Posts Tagged With: Freewriting

1,000 words — barrel 7

Up at 4:53 but went back to sleep, now 6:06 and I refuse to let my head touch that pillow after bringing Jack to our bed.  Downstairs now in this dark and I’m set on making today one of writing and content and money– yes, ‘money’.  I need to fill these income gaps as I’ve said and produce more money for myself, more importantly my family.  Writer dilemma, here in the earliest of morning, or not the earliest the earliest would have been at 5.  Was so close, but I’m here now, reader.  Writing.  And the day, the day is right there, and I’m in control as I noted last night, as I thought last night driving home from Mendocino, before being accosted by that CHP officer (he telling me to slow down, which I did otherwise there was no way he could have come to my window to tell me the obvious, the the road crew was working and that it’s a bloody mess on the road, 101, and that ‘we’re all gonna get through this’).  “What?” I thought.  I pity him, his life, what he was out there doing, after our lovely interaction, his invisibly pushing people onward with his flashlight.  That’s his job, when I’m sure all he wanted to do is being a real police officer, not a glorified hall monitor, patrolling California Highways.  Neither there, nor here, or anything of importance.. I’m here on this couch and I hear Alice wake or at the least stir, probably toward the shower as she always does, leaving Jack in our bed but I can’t imagine him staying too still, me having just brought him to our bed and him asking last night “Where’s daddy…Where’s Dada?” Alice told me.  I don’t mind this sitting being interrupt at all really, as I’m just warming up as a writer, this is my meditation, my inner collection and warmup exercises I guess you could say.

Meeting Glenn at Punchdown at 9:30– have to charge phone, and camera, need a new notebook, or no I don’t I’ll just use the Fall ’15 one.  Week 10, dead.  Thank the Craft, onward now, onward into my wined story and growth, and that ‘end game’ as Kevin said.  Which is, I think, my own wine.  And I’ve held that vision for some time now, truly, so that has to be it.  Something has to be IT, right?  I’m 36 with a daughter headed straight for me.  Yes.. the model of the big ad/media/blogging/content company then the side project, the “passion project” (hate that, yes too cliché, but that’s just what it is).  My winery.  Starting with SB, Merlot, as you know, and then maybe jumping into Syrah which I love and perhaps even Pinot, or some Rhône blend, some Rhône-something.  Wine’s a path to just be walked and enjoyed, not over-thought.  I’m in control.  And I don’t know why, I have to again note, this is hitting me at 36, such realization.  Why did I have to wait till now?

6:09AM, Friday, but it’s hard to see Friday like normal people, esp people who don’t write or blog ‘cause we’re always working.  Content is everything to us; life and family, and me now with this “daddy blog” idea, or startup– no, just a blog now, maybe it’ll turn into another “startup” like the vvv idea, but I want to explore and share, and LEARN from and TEACH MYSELF, and maybe others though I’m hardly an authority, on parenting.  How Jack, and soon Ms. Emma (whom I still call Ms. Austen, even though the ‘Jane camp’ is long, long gone– when there were so many potential names for my daughter I called them camps; the Jane camp, Emily camp, Emma camp, Catherine Elizabeth camp…)…  Just parenting I find so interesting now, and this is a direct extension and demonstrative of who I am and how I think, as a professor, yes, just more so one from the Literary world and seeing everything differently, processing life as an Artist, one with an ever accumulating book and journal.

The white wine I opened last night, an unlabeled bottle of the Cuvée Blanc from Glenn’s label.  Nice fruit, simple but not too.. just the type of white you open at the end of a long day, which I very much did, in fact I even thought of how I’d reward myself with that bottle, a couple glasses, last night.  And I can remember precisely when: walking from my car to the building where they have me in another goddamn adjunct office, shared obviously, crossing the street to the building, in that crosswalk, a car waiting for my self-removal from street, to my right.  And there I was last night at the kitchen island eating the salmon Ms. Alice had waiting for me, that little pasta with cheese & broccoli (which we call Jackie pasta as he used to love it, not so much anymore, which is another interesting reflective province of parenting– keeping some sort of reasonable, non-frustrating pace with their preferences).  Little Kerouac’s not too bad, but who knows what Ms. Austen has planned.  And speaking of Jane.. and books…..  Think I’ll order some today– no, have to get through the ones I have here on my desk, my reading list which includes that new Kerouac book which I’ve barely touched (‘Sea/Brother’).  And as I pity that hallway supervisor last night on 101 South, I as well some adjuncts that are convinced it’ll get better, that they’ll be tenured when clearly the system has no plan of that for them.  And why should it be about Them having a plan for Us?  Why can’t WE have more control?  “You need to be more involved,” one person told me, but it’s unpaid involvement.  With a house, and another Madigan about to land, that’s unreasonable of anyone to as THIS Madigan.  I need pay, and I need more, and I’m in control with my projects and writing and blogging so don’t worry…  I’ll get it myself.


Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

2,000 words — barrel 5 (sample)

…be a tourist since I’m not traveling right now and it seems like everyone else is–  Mom and Dad in Munich, or they should be by now.  Neither of them write, really, but I hope they at the very least document their trip beyond the expected couple’s shots around the city, or on some river boat, at the table in a restaurant, and what be.  And they will.  I know my parents and I know they are familiar with the value of adequately capturing Life.  55 days till Emma’s landing.. till I’m bloody done with this semester, or at least in my head..  Then, it’s over.  This adjunct usualness.  The pattern the chase and this goddamn drive.  I would organize more and start some rebellion or movement, but for what?  I’m just moving on.. just moving on, on past the deans and the chairs, the full-timers and full-time adjuncts that still hope somehow that it will all work out, that one day they’ll be tenured– and why.  No.  I’m moving, in wine’s story and soon to my pages, around the country and around the world, meeting Mom and Dad in Munich, or Paris, Madrid.. everywhere.  Today, I travel to the Square and truly, wholly put myself in the tourist’s shoes.. walking around with that awe, that wonder with wine that I do myself have but not like someone from, say, Iowa, that’s never been here, that’s never walked around the square, that’s never worked at a winery, that’s never stopped into the Swiss Hotel for a beer– now there’s an idea!  No, have to be on the job, and like Hemingway no drinking while writing, not anymore, and like Kerouac ‘no getting drunk outside my house’.  Not that I have any sight of intoxicating to that or any degree, but I’m a tourist.  That’s the point.  I’m going on a trip for, I don’t know.. say… 90 minutes.  If I leave campus at 1:30, I should be parked and walking by 2:20, latest latest.  Should get a little note pad– no, just use the “FALL 2015 Comp Book”.. yes, so I just dodged an expense.  Look for wines and shops, food especially.. now I see more content and stories in food and little restaurants and eateries, especially the ones you can’t easily from the street see.  Doing something with bank accounts.. hold please…..  There.  $5 to credit card.  I’m going to pay that bitch down, off, done and gone one way or some other.  Selling my writing, the poems (due 10/29, a Thursday, my busiest day type this term).  Material material, all around me..  But I’m so lively and wonderfully scattered and only thinking about my wine story, this new ME that I can barely focus.  Not getting more coffee although it would be interesting to see what I type in terms of the characters around me and in my character with more fuel, nearing some intoxication or safe buzz from espresso, or that medium Roast–

Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

1,000 words — barrel 1

Starting with yesterday now, Friday, as I had no time to type yesterday except for in the adjunct hole– immediately after class heading to car but when to wrong lot.  Parked in the spaces opposite side of Solano’s campus.. too much here to explain and far too boring to recount for me so I move.  Move on–  All day yesterday thinking of myself as a wine grape, and vine, and winemaker, budgeting time in my head as I couldn’t scribble while driving, and smelling ferm’ the whole way on 12, nearly.. nearing 3PM I had to decide what to eat, and I didn’t want to ingest any poison from the corporate fastfood dragons as I’ve shamefully done a couple times in weeks recent.. so I stopped at the Safeway on 4th, ordered a turkey&cheddar on soft roll– they didn’t have soft rolls, so then sourdough rolls.  No– “Do you have sliced sourdough?” She grumpily slugged to the other side of the counter, in back by a small fridge, she found some atop, held them, the bagged slices, up saying nothing.  “Great,” I said.  Got to my parked car in shade and devoured it– didn’t get a Coke as I thought of doing but rather a water, holding myself to the recent declaration and affirmation of getting back into running shape.  Finished sandwich, wondering what else the day’s story would tell me as a winemaker, grape or vine– time budget but not too planned, stay poetic and artful and whimsical, let no outside plans or forces fragment your fortitude.  Wanted so bad to call the 200 Mendo class, but no, I stayed on 101 North and again in Geyserville smelled the fermentation but this time with some exponent to it, it was speaking directly to my receptors, telling me to drive on deeper into the wine world and don’t stop, don’t change your vision or direction, to intensify my momentum and don’t secondguess yourself or you’ll never make wine, or write, like my sister said..the day now evermore speaks to me, yesterday the 15th, the Ides of October, it’s midpoint where I gather and inventory and see jazz in the bare vines where so many see desolation and the grapes’ absences, I see promise and new chapters, a finished novel, or memoir, a capture or literary leaps from the soil and the winemakers that translate.  And in class, once finally on campus I exploded with offerings and ideas from Plath’s Jar’d pages, her character Esther in all her emotions and struggles and emotional struggles, I realized that I onward trot in my reflective vineyard Literary lots– memoirs, short fiction novels poetry essay sketch or vignette, it’s all there for me to write.  And driving home, that cruel and challenging Mendocino dark, 101 South, I pretended I was Dad, flying over the North Atlantic after fueling the Passat and rewarding myself and my performance in class with a Dr. Pepper.  And the drive, not as bad as I remember, as it has been I should say the past few times with the nervousness and the closecalls and the lights blinding me and me steering in guess, hoping I stay on the bloody road.  And once in Cloverdale, I could relax (and after a traffic buildup from a flagger, result of a repaving construction project which I get but nonetheless a pain for the Beat adjunct who just wants to get home), sip the Road soda and enjoy my flight.  All yesterday, interesting with the grading in the adjunct hole, the run-in with that staring Math “professor”, the walk in the vineyard before I even really started the Solano drive, and all the meditation on my drives–  I know Plath felt this at so many points in her life, if she were going the right way, at the right speed, and when would the fruit come.  Winemakers are all Plathian in their professional movement, not so much secondguessing Selves but still wrapped in their calculations, and wonderings, wanderings through barrels and which chapters, or lots, best together blend.  But they stay tireless and keep with their aims and visions of the chapters, all the elements accosting them romantically and mythologically, the kalology of that palatable manuscript, vocality for a year and speaking for and to their reactions to conditions.  I want to be one of them and I will–  I already am, seeing each of my classes as a barrel, and this semester a blend, and which barrels do what to the pervasion of the story and the point being made by my typed efforts– all written and all meditated, thought over and under and diagonally with intensity I’ve never felt since now I see and feel the deadline, my daughter here in 59 days.

At the Hopper coffee spot, I sip from a 4 shot bomb and I need it, get these words on yesterday to the screen as it’s been stressing or at the very least perplexing me as to why I can’t detach from the scenes from yesterday glued to the walls of my cogitation.  Some weird writer syndrome I guess.  Tonight I’m planning on opening something but I’m not sure what.  Maybe I should go by bottle barn or– no, save money for writing projects.. but I need material!  NO, save money.  Wine writers can never have enough wine, one mentality, while the other, this current ME, says “there’s gottabe something in the cellar, something you haven’t tried before, something new, something for this YOU.  Save you money for Self-publishing, the business, the expansion.” Later today we have family pictures taken at St. Francis, one of their vineyards, as we did last year, and I know I’ll want to take pictures, or even write but won’t be able to like the drive yesterday but if it sticks as yesterday did, does, then it’s meant to be in prose.

This new character I’m thinking of…  How to carve, craft– compose.  She doesn’t drink wine.  In fact, she doesn’t drink anything, but rather paints, sells her work.  Similar to an old character I used to write, but different.  I need wine to think outside this box I’m now in, I’m thinking as freely as I should be I know even with these four shots of espresso but I’m trying, trying, she walks into her studio and looks at all her materials, all the blank canvases and knows she has to fill them, but how and with what.  That Artist question–  And her name her name what.


Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

entry you me now

A Big Daddy IPA as the night’s cap, knowing Week 9 tomorrow initiates, and I can’t hold myself much longer till the term’s close comes.  More new ideas with my entrepreneurial urges and new tendencies– tonight I’m here in my home office much pretending I’m in the Healdsburg office, eventual, looking out the window typing my new book and realizing I’m here, there, here, where I need to be to provide from my pages to my family– and I have only wine and its world, and its industry I once hated but now embrace as I’ve made it my own to thank.  This is an interesting time for the Beat writer, how he sees everything and how he knows he’s on the path to winemaker, his own small label– the Merlot and the SB, backwards and forwards, listening to Hutcherson and Monk, starting out my window.  Time for lunch so I go to ‘the Goat’ to get one of those sandwiches they do, if they have any left or just get another coffee and write for an hour there in my Comp Book then walk back to office to type.

Healdsburg is my Sonoma Paris.  I found that in my character while walking down that wide alley to Center Street (I think) to Bravas, to have a beer after another day in the Sanglier tasting Room.

10:02.  I know I should be readying for bed but my thinking’s in the know, knowing it has me and all my functionality.  Not going to state here how I hope I wake tomorrow in enough time to write at 5AM but I just did so I know it’s jinxed, hexed from a devilish hymn– if only if only, what is me with my travel fantasies, from here to Chicago like my winemaker friend David (Napa), traveling to Chicago, then Sanglier Scott headed to Florida tomorrow morning, quite early, headed to Florida for some wine dinners and pourings and sales missions.  Why am I not doing that?  A better question: why am I waiting?  Why don’t I just make that be the currency?  Indeed.  So I intensify everything to a stunning degree and BPM.  Music again, everything, and nothing too rehearsed or thought-out or edited. 

I should consider food more, what I eat and where I eat and turn it, every meal, into content, and I could blend this, yes a pun, with my new fitness and workout efforts; tracking what I allow into my character’s circuitry and how I allow everything to be more balanced, if that makes any sense and I’m not sure it does.  Should ready for bed, this writer, and write letters to Dav, and other friends that claim they write– but why.  None of them can keep up with me.  Even Paula, an old friend, expressed in a message today that she wished she could “move as quick” as me with vocables, images and expressions.  She’s giving me far too much laud, but even still it feels planetary being so acknowledged a writer, a Beat.  Bed nears, and my patience with the semester is queered.  But what can I do but behave, be a good adjunct and do my job.  Till I’m making my wine, that is. 

Alice goes upstairs, I say goodnight and tell here I’l soon be up but I don’t know if that’s true as I’m in a certain literary film tonight with my recall of day and my wined dreams, and last night sipping the Devil Proof with Mom and Dad, then the Lancaster ’11.  Wine is every turn and cliff in my story and all skies, rise and tries.

Books all around me, a picture of Jack on the day he was born, in the hospital being held by Alice’s mother–  And I know, think, appreciate and wonder at, “3 years ago.. no, more…” How?  Time with its evil intent, making us all age and move on.. Grandma telling me before she died, “It’s YOUR life. You have YOUR choice.” Echo, echo…  And I have to act if I’m to see the world and write about it, taste wines in Italy and France, return to my Paris.

And I find myself being distracted by life.  By messages and moments, the papers I have to grade, this empty IPA bottle left, the little horizontal slices of the street I can barely view through the blinds– the fan in Jackie’s room I can hear from my chair here, that picture again of Jack on top of my Fall ’15 Comp Book (the book I’m supposed to be writing over this semester before my daughter arrives but I’ve been very much slippin’, to use Godfather talk).  I’m a mess this evening, frankly, but one beautiful, one confident, not caring about what happens in the morrow hours as I know what will happen.  I’ll wake whenever, have of course the poet’s coffee, the write a bit, ready Jack for school take him to school then come back and ready the papers for passback.  Then.. write, on this blog and in the book, finish the poems gathering.. be more and more a writer.

The quiet of this home office, making me think I’m in a hotel room while on the Road on some book tour, having to lecture tomorrow about wine or writing or writing about wine but I don’t care I pour myself another glass and write in the Comp Book, notes, not full sentences but singular words, thoughts, expressions and impulses.  I’ll go to bed thinking of my lecture, what I’ll say and the next city I’ll visit.  I’ll talk about words and there expansive qualities with wine, and how wine is a story, it IS literature, telling us something about its creator and what we’re to do after experiencing it, like after reading a text.. the author wants us to do what?  Nearly where I want to be, actuality and paginatedly.  Still hear Jack’s room’s fan, and Alice upstairs, slight sniffle.  Life moves far too quick, and I keep thinking of my babies one day reading this in college, or something I write, wrote, about drinking wine and the life and voice, narrative I find in it. 

And then what–

Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

MOCK SOMM: Taft Street Winery, Alexander Valley, Merlot, 2012

IMG_8603Usually I wait till the next day to write a reaction to a wine that catches me, but this one I have to write in the moment.  Never heard of this producer before but found it at a local wine shop and since my penchant for Merlot is always a-bubble, I bought it.  Opened it just before dinner letting it breathe for not that long.  I was looking for candor, true truth of Merlot and that’s what I found, a certain whirling and whimsical honesty in the wine and what it noted for my senses.  Purest texture and potent palate, from front to summation with darker fruit that you may expect, but maybe that’s the Alexander Valley talon landing.  Either way I’m smitten and swayed by its sequencing.  The type of Merlot that has me remembering travel and a more imaginative me.  And this Merlot does offer what I look for– unique varietal translation and a certain stubborn echo at sip’s close (what most would simplify and dumb to “finish”).

Everyone who knows me knows I want to get back to making wine, and Merlot is the varietal that coerced me to wine’s curve, and I’ve never backward stepped. So I dance forward and jig with this bottle’s janiform song.  Its complimentary duplicity in form and and palate is precisely what punctuates its uniqueness.  I’ll go back to that store, obviously, and walk with a few more bottles.  I measure with the structure of the nose and mid of this Merlot crafting it’ll go at least 7 years.  But there’s no possibility of any wine with this tier of strenuous orchestration lasting so long in my writing base.  So I pour myself another glass and don’t overthink it, and see what new chords the wine wants to play for me.

MM 92

Categories: MOCK SOMM | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Sipping Beatific Beats

IMG_8199For some reason, hot downstairs in the Autumn Walk castle.. and me, I’m writing freely sipping a red blend from someone I appreciate and study and admire.  The whole day, today, my mood volatile.  The papers already stacking, part of the reason.  So I.. needing some reasoning in this, focus on wine, the story and how I want to write it and eventually make it.  The story of wine and, whatever I can think of.  I think I’ve reached the extent of what I can take on in terms of projects so I now I begin this great consolidation, an act I’ve been entertaining and writing about for years, but now it’s necessitated by all I’ve taken on.. Solano and Mendo.. why.. to stay out of the tasting room?  I don’t know, but I–  Nevermind.  Soon I’ll have my night’s cap and just meditate.  Going to throw away what I can and let projects come to fruition as they want.  And I won’t let myself get distracted from my perfect world vision.. the readers and viewers are the only ones I need please.. with this new startup, the ‘3v’ project I’m codifiedly calling it.

This wine reminds me of some of the bottles I sipped in France, at that little bistro just down theIMG_8196 street from the hotel, Le Petit Journal– god I hate this anxious feeling right now.  Must be the heat of the house or something.  Need another glass of the red to calm me so I can think.  I obviously have accepted too much into this semester’s docket.  Living from my freewrites, about wine, and the startup idea, sharing photos and wine information and language about wine, and notes, thoughts.. but NO scores!  This will be a human/non-critical site.  For true wine embrace and centeredness.  I look left, to the floor where all my adjunct articles, be it papers or documents or syllabi, and wonder how I’d feel if it were completely gone, that was filtered out of my life.  No teaching?  Yes.  For a bit.  Just writing.  Walking from the car and into Whole Foods I thought of blogging, and writing and blogging about wine, and about Life, on this blog and this new site, and wonder if I could make it IMG_8148work, if I could gather enough a readership materialize a different life for my family and I.  I will.  I have to.  The wine will make it so and my story and trek to making my own wine.  I know that’s where I’m headed, getting positive feedback even from the two wines I made in ’12 with Blair.  I will make wine, and I will have my own room, but by appointment only.  Sorry.  Just being open to the public I feel makes you like a deli, or a hardware store– no, not to say that all wineries or tasting rooms that are open in door-philosophy are, just–  I don’t know what I’m saying.  Just poured my night’s capping and I’m relaxed.  I deserve this moment, thinking about my wine and the winemaking philosophy I want to execute, and how I want to be in the vineyards everyday, even during dormancy, go for walks as I do with my Arista friends.  And just think, feel what the vineyard is saying to me and if the fruit has been picked as it has in Two Birds and Harper’s (both Arista blocks), then I see if it wants me to measure the next yield, the next cascade of chapters and narrative, fruit and cluster prominence and what the wine’s to be seen as, vineyard or vintage reflective?  That’s the end to these written and adjunct’d means.. the wines I make and sell.  Going to email Kaz tomorrow and see what he has to say, see if he can offer some sagacity.  Or maybe I should do this on my own, wholly.  That would make a better story anyway, the adjunct professor leaving the profession or at least partly to make his own wine, start a family business and be in the vineyards and translating the fruit.  My own Beat– and speaking of which, I wonder how many words I’m at for the day.. just took another hugging sip of the blend, now it shows more rich dimensionality than the first couple glass-tilts.

Today, Day 1 of no Starbuck, just like Alice, though I’m not as disciplined as she, I’m set on changing my character and saving money for my first two barrels in 2016, one red and one white– or maybe I should have typed that reversedly, and more specific– Sauvignon Blanc, Merlot.  “Why not Cab?” you’ll ask.  “Aren’t you a ‘Cab guy’?” Yes, but I want to produce, again, the varietal that pulled me into wine’s Road, that brought me to the pursuit of wine and its voices and dimension and what the whole business and story set is all about.  Have my eye on this one winemaker from.. I think Cloverdale.. anyway, want to interview him for writing purposes but also to learn about how to start, how to get off the ground with the bottles you produce.  This all has to happen now.. so all the mmc prospects that could call, and if they do, will be quite disappointed when I tell them, “I’m at a full client-load now, sorry.” I’m going to pour my entire Self into my classes this term, and my writing clients, save, and start to scout my vineyards.. I know enough people to I’m sure get a deal, but I’ll see.  The SB, I want divided, 50/50, one part free-run, the other kept with skins then pressed soonafter, then tanked for a bit, then barreled.  And the Merlot, I want purist, dirty and earthly, a terrestrial taunt–

Just had an idea, on wine and writing about it, how some call me a “Wild Wine Writer”.  Why not embrace that, be like a, funny I’d say this, “Howard Stern of wine blogging”.  Why not?  I should take another sip, go piss, and come back to this couch and meditate on that.. no?  And no, I’m not drunk.  I wish I was!  I’d be writing much more provocatively, I’ll tell you.


Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

No On Campus

And working feverishly.  But even with my fever I couldn’t, can’t, and won’t finish grading.  But my lecture’s all written up.  On blog.  Going to bookstore to get something for papers, keep them in one secured, enclosed and encased space.  Long time till the semester ends, but I can’t focus on Time in anyway just have to keep writing and consolidating, no more taking on new projects.  Have room for only one more in mikemadigancrEATive, as the Grape Growers set up my first meeting with a grower, over which I’m beyond ecstatic.  The one thing, and as I can see it the ONLY element or task that will slow me is grading.  God. Damn. GRADING.  But no more.  I’ll grade tonight and tomorrow and everyday even when there’s no grading to be done.. teaching will take priority as I’ll be writing in my Comp Book, this semester a novel or collection of small standalone moments..11:52 and I’m in need of more coffee, and a writing session in the Library, or maybe here where I listen to the full-timers grieve and moan and cite what their students do in class to throw them off.  Well, I ask, or would ask, “if it’s working shouldn’t you change your instructional direction?”

Have to get to the bookstore, then drop something off at car in C Lot, then to get coffee and a little writing.. may write in the Maggini Room.  No.. I will.  “May”… huh.


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

Souled on in about for Wine


The barrel and its inner-narrative

At the home office desk trying to upload some articles for clients, no surprise.  And the rest of this Albariño in my glass gone, I think about the ideas for this new idea, this new project, on wine and anything wine– wine “education”, wine insight, behind the scenes, interviews and just rich immediate, immersed material like nothing else out there.  But what’s the name of the project?  One idea: ‘winesolife’.  OR, ‘sowinelife’.  But I don’t know, honestly.  I just want “followers” or readers or anyone to know what wine is and what it’s supposed to be– the intention of wine and how’s it’s not supposed to be anything but approachable.  And there’ll be videos and visuals, maybe not of the most hight quality or something studio-laden, but truthful and candid.  And all with wine’s promise and candor.  And it’ll be honest, so when I want to, or anyone I have on my show or podcast or interview or whatever, wants to talk about Napa or challenge anyone promoting wine with that angle, or discriminating, or being that all-too-expected pompous pill of a person in a tasting room or on some tour, then it’ll be cited, discussed.  There’ll be no fear with.. whatever I call this idea.  And the honesty is what will make it sell, make it appealing.  I’m distracted now, messaging with a friend, my brother Dwight.  Miss those lunches with him, the beers and the conversations and the talks about dreams and what’s next.  So much on the writer’s mind, and looking at these photos wine will always be there in some facet and form.  The pictures begin to upload, and I see the minced piece on the Pinot pick in RRV, just a couple weeks ago, or so, and the feel of the air that night and the meteor shower overhead, and looking at the vines while and before they were picked. 



Wine and life, wine is life and in more ways that the people that say it is know,  From the soil to the weather to the cover crop, to the nutrient adds, to anything you can envision, and it’s sad to me that consumers don’t account for his or much of what this relates or gravitates.

In the morning, I wake at six with Alice’s alarm, she hops to shower and I to the desk to write IMG_4894more and gather thoughts at laptop with coffee.  After leaving Jack at his miniaturized university, I’ll head to Starbucks, and stay there for as long as–  OR, go to campus!  Work there!  Use the adjunct cell as my mmc trench.  I don’t know but I have to do something magnanimous today, with all this wine media I have and all the ideas to be written down.. the ‘winesolife’ idea still simmers as does the ‘barrelnarrate’ thought.  Just have to keep moving and not stop and pack everything I need today, and remember that the English Professor role is to be given a newly-posted priority in my day, now.  As that’s how everyone sees me, a professor.  A writer, yes, but a teacher, one with unique knowledge; an elevated sense of.. something.

Can still feel yesterday’s 13.1.  Have to register for Napa’s, next month, the Healdsburg after that.  Then I think I may be done for the season.  Running.. another facet to me which truly makes me ME, this writing me at the desk at 6:20.

Jack may be waking so I’ll lightly trot up the stairs and poke me head in the room.  Today is going to be profitable in so many ways as well as self-educational…  And he’s still asleep, and I go back to typing after taking a monstrous sip of this coffee, not as well-sung as the coffee yesterday at Flavor Bistro, where Justin and I had breakfast after the race.  Was thinking, while running those final miles, the race provided a new view and appreciation for Santa Rosa, everything from the way the sky looked, to the crowd at the event following the race, to the trails and the tents, everything.  I just saw the town differently.


Samples in the lab

Just remembered I have a meeting with a prospective client at 10AM.  So no coming back home to work as I thought I might do.  Rather, to Yulupa SBUX to write and collect Self before meeting (with notes, estimate and all aligned), and prep for class, write the first Kerouac lecture on Big Sur; how Kerouac feels and what’s in his mind after such success, and why couldn’t he pull himself out of it?  Keep moving, keep writing…..

At the Yulupa Starbucks, and I keep saying to myself, “The picture,” and “visual… visualize.. make visual!” Will leave for meeting in a little over 30 minutes.  Today is about organizing and execution, the ideas and the insights of everything that interests me and everything in which I have some sort of “authority”, or credibility.  And that’s why I won’t ever shake or rid the professor role and reality.  So many walking by on their phones, detached, not knowing where they are and what they’re doing and what’s in front of them.  Sickening.. with wine and what I provide the wine world, be it consumer or industry, vineyard or lab or tasting room, I will be fully and envelopingly aware, of everything, otherwise nothing’s captured..


Mom, Little Kerouac, discussing literature

I start with my phone, obviously, the pictures I took at that Sonoma Valley winery, and the ones I’ve snapped wherever, alongside the road at a vineyard or just in my home, wine in a glass.  Then I see pictures of little Kerouac reading a book and walking around  our old condo, with his mama or my mom, then I think about how wine HAS to be family.  Like my friend Chelsea said a few days a go, in a post on.. somewhere, “Wine business is a family business.” And I couldn’t agree more, that is just what I see, my family with our new home somewhere here on the Sonoma side, vineyard and small farm for my children to play and explore as I used to at the Bayview home.  But I need to build, build, build as I started to write in the Massamen novel (which now is a streaming of vignettes and sketches, short fiction and what have).


Buds and the break

I’m getting my energy back the more I write and sipping this mocha.. three shots, and what I want to say at this meeting, what I want to pitch.  And how I don’t want to undersell myself, even though it’s a friend.  Let’s hear what they want, then go from there, I’m thinking.  Let them do the talking, the draw the numbers and rates.  But be there no longer than an hour.  Need to be in adjunct cell, planning for lectures, writing prompts, and ideas to just throw at the students and see how they react.


Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Barrel and Narrate

The half-marathon done, and I just scraped some time together to post– or write then post, a piece for client 1.  Now I wait for the day to further evolve and progress, the week to start, have to wake early tomorrow if I can, feeling quite tired from the half and not enough time I feel to get anything done.  Lectures to write, blog posts to finalize.. only way to stay ahead I feel and fear is to wake at 5AM, every morning.


Alice leaves for school, to get some work done before her week lifts off and my son still asleep upstairs, very much with Time’s invitation to finish projects and brainstorm, and consider reality.. I’m creating all this content for other people, which I’m more than happy to do, but what if I dumped all gathered content, written and visual, and short videos, to one spot.. my site.. and the purpose?  Wine education?  Not so much.. just a telling of wine life, then maybe sell, I don’t know, ads or ad space, or whatever.  Truly get it monetized and have WILD wine-woven startup.. consumers and DTC and advertising, and blogging and letters and reviews.. everything that wine is and is meant to be, fun and Human and inviting.. if I’m sipping wine, what are the first words that me accost?  The other day I was thinking of odd or obscure words to describe the Arista Zin, that 2012 they’re pouring in the TR, and I wrote “Roman”.  I had to laugh at what I wrote, and I wasn’t sipping anything, it just made me laugh, but there was purpose and pertinence to the words.  Like a Roman soldier, something grandly-themed, something historic and history-shifting/making.

I need to move and write with everything as I ran the half this morning.  My best time ever for a half-marathon.  Not by much, but I did well.  That needs to be my momentum with this site, this startup.. and what to call the idea?  Not sure, but I need to think about it.  One thought was “enoguistix” but I hate that ‘ix’ sound.  And I’ve used ‘eno’, or ‘oeno’ too many times already.

Think I hear Jack upstairs stirring a bit.  Good.  Need to shower before Mom and Dad’s and decide what wines I’m bringing up there, or wine, singular.  Have to drive back, remember, and I don’t want to be slowed or with wandering attention as wine and beer seem to do now with my thinking and scribbled conceptions.  Must be a mark of aging, I don’t know.  But even if it’s not, it still reminds me that so much has to be done and there’s not much allowance for idleness, or even a mere moment of still.  M2’s arrival approaches and everything has to be set, scenic, empyrean.

‘fermentopia’.. no, don’t like the ‘topia’.  UGH!  Then what?  How about…  Don’t want to write it here.  Or at all.  Not now.  Going to let the ideas bounce around with each other till something adheres.

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

Writing freely

for the next few minutes or so, Yulupa SBUX.  About to upload something to client’s blog, thenIMG_7875 off to RRV.  Picking up one more class for Fall, and that makes 4, and there I stop.  May have one more client as well, feeling rather positive about this particular prospect, but we’ll see.  I’m not letting a single thing or moment or person stress me today.  I’m moving slower as Dad advised, and not letting myself move so quick.  Need to get in a run either tonight or tomorrow.  Thinking tonight, but I’m not sure.  Let’s see what the story suggests and not think about it so much, so excessively and obsessively.  Would love to have the entire day to write and plan my semester, but.. what.. what am I thinking, what is this writer going to lever next, leverage with my own priorities and businesses– oh!  While here I need to finally type one of those poems for the collection, for ‘Mike Madigan, Author’, as I have it “in the cards” (an mmc office expression).  When my daughter arrives, her father will be busy and writing and successful in something he in motion set.

9:02, should get ready for early departure, go across the street to the drug store and get some comp books for my classes, keep everything separate and organized, and remember “less is better”.  Indeed.

Can’t rush-type these poems I have in the yellow spiral book.  I’ll start a new one here, or maybe type some short ones for the collection, showing readers that I’m always here at the keys with words and observations and critiques of the pattern, the expected, the conforming urge of people today, to post and “follow”– hate that word more than I have time to express.  I write with my babies in mind, how they’ll read me when in college or when able to read this type of prose and shape some individualized conception of it, and of me, their reading style.

Computer moving slow and I’m not caring, feels lovely really.. and flying an aloft flight that I haven’t before.  Can’t wait to taste the wines today with my new Zen sense, not caring and just being a consumer, one writing and teaching 4 classes and with his own business.  Yes, the cards.. where are my business cards?  I’ll order them tonight, promised.

Photo uploaded, now I can post to client blog.  Large man standing in front of me eating a breakfast sandwich, taking a bite then walking back to counter.  I’ve seen him here before, with obvious attitude and entitles disposition.  He sits next to me with two coffee drinks and his sandwich, ‘nother bit, then a woman sits with him, she on her phone talking still and he clears space for her on table, she still talking and he’s bothered so another bite.

And me, I’m just coffined in my Zen, loving all the moments and chords in the song playing into my ears, onto the sensory drums.  Today will be lovely.  Today will gift me peace, compassion, more love than I know how to handle.  And I’ll keep writing.




Categories: mikemadigancrEATive | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Blog at The Adventure Journal Theme.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 1,066 other followers