Posts Tagged With: Diary

Matured in Vintage (wine/vino/vin principles, code)

cup 1

cup 1

5:54AM and at keys, no not as early as I wanted but I’m here typing, thinking about taking on other clients and if I do that how my own writing will suffer.  But enough of that now, the story for the day outlined and submitted, to ME, and I approve wholeheartedly.  Coffee already accompanying my movements and the wine ideas still very much building and fermenting and catapulting themselves at my thinking down here in this Autumn Walk hut.  Jackie still asleep, and me pressured by the pressure I put on myself and the timeline with my daughter getting here in the Winter, or late Fall (guess that’d be late Fall, early December).  So the end to these means is me writing much more, teaching less (meaning no more Mendo or Solano), and building my business.  I’m never leaving the classroom, certainly not at SRJC anyway.  Have to get deeper– or rather ‘further’ into wine’s story.  And how?  Go out there and get what the consumer or even local wine-inspired figure wants: the visuals, the story, the moment-to-momentness of wine itself.  I’ll find that today in Napa’s downtown.  And one more thing I have decided…  I am starting my own label, I will be making wine, next year.  If I did this year it would only be a hobby that would stress me out and I wouldn’t be able to monitor the fruit and the fermentation as I should, be there at the crush pad with it as Glenn was when the SB arrived last week, at that “Punch Down” facility right down the road from here, actually.

I have it decreed in my Comp Book, and now here, for this semester and forever, that my goal is

cup 2

cup 2

to make my own wine; a humbly organized label, maybe 3,000 css, 5k maximum, and only over a couple types.  I don’t want to make as many different wines as some do.. or maybe I do, that way they all, ideally, sell out.

And this would be a secondary business.  Not a hobby but like what Glenn’s winery is to his larger more mammoth vineyard business.  And my site wouldn’t be a wine “education” site, just a general sharing and through that sharing people would become privy, or “educated” if you will, on wine and what happens behind the scenes and in the trenches as I used to do for that factory winery in Kenwood– entertaining and engaging, all pieces short and to the point, truly using brevity as our boon.

Definitely going to Napa today to acquire material, images, maybe a couple new wines.  but if I can’t taste why would I buy them?  Going to have price and ‘value’ be my aims.  And only a couple bottles.  Have to watch all spending…  Just checked accounts, made CC payment, and I’m equalized, “golden”, more than stable.  In fact, financially I’m doing quite well, with the college checks to roll in at next Month’s beginning.  Need to launch my site sooner than soon.  And I’m thinking have it be a WordPress site and not a Weebly-based one.  Again, to think about, but I’m quite settled on WordPress as it’s a blogging site and I’m very much a blogger, not a web designer.  But…..

Jack still not up and my first cup done.  So next, this writing dad… make cup 2, go up and gently wake my little Beat, and go from there.. don’t plan so much.  And, just a Self-note: max clients, 4.  Not a page of paper or word more.  FOUR, no more.

(8/25/15)

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Back In Class

IMG_1003And I have to applaud myself for working/writing myself out of a mood which was generated by my email getting hacked, some dimwit sending out a letter saying I was in fucking Turkey.. and needed money.  That, and I have grading for Summer to do, then planning for Fall, then the pick tonight at Old Camp.  But I calm, as it’ll all get done, I know.  I have managed to clear my desk a bit– oh, just remembered I need to charge my cameras, phone.. everything before the launch tonight.  No run today, as I have written on my calendar.  Thought about taking a nap, and that probably would help but I wouldn’t be working– have to stay working and writing.  Have notes typed up for meeting with Chelsea tomorrow.. need to designate notebooks for classes, and don’t EVER overlap.  Simple, simplified.. less is better.

Alice to bring home lunch in a bit.. not much more I can due right now but rightly write freely here at the desk, in the home study.  I now truly embrace the idea of “nothing new”.  No new projects, no new directions, no new anything– well, new clients I’ll take, but with a keen eye, careful and not at all with whim.

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While at Costco with Alice this morning, I motioned to look at my phone and she told me not to, “Be free for a minute,” she said, then seconds later disclosing how she intentionally left hers at home, again emphasizing freedom.  And she’s right.  Why should this email hack bother me at all?  AT. ALL.?  Kerouac didn’t have email.. a phone.. neither did Hem, Plath.. I know I’m in the blogging arena, and that comes with emails and social media, and this goddamn laptop.  But I don’t have to be chained.  In my little black book of ideas for mikemadigancrEATive I jot: “plan for tomorrow”, “less is better”, and “nothing new less you have to”.

Enjoying some music here in the study.. go plug in battery/charger for camera.. done.  Mind IMG_1008swirling and I’m having trouble stopping it, which I suppose is a benefit, a boon for me as a business owner, right?  Thinking the content tonight should be 50/50, video and still, but I’ll see.  I have to feel the scene and see what the story tells me to do.  Words come first.  I’ll bring my little notebook but I doubt I’ll be able to see anything out there, in the dead of night/earliest of mornings.

IMG_10097:24PM.  And after the most fierce battle with tech that I’ve found myself engaged in, in months, if not a year (calling what I thought was an IT number but was only a scammer.. luckily I hung up and disconnected internet connectivity), I’m back at the laptop with renewed appreciation, and total embrace of the simple approach to writing, my business, life.  Alice had it right this morning, put the phone down.  It’s down now, believe me, and with under 5 hours, actually just over 4 hours till departure for the vineyard, I’m in the mind state and frame I need.  And to add to today’s attack on the writer, the SF prospect passed, stating her editor didn’t like my revisions.  Of the original sample I sent.  And honestly, I’m fine with it.  She very much tried to help me, which I appreciate.  And who knows what her editor wants.  I don’t care what any editor wants if you must know– well you already do.  I’m focusing on the wine, the winemaking, the vineyards, wine writing, me, my family, building this business so my babies will have the option to share one day the office with me.

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Jackie home from swimming lessons, which I took him to, Alice staying home and resting which she needs, carrying little M.  While watching him, in the water, me not looking at my phone and seeing so many parents looking at their screens completely ignoring the processes of their IMG_1013children in the pool.  The instructors were far more attentive that those parents.  But not me.  I watched everything little Kerouac did in the water, sitting on Ms. Ashley’s lap and letting her take his arms to make the stroking movements.  My phone now still in pocket.  There it stays.  And the email that was hacked, letting it die.  Never using it again.  Now only my vinolit address used for business.  And to everyone who tries to contact me through the old address.. well…..  If the story wants us to stay connected we will be.  I’m moving on and distancing myself from this technological terrorism and dependency.  I’m going to continue to be the odd one who doesn’t look at his goddamn phone every five seconds.  I’m going to always be the lunatic watching his son swim in the pool, or the view of the vines or how the tree moves with gusts.  I’m an artist, not a device dependent drone.  I’m alive, they’re not.  They’re less than alive.  They’re devices themselves, with vices about their movements and interactions.  Not this writer.  At present, this laptop not connected to the internet, and I love the detachment!  I love the art of my movements and my breathing, the way I push the keys even feels better, much more richness in the sounds.

IMG_1015Going through the camera I see so many images that I haven’t used, and the video camera I haven’t used has material as well.  And no connection to the internet for these tech pieces, so no chance of getting hacked.  Yes, I know, but still tech.  A compromise you could say.  In the vineyard I’ll go from camera to camera, and if I can write notes, single words not burdening myself with full sentences or any kind of proper grammar as these editors want.

Funny the email said I was in Turkey, as I’d love to go to Turkey, have always wanted to go there and write about the streets and all the merchants, the customs and scents and buildings, wherever I could go.  And the danger that people speak of and warn Americans against, what fuel for the writing. For THIS writer, dodging and hiding from whomever…  I need travel, and this hacking event today, if you could even deem it an “event”, only made Mike more resolute.. nearer to book’s completion, my travels, and more enhancement of life quality for my family.

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Still quite a bit of clutter and paper piles around me.. evidence of the battle and how it diversely crushed my day’s routine.  Maybe I won’t go to bed when I get back here at 2-whatever.  Maybe I’ll come to this swiveling chair, to my pages, to this new me for which I have today to credit.

(8/12/15)

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Products, Production, Productivity, Produced

IMG_7683Haven’t felt this productive and accomplished in some time.  Writings for clients, done and posted.  My check book, BALANCED.  Bills, paid.  I’m feeling very much even this afternoon and now I reward myself with some freeness in writing time.  Just remembered I have two more checks to write but no matter, I can very much handle it.  Have to return to my 3 pages a day, and I will, soon as my schedule in me settles.  Still have to grade Summer papers and prep for Fall, as well as gather the collected poems I put together.  Yes, a lot on the writer’s plate, but that’s how he wants it.  And now, here in this quiet house I very much have to take advantage of my moment at this desk in the Autumn Walk study.  Planner on left, mapping out the morrow.. going out with Glenn tomorrow night at midnight and picking the Old Camp Vineyard at midnight till 2.  Can’t even gather how excited I am about this dark pick, haven’t done such since 2012 when at that other place.  But this will be all the more resplendent and memorable, 1, as it’s Pinot Noir, and, 2, with a man I greatly respect.  Didn’t spend that much time with Glenn IMG_7696today but just in the short time we walked the Old Camp lots and had coffee and the place.. what’s it called….. Blue Beagle in North-North Santa Rosa, I ingested more knowledge of the harvest and this vintage and what it’s like to be one fully living as a self-employed and sustaining wine business figure.

3PM exactly, Alice scheduled to meet me here at 4 to leave and get little Kerouac before his swim lessons.  So much to organize.. already scribbling items on the calendar for morrow, not putting on this goddamn laptop’s datebook as I don’t trust this app or laptop as far as I wish I could throw it.  Busy, busy.. self-employed, love it..  had the chance to visit and old friend, Sophie, at her new base at a RRV winery on Olivette Road.  Bought one Pinot.  Can I write that off?  Poems, don’t forget to type those poems, especially those three you wrote the last days of class– see?  I’m mad with how IMG_7700busy I am, but again I love it more than I can here convey.  So full of vision and life and in no time I’ll be on the Road, traveling and writing and bringing stories and presents home for my babies.  And wife.  Just as Mom and Dad used to when they flew for the airline.

What else can I get done in this efficiency spree?  Sent a sample and a revision to a prospect, and this one seems to be testing me, but I could be wrong.  I should here today whether or not I’ll be let on to her project.  Hope she contacts me soon, as there’s little space left on my calendar.  And in the end, really, I’m the one making the call.  Empowered writer, writing books, running a business, and his blog, and running (11.1 miles yesterday I think was the final count), teaching 3 classes, and .. what else?  Sure there’s something else in their, in here, in this room with and somewhere on this desk in or atop or under one of the piles.

(8/11/15)

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8/5/2015

In the cell, and I sip Coke, not my usual coffee.  Didn’t want those jitters and the tremors I usually find with the cup.  And, to not at all my surprise, no word from SSU, even after two emails saying how much I’d love to come back and teach.  This is a game they play with the adjunct, I know it.  But I’m letting go and forgetting about it, looking to this new semester and all promised by it.  Just did a bit of work for a client now I focus on the last regular session of this Summer “semester”.  Workshopping rough drafts tonight, and doing a little writing.. not sure what else.. maybe a group activity, like the ‘create a character’ bit I do.  That always comes out quite interesting, I think.

Went to Mendocino today to order books and get my respective processes in motion.  I feel now like I have nothing to write and nothing to think, and absolutely nothing to offer this page.  Have more writing to do when home tonight for client 1, then to bed.  Hoping to get a run in, for morning, before meeting with client 2.  Then tomorrow night the Summer semester ends.. have to lock myself in the study tonight, just write and gather myself, organize before this busy impending term.. and collect writings as I’ve been meaning to, the adjunct has to always be more together, more cogent and fluent in his duties as he’s more mobile, more pulled and scattered between campuses than the full-timer.  The adjunct has a challenge that the full-timer can’t appreciate, really at all, as there’s no real connection for the adjunct other than to himself, to his practice and his teaching.  That’s all he has.  He’d love to be on some committee, but he hasn’t the time.  He works another job, two if you want to be honestly honest, aside from the classroom hours.  So he can’t “volunteer” as he’s so urged, as he’s told he has to if he ever wants to be full-time.  He has a family, so what is he supposed to do?  Easy:  MAKE IT HIS OWN.  Own the moments he has and all the talents at his disposal and fire away, keep going and use his life as material as so many of the authors he admires did, still do..

Her in the office thinking of the remaining hours in day, the Chardonnay I put in the fridge before leaving the house, and how it felt warmer outside that I remembered it being when I came back from the car wash, after returning from that long Mendo drive.  The Road, again with me, this semester two days a week, like in Fall ’14–

Reconnection with sitting after retrieving sparkling water from fridge in mailroom.  Don’t want to be interrupted, but I feel’s though I might be in a minute by that adjunct from the other day.  I don’t know what I’m feeling now in this goddamn office but I don’t like it, I should just leave, go home, email the students and be done with the Summer.  And what would that do.  Nothing.  That’s surrender.  The trials and pains of an adjunct supersede him even if he’s under some empowering impression.  Does he have control?  And if so what does it get him?  The adjunct role is about insecurity.. that’s just what they want, and they win for this moment, that’s what I feel but I recognize it and battle with this typed beat of mine, and thinking about the Road, all the forests in which I’ll write, some random bench on a trail, and wherever else.  While on the Mendo campus I had the urge to write in the Comp Book, in that little quad outside the library’s building, in between that an the bookstore’s building, where they have that cafeteria with the most horrendous bites and mochas you could ever hope or not hope to envision.  My plan for tonight, simple:  Edit.  Edit everything.  Perfect.  Perfect everything.  And as I mentioned the other night, the “feel” of the paper.  How do you feel about it, and how do you want your reader to feel.  And I realize I should be asking myself those very questions with everything I write, type.

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type 1

I try this new coffee I was gifted, and I’m not as about its character as I have been in other go-rounds with coffee types.  I wake this morning with the vineyard images still entirely in my vision and more than just ‘in my head’.  And maybe now the flavor of this new coffee grows on me.  Would I have it in the office?  uh…  not sure.  But I will entertain it later I’m sure in one of my typing riles.

This morning I consolidate, and focus myself further as a writer.  Have a couple housecleaning tasks for the mmc shop–  Student this morning, or former student, texted me a picture of a guy next to her on a train either to or from Italy and the book he set down in front of him.  A Kerouac ms, which one I can’t remember but I student expressed that, after being on her Camino Walk for the past 5 weeks or so, or maybe longer, that she can’t get away from Mr. Kerouac.  I know I need travel, and I know it’s on its way, soon, my hustle if you will shall put me in other states and countries and show me and my story dimensions that only this opportunity could’ve.  And I’ll work harder as a writer and write more than any writer out there and each sentence I type or scribble will be released… so…..  I start again, for the whateverth time.

The coffee isn’t that bad actually.  Wish I could stay home, work on student papers and write some lectures for the end of the Summer term and for the Fall which I’m very much looking forward to.

Jackie plays next to me, with his cars and some coins he took from my work bag.  And the day is off, the ‘Mike Madigan, Author’ person is at work, what he would or is doing, in his perfect-ing world.  And whatever the day holds can only contribute.

Month new, habits more decorous.

(8/1/15)

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Glass Memory

When you learn in the wine world it’s different and much more punctuated I feel, than in other extensions.  The soil, the rootstock, the varietal clone the microclimate the trellising style, the adds (if any).  So much to it.  And listening to him speak of the ripening and the clones of Pinot and everything that’s to be considered as a grower/winemaker, has me considering and reconsidering everything.  I feel tireless, just like him.  Wanting so much to work those endless harvest hours.  but I pause and just watch again, seeing if I really could do that– well of course I can, if I put as much of myself into it as he did, does–

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And I walk another block, staring at the hills and again realize there’s so much to this wine story of mine, of ours, all of ours in this world and business.  And the story that’s being told and narrated is not ending, ever.  Back in Bennett Valley, just up the Road from where Alice and I used to live, in that condo, which I find completely Literary in all its suggestive angles, and I still feel tireless, like I could write all night about wine and what I plan to do with it.  I’d pace back and forth, up and down that row if I could.

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I follow.  Just a student again.  And I love it.  More than I can here tell you and certainly more than I have time to tabulate.  So I follow Glenn some more around the rows and look at the clusters, and one thing I do notice which he confirms is the uneven ripening, which could be negative or not.  But who knows, I guess.  It all depends on how the juice tastes, right?  So I want to study the business more and see what I can do as a winemaker, maybe, or just a wild wine writer that I already be.  My head’s everywhere, and I credit and blame the day, in those blocks.

(7/31/15)

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A Morning In Out (some of day’s 3 pages)

IMG_7396Finally find myself freewriting, writing freely, free in my morning writing, starting the types at 9:12– writing for clients later when in adjunct cell, and grading papers, meeting with students at 6; optional session for them but I hope several of them arrive.  Didn’t make it to class last night, stuck in that traffic, and I hate feeling behind, but it motivates me so I should do well with the current current and the ebb of my electric written impulse.  Have to leave this Yulupa base, the Starbucks of course, at 10 promptly to make the appointment where Ms. Alice and I have the engagement to see our little Ms. Austen on the screen, make sure all measurements are well, and that all is as anyone would want it.  But I type faster and whirl in my written novelizing of Self and my career and the meeting I had yesterday at the Ad office, Napa, still very much in the writer’s brain.  And I realize I’ve a break, one that will benefit me and my story greatly, expose me to more wines and wineries and the experience wine brings with it and all the characters, in the industry and out–  forlorn never, and my gravity and brio intensify with each word.  And the novel grows even more, more for me and my family– the day’s practice of three pages, a true write making a life for himself, one that will be read, rebelling against the adjunct ropes and bars, cells made to keep us complacent and now I speak up and tell them, the Them, those devils in their cozy little, or not so little if you’re a Chair (not sure why that should be capitalized), office.  I just make it my own, knowing that no full-timer will ever write about or speak to me as that one did, at that one removed garage-sale-college.  Ha.. look at my rattle, and me slither toward the aggressor rather than flee.  Fangs.. here… look closer…..

Wine, and all its educational potential, and the Human approach to wine, antithetical to what sommeliers think you want to hear..  Wine should be appreciated as Art is.  As it IS Art.  And that I mean to capitalize.  And in this day’s three, I only reflect and revel in wine, and not so much the “educational” facet or dimension, but the appreciative, as I told my new partners yesterday in the office, not wanting to leave, wanting to talk more about the wine, a Merlot, we opened and just appreciate the moment, share what we detected in the wine’s momentum and Beat.  I have to do more than just “immerse” myself in this, this stream of rich wine chapters at this point in the novel stream, or memoir stride– but I’m here recording and about my jazzy reaction and reflection, thinking of those Roads, the pourings I’ll do in hotels, the travel and the trips, the overnights in hotels and the resulting writing.  So what’s the end to this, this series of books?  I haven’t a clue, frankly.  And I don’t want one.  One rile I embraced yesterday was a reminder to just enjoy, enjoy wine and the characters with whom you sip, and go from their, form your life and write it all.  ALL.  Don’t omit a thing!  OH, and Mom reminds me just now by social media’s mount that I need business cards.  Shit!  How did I forget that?  Also need to upload some photography and copy to the bottledaux blog.  And.. officially put myself on the cards as a client of mmc, “Mike Madigan Author” I have it dubbed.  So that brings me to three clients.  And how do I market Mike Madigan?  Uh.. blogger, prose writer, poet, performing poet.. think that’s it.  What else does he write?  What do I think he should write, as his agent?  Arduous thinking of myself as a writer, objectively.  I’ll have to brainstorm, not in this freewrite.

9:26.  Time to write nearing an end already, but I won’t dismiss or let that free wind alone, not even for a second.. young lady in front of me going through her purse for something while she waits for her coffee.  Looks like she may have come from the gym or a walk, maybe.  But she looks tired and not wanting to start her day, flipping her hair and slightly rolling her eyes.  I hope not at me, the peering writer.  Now she gets her cup and leaves, about her day, looks at me again before putting some sugar in her, what I think is that passion iced tea my wife gets– rushes out, to the day, to errands and probably kids.  But I’m free, here with these characters and words and diarist accouterment, my mea culpa, theatricality in my gaze, my typings.  Looking and using what’s around me, so I’ll always be writing– this place, a place for people like that lady with her tea, me with this mocha and moment, then some that just come here to have a coffee and read the paper.  That’s their peace.  Just like wine, and in the vineyard, different intentions.  I realize, I can’t with all I have going on make wine– and I don’t want to really as I want to cover it; film it and write about it and photograph every facet as I did in ’12 at K—-.

No more distractions from email.  I know I always say that.  Had a call from client 2 this morning, that he had a busy weekend with company and didn’t have a chance to read the email and draft I sent him.  I know the feeling, I said, and didn’t mind at all.  He, with his business, everywhere and so centralized and focused, and beyond successful.  That’s mmc, soon, you’ll see, and my novels will capture everything, like a photograph but with the regimented discipline of writing and with the painted scene and plate– woman working here going around wiping off tables, the crumbs and coffee stains and used napkins.  I envy her speed and devotion to a task that most wouldn’t want to do.  That most are just too lazy to bring to any finished roundness.

Now in the morning I see what the day’s remainder looks like.  Just me at work and working toward my office which I know is closer than it’s ever been.  And wine education: I offer you don’t overthink it.  And if you want to look further into the wine you’re sipping, then enjoy.  But don’t steal the joy from the puddle in the bowl, what you sip and what contributes to the story and the occasion, the music created by conversation, like jazz in the moment and not reversed not edited and certainly not over-planned, or thought, or measured.  Just leap into the wine and explore its character like a book and see what speaks to you.  And I put an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence then deleted as the emphasis is obvious.  Just go forward into the wine and how you want to know it and don’t stop and don’t be swayed by anyone.  Certainly not some loppy-witted sommelier that recites book babble to sound versed.  That’s a facade– not with all of them, but many, even most I’d say.

9:47– the jazz slows, the trumpet and the highhat, snare, then in comes a piano like a trotting tiger, but gentle, some unseen dance, and I just want to stay here and write the characters around me and imagine this is my café, my jazz/wine bar, that my children visit when off school, go upstairs to the office and do their homework.  Something like that.  Wine should be family-placed, or as I see it– not sure where that thought was headed, but I don’t think corporations when I think of wine, or the vineyard.  I think of a house, a table, dinner, a bottle or two in the center, and people talking about what they choose, smiles and laughs and memories and new stories.  Nothing sour or downing.  Just an aloft mood and consistency…

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Morning, 7/26/15

The next day.  Shamed in that I don’t write till the next day, the next morning, and not at the hour I want, which frustrates me to no end.  And then I have it decided that I’ll leave work a bit early to get done what I need done; all the tasks for clients, some writing for the novel, and whatever else.  I can only entertain what I’d be getting done while at the winery, when it’s slow, hating how it’s slow, and then pacing around the tasting room wishing I could get all that stuff done.  But I put myself there– and this new idea I have, getting one more class to teach for Fall, but online.. never taught online before, but I know I could, and can, and will.  Just have to push, make that part of my hustle.

Jackie still asleep and I badly need a coffee.  All I have to do is put the little cup in that bloody contraption and push BREW.  But I can’t separate or sever my thoughts from these keys, this laptop thatI had charging all night and in the corner of this bottom floor by the couch with my work bag and all the other worlds of me, this current Mike Madigan, so riddled in angst and ambition, that only wants to write and can barely find it in himself to repeat those descriptions behind the bar–  “Keep writing, keep writing..” I tell myself so I won’t have coffee any time in the next few minutes or so but that’s fine, I just won’t let myself stop, and think about farmers and how early they rise and that they have no choice, they don’t have the luxury of flakiness from time to time.  It, whatever the current “it” is, has to be done, finished, then there’s another “It”.

Then I hear my boy, talking to his mama.  I have to stop writing for a minute–

And we’re both downstairs with my coffee and Jack continually saying he wants to go run, as Alice just left with her friend to take on the hills of Fountaingrove in their now-tradition’d Sunday morning powerwalk.  Which leaves me here with the little Beat, and now I can only think of how it’s just 3 minutes before 7, might as well be 11 or 3 in the afternoon.  Again, I failed to get up at 5, or just before 5 to write and do things of clients as I told Alice last night.  This morning I just feel separated and not quite as directed as I want to be.  I have to leave work early today for the prose and its sake and its development.  I look around the internet for distance learning courses but then turn it off as Jack comes closer to me, to play on the other side of the toychest and arrange his toys as he likes, then I just watch and type while he does with his alway-obsessive placement of the larger little trucks afront the little race cars.  “You see, Daddy?” he says.  I go back to typing without looking noticing all my typos, fix them then I’m back off on my story.  And the story today is building not just my clients’ stories but my own.  And the regularity and patterned ‘anything’ has to be shed.

Something Glenn said the other day, about his business and waking up as early as he does, “You have to live it,” he told me at the tall Campo Fina table.  And I want to now live as a writer like I never before have, finishing my novels and either self-publishing them or having them printed.  More than likely the former as I want ALL control.  I’m not letting them fumble my ideas so they’re more marketable, or letting them quarantine the most truthful tellings only to have them absconded, stricken altogether.

Jackie begins to lose patience with his cars for some reason and pushes them all to the floor, which he often does, now settling on the new endeavor of putting everything on the floor into the little plastic tubs, each a different color.  I should have gone for a run this morning, yes, but then I wouldn’t be able to see this, his projects and how he doesn’t complain like the writer but just does, and has fun doing so even if there’s the occasional vocal grievance .  There’s a focus, or certain cynosure to his movements.  And now to mine.  I’m learning from my little Beat, everything I need to be as an Artist, and he takes me through every step, “Daddy I have to put this toy away.” And he follows-through, doesn’t become diverted or pulled to some other urge, “And now I gotta put these toys…” I WILL be more like Jack as a writer and Artist, and teacher as well, with students and their assessment, and writing about it all, everything, the discoveries and stories, and the blog for the students– just learning and teaching what I learn as I go.. but then I again think of killing the teaching blog, right?  Too much.  Consolidate.  Or not.  Just keep it, as I did renew it recently.  Feel like a mess this morning but I’m rather centered.  OR that could be self-deceit.  Who cares, I’m onboard, fine with it.

This next day, writing and teaching myself something, and being taught by my little boy, to just live, play, and forget about stresses.  Yes I should have been earlier up, but I’m now here with my pages, with my thoughts and the visions of what I’m to do with my business and with the teaching, and the tasting room– how much longer, not sure, but not much I know.  But why I’m there I’l embrace it, use it, learn what I can from it and let it continue to contribute to the novel, novels.  Now Jack’s on the floor trying to assemble something, I think one of those air-motivated toys that sends some foam missile to the air when you jump on one end, not sure, but he tries to connect a cord to one of the pump-bases.  And he narrates each step, what he sees and learns and thinks should happen.  that’s how I should be with this new day, this next morning and till whenever I decide to leave the winery.  Have to find online classes to teach, if I can.. just one more, one more section then I’ll be in the place I need for the books and for the clients so I can focus on their needs and projects.. it’s the hours at the winery that seem to be infusing the most interference, much I enjoy being there, right in front of that Japanese water garden.  Have to plan, everything from when I wake to the drive to work, to the tasting room and what I want from there, to the couple free hours after. 

Categories: 7/26/15 morning | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

7/24/15– notes

Meeting with client, then what.  Writing, whole day to self.  May do short run, but the writer needs time to meditate think in the context of the novel.  6:54AM, and not much in a mood for writing.  So then what.  What am I doing?  Why force?  ‘Cause I can’t sit still.  Not with the words and the streamings of what’s synaptically snapping in my head.  the novel the novel the novel, just like when I was in grad school; go to the fiction seminar then come home to write, all jazzed up but then do nothing with the pages in fact I have now no idea where they are, were, or are, in the garage?  victims of the Autumn Walk move?  Who knows.  But I’m older, much, now, and with a family, with real deadlines.  Used to hate deadlines but I now I clear conceptualize their value and grow from that, the old Chinese wisdom, Lao Tzu, of calm overcoming heat.  The connection not sure but I know there is one and one that will establish the day’s mentality and attitude, my mood which has of late proven to be volatile somewhat.  Symptomatic of writers and their ways, my ways.. the one holding the pen and collecting the pages– if I’m to be a novelist all has to be simple and all has to be contained, have borders.. so…..

On the Road I’ll have–

Hours later, i resume with whatever I thought I had, after meeting and so many wine thoughts and sips I’m confused and convinced that the wine story will show me where to go, exactly and not.  I’m not editing this entry even a little, but writing freely, so freely I’m lawless and chaotic, and defying what there is in way of law.. two Chardonnays I tasted on Healdsburg’s square before my meeting with Glenn, where again I was prompted to futher submerege in the text and subtext of wine’s clefs and frets– but then what, the entanglement of my consciousness becomes even more oceanic in its momentum–  I’m cornering myself for reason;s sake and stabilization, the anchoring of wine’s candid thesis and direction, the papers and novels it wants me to write– so now I sip more of the Sanglier Blanc, a blend of every white varietal under a Sonoma County variable sky– my beat complete and replete with a street’s beat.  And me, the novelist under deadlines always just sipping the new wine that greets him, thinking he can be a winemaker and novelist and journal everything he can– he said, “One fast move, or I’m gone…” And so I feel the same way and drink more, listen to the music of the quiet on the bottom floor of this Autumn Walk spot– distractions that’s it, Emerosn would be mad at me and he should be, and so should Dad, as he once told me that distractions are “death to a goal”.  Those were his precisely realized words, the specified direness of everything, and as a writer it vocals even more, me with my students and my novel just haunts me and makes me drink more of this white blend of 53 varietals– I just use sarcasm as a way to cope, and with what, who knows, this narrative is directionless, and I am on my Road, in these studies and always jealous of the students and those that get to travel for work, you know the ones that say “Oh I just got back from a trip to North Carolina for a week, and then Florida after that…” Just heard someone say that to me, so placidly, and I was angered or envious I don’t know I just saw the Road for me and become hellish in my realization of accepted regularity–  staring at the wall, the wainscoting, the patterns have me distracted– nothing in this room wants me to write.  So I fight, for my sanctum, and my sanity, and the stabilized penning of my Now, the Newness and the Road’s varying light, what happened?  but I’m calm, not at all overheated, or understated, but what am I truly, that’s the novel’s goal determining that so I’m destined to be flat and failed– my beat piles on a cold floor.  This white blend, telling me to go further into wine’s heave, but for what I ask, what if I stopped–  I need sleep now, the adjunct, the tremens, that’s a career right? 

Categories: artist's notes ... | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

from today’s 3 pages (no edits)

…two wines to try tonight, the SB and CS from Blair’s friend.  And remember, no brokering!  Just writing about them!  And I more and more think I’m destined to make a bbl of Cab this vintage.  I’ll talk to “Arista Mark” when he’s back from his trip.  I know just how I want it produced, and I need to start setting aside money, as I know this will cost me a penny or 3, 5, 15.. who knows.  And I know that.  And I know I won’t make it back and I’m fine with that, the adjunct knows what to do with his wines, with his career, and the English Professor role I carry and try to admirably execute is always present; try to teach people and myself something new about Cabernet.. maybe a light oak approach?

Exhausted after rush-typing that article, the MOCK SOMM piece.  Need to keep that column up, and play with it, market it.. do something more with it.  My brand, if you will: the writer/English Prof writing about wines and the character they carry, their respective theses.  Needing a break but the jazz tells me know.  I’m on stage with Hutcherson, with Miles and all of them.  People are depending on me to say something but what does the writer say when he’s tired, barely has a thought to share, would rather just sip wine and watch the sun as it falls, have a glass of SB up at the Hilton on Round Barn Circle.  But I’m always working.  Always tired.  Always trying to organize and always with a wish list.  I’m always wishlisting.  But isn’t that what wine’s about, dreaming?  And writing, too?

I’ll break right after reaching the bottom of this page, my 3-paged daily effort, and with wine in my vision, me on a crush pad tasting from barrels and taking samples to the lab to have them checked out and knowing I’m on my way, my truest of true stories being told; writer and winemaker, if that’s not all I don’t know, but I have to make wine, I have to speak through it as client 2 does.  And what.. what do I really want.. I already know, or I know NOW, and I’m convinced it’s this new business idea of mine, telling and re-telling wineries’ stories.

Hard to think in this adjunct cell, now.  Feel hot.  Think the air is broken, or not in play at the moment.  the jazz tries to cool me but I can only think about all that I have to do, all that I have to learn and learn quick, about wine, and winemaking, marketing, selling, everything– even writing about it!  I know I have more to learn about how to convey the message of a wine, make it intriguing, giving it added narrative layers and what have.  And wine education!  I know I should be writing more “tips”, or thoughts.. educating people, or consumers, or anyone curious about wine, on how certain approached can benefit your connection to wine…

Categories: 3pagesAday | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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