep thinking about wine, my wine, the future wines I’m to make and how I’ll write about them. Thought quite a bit today about what varietals I want to start with, and I’ve settle on 2 of the initial 3 (which were SB, Syrah, Cab): SB, MERLOT, Cabernet/Cabernet-centered blend. And I want people to walk into the Room that first day and only see me, me the only one pouring MY wines… And hours, maybe 11-5, to start anyway. And no club, just an allocation enclave list like Arista. The whole wine club ideology has never settled well with me, ever. And my business plan, at first I guess, is just to sell the wine. Set some aside for library, some for first list members, then the rest to just SELL. This vintage, ’15, will be my last “training vintage”. I’ll talk to Mark tomorrow about getting some Cab.. a little over a ton, maybe a ton and a half. If were in a hotel somewhere, right now, on some writing or wine or winemaking trip, I’d sip something red and just think, maybe take a couple notes but many times I find it more benefits the writer to just think, live, and not write.

I remember the visual from today, out tasting and visiting the neighboring wineries. And now I’m stuck, like a tricky fermentation. I can’t move, I can’t write, I can only imagine my wine being bottled and waiting till the shock wears off, when I can finally taste it, pour it for guests, or family, or anyone. Wine.. stay centered in the wine, I tell myself, and making it, and pouring it for someone, a bunch of someones, and tell them I made it, that I wrote the “tasting notes”, that I wrote the “philosophy”, that I did everything, that I have no team (I can’t afford a team)… I’m walking in and around and about the wine, and what it says; the wine and I create concertedly.
So.. bed. Yes, again.. thinking of the Road, what I’ll see, and it’s with wine that invite, not the adjunct circle and pattern, that adapted death. Wine is about life and living and living madly.. so that I follow. And forever. Now I can sleep.

And my frustration mounts. And I’m not sure with what. Waiting, with time, not sure– So much still in garage, in boxes.. had to open the ’13 KB Pinot Michael gave me when we tasted from barrels. Had some notes scribbled today from event, from the moving of inventory to the bottle selection being poured for members, to food pairings.. all. Have three books at right, FINALLY. Why did I let them rest in box for so long? In that garage, which actually has quite the appealing dimensional outlay, narrow and not too stretched.. love the workbench Dad laid out, set for the writer son of his.. and my mood persists, and I don’t know why.. had a great lovely enriching day at the winery, and now I’m sullen, sour, sulked. And why. WHY! Have to think ‘Wellness’, and calm, find that Equilibrium.. Plath’s ‘Jar’ also in this stack I pulled.. then ‘Book of Dreams’ by Kerouac. And the Kerouac journal entries, did I mention that? Ugh this mood– what do I do? Hate the sound of TV and any sound right now.. need to look inwardly, and know again what I want. Wine, wine.. what to do with it, well develop my own label yes but something else. I mean, okay.. you make wine and sell it. So what. What else is there for Mike Madigan and his relationship with wine? Wine needs to quiet itself for now, or not, I don’t know.. again, I’m in a mood. And I hate this mood. I can barely push the keys. And this isn’t what wine’s supposed to evoke, or promote, slightly or evenly boldly stroke.
And the novel. God. fucking. damnit. When will it be done?? I need to have some pages, a towering colossal stack of, and submit them to some publisher, or self-publish– or should I type SELF. pub. lish. I’m just playing with emphasis now, but my mood curves my concentration. Have I had too much wine? No. Wish I DID. I’d have more, as my mood I’m sure would be more stratospheric. And the winemaking, when the fruit comes in, what I’ll feel and what I’ll see– the life in the bin, the grapes in, within, the future wine that’ll be sipped, all the frenzy of harvest. Soon, soon..
The reality show my wife watches, sickening. I love Ms. Alice, she’s one of the only ideas centering me and Zenning my inner-Rattler, but the reality show she screens is a mental contagion. I just have to note that, I won’t try to talk her out of her shows, I just want it noted. Noted– reality shows, is that “reality”? Tell me how it is. All the drama, and all the confession and exploitation. I’m getting ascetic with my session.. all published or printed or to blog posted.
I want to submit one of those dinosauric novels that barely fit into a to-go bag. In being severe, or more dire in my journal practice, I need to wake earlier, and run more. Just had my last sip of wine for the eve.
I want to know what it’s like to finish a book. To finish. Press ‘Print’ for the final page. Finish. A. Book. I will. Imagine the freedom that will brandish and antagonize. No more moods. No more constriction and no more noise.
While riding on the bed of that flat trailer (not sure what it’s called, what we put all the leftover wine inventory from the event, and bottles dead, poured), I had that inner-narration, looking at the trees and the other co-workers on the trailer with me, Ben driving the tractor and the time of day, just where I was driving back to the pavilion, watching the birds fly around the residence on property and the Pinot block to the right, just the moment– wish I could have recorded or written the narrative, but I knew I could and the fact I couldn’t, I recall, was part of the inner-monologue itself. Not sure if it taught me anything specific, there was simply something about that ride back to the event space that shouted for narrative initiation.
Reading this first entry from Mr. Kerouac, he writes “…art is work — what work!” And that’s all I want to do, I realized yesterday, tasting from winery to winery with Tome, that my ART needs to be my work, my job, what I do for revenue and what I do to support this new house; how I want Jack to see me and how I want him to mention me to his friends and his teachers and anyone that sees him. What will he see and feel when he reads this later in life, when he’s 19, or 20, or whenever. What if my novel, the one I finish, is the selected text in his English class, college? Every time ‘Jack’ is mentioned in Mr. Massamen’s narrative I’m sure he’ll roll his eyes, or look down. But he shouldn’t. He should smile, and know that he’s so very much beyond my perceptive abilities. Smarter than me, plainly. But in the Massamen novels, or books, or whatever they are when I actually finish them, he’s his (Mr. Massamen’s) nephew. And I’m sure Jack might wonder why I element’d the book so, but it won’t matter. It’s not the actual, but the fictive, and that’s what he should focus on, the derivative of reality that finds its way to page.

As a writer and diarist, I see my Self becoming more organized in fair. The book, or its possibility sends me, describes and narrates me, the actual narrator which I find confusing and confounding but I’m coercively concluded with my own sentences.. no exclusion of elements, like when I narrated to self on that trailer while others just talked– oh how I wish you could have heard what I to myself told, reader. My plan now after today’s sight: write, fly, land. WRITE. FLY. LAND. And I know just what I want, like Montresor, and I will have it, and yes it’s a bit of revenge, just a taste, but the ‘just’ is all I’m for fixed.

Categories: interim stratum (collected writings by mike madigan) | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

5/18/15: Term’s End, Again

And what to do but to prep for the last early wakeup, at least for a 7AM 1A, that I’ll ever again hold or have to meet. Stressed again today about money and the teaching assignments but I put my mind in that state, in that box, “Only look for two,” I tell and remind myself. After class, run, the write, then get stuff done around this new house then meet Dad either here or at his house, can’t remember. No wine tonight, a break so the early rise won’t affect me even microscopically. As well tomorrow, post the pieces selected to blog….. Or don’t… Hmmm…….. Print them. But that’s going to cost the writer I can’t, what I’ll do is keep better inventory of what I post so I can repost and market my writings more influentially and affirmatively, effectively. So no printing, not for any near time, anyway. Wish I could, but no.. and I need to write more of those pages for my own joy, as JK ordered.
Painting the cupboard in the condo’s kitchen with Katie, she moving the brush with such precision and interest and myself as well more into the work than I thought I’d be, pretending I was a painter, that my grandfather’s nuclei were mine, that I could create with color, something visual and tangible, something to sell. But no, Mike Madigan’s only a writer– and professor. And on such, I need some prompt for tomorrow, even though technically I’m only picking up their final submissions. But I want to leave them with SOME thoughts, some walk-away-with’s, something. I don’t want to dismiss tomorrow, just throw it away. So… a word, a quote, a 15-minute writing, then adjourn.
Looking forward to my morning run, but a bit terrified– or not ‘terrified’ but nervous. The knee, left, what does it want to do? How will it treat me? Just want between 3 & 5 miles, and that’s all. If I make it to 2.5, no pain, I’ll turn right around. Then when home, 50 pushups. Want to do 100/day, everyday for the rest of my life.. my journey to total Wellness starts tomorrow whether I complete my run or not. I don’t consider myself a “lifestyle blogger”, or even a ‘wellness blogger’, but both my wellness and pursuit of and the lifestyle that precipitates will be a more emphasized synthesis of my writings, my work logs if you will.
Getting tired, should take an Aleve, start my regiment to battle this knee matter… There, started, this shows I’m serious about my morrow’s run, and I took the pill with some of Jackie’s healthy gummy fruit snacks.. a positive as I was tempted to have another of those cinnamon mini-rolls I had this A.M. with my coffee. My pride is a bit bizarre and immature I guess, but I thought I should note it, as it is a technical step towards this Wellness, my new lifestyle, and the mental will as well be addressed and included. How, I’ll see, but always focusing on the Literary and written and story intuitiveness of things, people and object, scenes. On my run tomorrow morning, whether I finish or not, I will think about where I am in life, tomorrow just ten days from my 36th. Only two classes, and you’ll keep getting two, far as I know, so that’s secure, and the wine possibilities will only increase and surround me further– I enjoy and embrace the reaction from visitors with which I build a short communication, when I tell them teach and work in wine’s encasing.. “Wow that’s cool!” Or, “So you have a pretty fun work life,” someone recently told me. The teaching facet won’t build, but the wine and writing will, then the lecturing opportunities charge at me, from Stanford and Yale, Harvard, Colombia, and who knows where else; on Literature, the Beats, Writing, Theory, Wine, Writing about Wine Creatively.. I know what to do tomorrow, ask the students to ask themselves what is they truly want, and maybe one day, maybe, they’ll think of old Mike Madigan… They’ll think of Mike. Madigan. Or maybe they won’t. I can’t think about it. I can only teach. Or try. I won’t let worry sewer my thinking and my pursuit of Wellness. In twelve hours, I’ll be done with my run attempt. I don’t want it just an attempt. I want to run. So why don’t I.

And now that I’m here in the adjunct office, trying desperately to wake up with this coffee I feel renewed knowing that the term’s over. AND, that I only need these two classes here at SRJC.. I’ve thought this thought before but never with this calmness, never with this sight and scope, a common understanding if you will. Stressing out over more classes is just what gives ‘They’ the edge over us and that power that I always cite. But no more.. when home, after run, I’m going to look into selling wine through my bottledaux blog and by other means.. the moving of bottles will get me closer to wine and closer to the collective story of wine and with this writer, the writing, writing while sipping wine which I plan to do tonight, to possibly one of the Arista Pinots I took home from the event. Already gifted one to Mom and Dad (the RRV).
Appeared my laptop too was tiring. So now plugged in. Ugh.. don’t know if I’ve been this tired all semester. Why today? Why now, right now, just bloody before I retrieve final submissions. Still have to plan, find the quote and word, but I know what they’ll write, the last page in their semester’s story. So this is mine, then, this sitting in this adjunct office with my coffee and listening to the cleaning crew, a very nice group of Eritrean men that I see everymorning, then the other adjunct on the opposite side of wall left: cough, sneeze, sniffle, noseblow, cough….. I’m starting to wake, alongside the laptop.. coffee and composition and my juxtaposition of philosophies therein, of. My lesson plan for morning and plan for day and how to get even further into stories, and not just of wine and Arista but everything and everyone around me. A second winemaker with whom I’m trying to arrange an interview/meeting as I did with Michael, not showing promptness or respect to my curiosity, which irks me as Michael Browne, far more known and noted than either of the other two, was more than prompt, more than respectful, getting back to me in under an hour to an email I sent form the Arista TR. I don’t get some people in the wine industry and its world, with their inwardly endowed heliocentricity, as I told my sister last night, or early evening as we smattered gently and her artfully the white coat to the cupboards in the kitchen. She said something like “Yeah, well that’s just the wine industry, you know…” And this is Katie, a professional winemaker at one of the most known producers in Napa or Sonoma. But I onward push and into the stories like it’s a huge Dante page and I’m not fazed or even touched by the orange and red blazing blaze.
6:19. I’ll start planning in 10. So.. the term’s end, finally, today’s a final that I won’t be giving, as I don’t believe in them and why should I? ‘Cause They tell me to? Not so, no go; me fast, and the rest of these suits so slow. I’m here for the students, not to ensure or uphold or support policy. I know what benefits the students, I’ve been teaching now for over 9 years, and if any of Them, the ‘They’, doubt me, then I go off an’ lecture independently, which I’m aiming to do anyway so… Topic next: coffee, composition, my lunch with Dwight today at Palooza. Been months. Huh… I remember my sessions in the loft, how I looked forward to them, getting away from K—- and relaxing with my own thoughts, producing cascading pages and reactions to what’s around me, what happening that day, my office which Jeff the owner supported. Me, the writer, just needing an ‘away’. Feel like that winery never happened, almost, like I never had to deal with their ideological filth and bullying, and now I see working at Arista that THAT place had nothing to do with wine, AT ALL. Or at least not my thought expectations– it’s a glorified supermarket, just a retail parloring whorehouse where wine is sold. There is no emphasis on growth, wine education, nothing, nothing like at Arista– We never did the blind tastings that we do with Mark and Ben.. no eagerness, no passion, no shared vision. Everything at that Kenwood Reich tower was meetings and meetings and closed doors and demonstrative communication aversion, and fear. Fear, which just before the year’s turn, I decided not to buy into. They didn’t like that, they didn’t appreciate that I valued my own thoughts and identity and formed a relationship with their wines and wine intrinsically that had nothing to do with them. I don’t know, maybe I hurt them somehow, maybe they felt left out. Me, victory, too bad.
I stretch, and realize that this day is for me and the writing, my story and my consanguinity with wine, wines. So much to look forward to with the condo near its leave from our lives and the establishment of the Autumn Walk Empire… And not that I’m looking to expand but– Well, yes I am! Both my writing and my ideas and my family by one and my collective and creative character; maybe sooner than I think buy a farm or some property somewhere in Oregon, maybe Sisters.. of how prodigious and promised that is! A 20-something acre farm, where I go out to the barn to write, to the upper level (loft new), look down at my children playing with the goats or dogs, and simply enjoy, live and write what I see, all from family– we’d go back to the Autumn Walk base in about two weeks, flying out of Redmond Airport as I used to when I was younger, visiting Steve & Linda. Been thinking a lot about them lately, how I miss them and how I’d just relish writing from that deck, at their house in the middle of truly nowhere looking up at the Sisters Mountains and listening to wind rush through those rock formations, tree, and through the innate forest channels.
6:33.. three past deadline.. but so what.. no I shouldn’t like that.. pretend this is the first day of the semester. No, don’t stress yourself that way, just start noting.. okay word for day..
Done. Ready. And I feel tired again. Goddamnit. Thinking of Arista and the porch front and the view and the coupe times I escaped outside yesterday for some air. And that air, feeing, instructional, and encouraging. And how I react to wine, follow through with that, of course I say to myself why wouldn’t I, the whole vinoLit ideology and practice.. whatif I tire of it again, as I did a couple years ago? I won’t. I can’t, not with all I have at stake and with the rise of the Autumn Walk Empire I’m leading.. one of Art, Zen, Wellness, Writing and poetry and fiction and narrative….. My heart and what’s in it, those iron strings Emersonian ordering me to trust myself. And I will. I finally do. Trying to reach the bottom of this page and I hope I will just focus on the semester and the 1A lecture I’m about to give, the last of the 1A series and what’s ahead for me today: the run, the lunch with Dwight, the publishing of the standalone pieces I’ve typed over the last couple days (and written! That hair salon sketch…). All Zen and Well about me this morning, finally, now that I’m awake and sightly, phantasm in my prose and notings and with my ecumenical edge, changing my atmosphere and cosmology immediately.. thought thought thoughts! As Dad has always encouraged of me.. these Chairs and Deans and Trustee stormtroopers have no echo in my halls, nothing.. I only see stories and more writing and more wines to sip and reflect, and this vintage make! Oh how it feels to finally be so alive, just before 36, and so what, “36”… Who says I have to even mind that number or any associated notion? What if I just enjoy the celebratory aspect, the actual ‘birth day’?

Categories: interim stratum (collected writings by mike madigan) | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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