Posts Tagged With: Freewriting

So whole writing in my parents’ house,

late, 11:37 with nightcap, listening to Delilah by Hutcherson.  Relaxing, and something that Mom said to me tonight ripples in my character, about removing self, and if not removing completely then taking a break as I mentioned earlier, and what Dad said about not always answering to impulse, to monitor my reactive behavior, not always jump when you feel the urge.  After this entry I’m for the day done, going to relax, sip the remainder of this Racer and think about the day, me on the back bar with the couple I met at K—-, when he proposed to her on the mountain, and me holding the camera/phone IMG_7048like a fool, just observing.  But today we sipped a bit together, celebrating our reunion and talking again and remembering that time, on the mountain– and the others, the reactions to the Pinots, and the Zin, what they all said with me outside at that back bar, by the lawn, with the view of Mount St. Helena–  Relieved I decided to stay here at the Mountain Hawk base, just thinking about the wines and how people reacted to them, how they swirled it in their glasses and just watched the wine do its revolution, they look at each other, the day, the wine, that group of 4, their kids and the wind over those little infant scalps, them quixotic in and out of micro-naps.

Tired but I have to reach 500 words, make it to or near 3,000 words for day.  Tomorrow, wake early, don’t forget leftovers from Mom in fridge (which I’m sure I will.. watch.. I’ll wake tomorrow and speed out the door and to Starbucks so quickly that I’ll just forget, not cuz I want to, but because that’s me, the sped writer always with something, something in cue and something to do–)

I’ll set the alarm for 5:30, rise and then to the Road.  And tomorrow, meticulous with everything, like Dad, showing me much about how I provide quotes for mmc clients… sent another tonight, and I hope for the best but who knows I’m just trying to do something I never have and have it pay and learn something new about my presence as a writer and how I.. how I…..

I keep writing, and look at pictures from day.. not much new, only the Zin I tried here, with Mom and Dad, from Columbia Valley, 2012.  There just wasn’t much there, not much impression or impact; texture lacked as did the overall rhetoric of the wine–

But I don’t slow, I run the trails in Sunriver, then come back to write, talk to myself about writing aims and projects, open a bottle of some Cab from AV or Howell.. I enjoy the quiet, and the jazz, and the snow outside.  Have to fly back in a couple days, but in the time now between I’m entrenched to ebb about ten short stories, written over 24-36 hours or maybe less depending on how much coffee I collude–  A crepuscular code of sorts, seeing new days and new Beats and new jazz syncopations– reborn, you might say.

(7/4/15)

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8AM, and with 2,000 words

logged.  Have to enter some pieces and entries into my new writing ledger, that I have to keep up andIMG_7042 maintain.  On cup 2, all words written to novel.  Feel like I need a break, this morning, running fast, changing station, Thievery.. sip more coffee, that’ll motivate me.. what to wear today on my mind.. thinking and over-thinking.. fell asleep upstairs last night listening to jazz, some artists I’ve never before heard or appraised.  Yes, I’m getting exhausted in this writing, and want to stop, but I can’t bring myself to.  Why.  Why not.  I don’t know, that’s my point.. my feverish craving for my statements on a page and then post them to some goddamn blog– Mom was right, take a break from writing.  But just now, Mama.. I can’t for long.. this is WHAT I am, not just what I do or want in come fashionable way, manner, or tilt.  And I go typhlotic, just viewing things and scenes and other places in my head, returning to Paris and vacation somewhere, back to Santa Barbara, or that nearby town where we stayed for Nick’s wedding.. ocean and new characters and drinks at that lounge bar.. coffee in the morning, looking at the waves and hearing people go back and forth, from the pool to their room and back again, not knowing quite how to take in their vacation but they know the time is limited so they just go with gut impulse and urge and reaction.  Good for them–

Tonight, dinner at Mom and Dad’s.. do I sleep there or only have one beer and one wine and come home here to enjoy the quiet of this castle, this new Autumn Walk base, as I won’t have this much concentrated quiet for some time again I’m sure..

Developing mmc, rather proud of how I developed my business last night, sending out emails and taking notes, starting cards for each prospect (on pieces of paper taken from winery, or that Kevin gave me, old tasting menus).  They work quite well, these card, constant reminders of where my efforts are.. a real business, me, and if it all to fruition forms, and my money is properly budgeted (obviously with Dad’s help), I’ll get to my office.. want a small space somewhere in Healdsburg– but that’s expensive, and I know Dad would advise against that.  I’ll talk to him tonight, see what he thinks..

8:22– just realized, I met my goal, 3 pages before 9.  huh.. forgot I gave myself that deadline.. love mornings like this.. nothing getting to me today.  I’m controlling the story, my business, my blog, and my direction and marketing momentum.  What will I do till 9?  Maybe just get in the shower, have even more a headstart on the day.. where’s the iron and that little board?  Garage I think.. still unpacking.. like Massamen in the novel.

-get cash, ATM

-write a poem

-post pictures

-keep moving

-wine notes

-get new little notebook.. so then yes I have to leave the house early to go get one, corner store, Coffey & Piner

(7/4/15)

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A writing retreat. 

IMG_7028Or at least pause.  Have been working on mmc since I walked through the door, after watering the lawn as Alice requested.  She in Monterey with my little Beatnik.  didn’t touch the novel today, but I will in the morrow.  Bought a bottle of my favored sparkling lemon water, large size, to rid my system of this wine before bed, or at least thin or dilute it.  Just opened a bottle of the 2012 Mikey Merlot, or Cuvée.  Pretty sure it’s the Merlot, as Alice took the unlabeled bottles from the labeled boxes and put them indiscriminately on the rack int he downstairs closet, my new mockcloset.  The house to myself and I don’t know how to react– my first night alone in this castle, this new abode and safeplace but I’m unsure, and uneasy, so I sip more wine and plan more prose and not in my journal or type– me the write, in love with wine and all the vineyard stories and calls, like today when Andy and I walked the Two Birds block and looked for veraison and didn’t find as much as we estimated would be there, or at least I didn’t, even at one time saying, “We should come back in a week, this is bullshit.” The vineyards are everything to me in my story and my relationship with what I sip, and my Beat and musical qualities as a wine scribbler and torrential terroir typist– on my Road, on my hike to equilibrium, and all through wine, should ask my sister how she came to where she is and her character and wine is to her now, which might seem like and obvious query with an even more estimated response but it’s not to me–

So many quick shot from after work and right before, the vineyard, where I should be writing after work.  I’m sure Al and Janice wouldn’t mind– sweet people like them and their sons would and have only encouraged the Beat and his writing about wine and where the grapes develop their stories and flavored ferocity–  The wine lowers in my glass, I sip and pour more and think about the days at Sonoma State, studying under Bob Coleman and coming home to my San Carlos house in the hills, Bayview, and sharing with Dad and Mom my new knowledge.  Only reason I could go there, and am here, in the Autumn Walk safe, because of them.  I must do the same and more for my children– yes I’m a dad with worry and with vision and with the story, a story of one wanting to rewrite his story.  So much on this kitchen counter again, the tightrope I walk, wait, careful– slow and rightly ridden.. slower…..

A writing retreat.  But there’s no retreat in this writing warrior– ever. No, my beat is one of high bpm and spoken word and confident recital looking down at the audience while I whirl rimes and songs and talk my convictions whether political or wine-coded.  Another sip…  Whichever it is, of my wine.. pretty sure the Merlot…..  Has me deciding the next path for mmc, my little boutique ad station. Me, in advertising and marketing, sales and PR– who knew.  Definitely not me, a novelist.. but this will allow me to do just that, finish the Massamen proyecto.

(7/3/15)

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Opened a Merlot

IMG_7020

MERLOT.

from a potential client, mmc.  And honestly, mmc has been all that’s dominated my cognition and persuasive inner-imagery today and this evening, even what at dinner with Alice at Roberto’s, where the service was oddly slow.  This Merlot, much better than the one I produced in ’12…  I can tell there’s more new French on it, this one as well a ’12, but made by a professional wine-wielder.  This translation having more of that “gothic” grittiness I like in a Bordeaux, and the prose I write should reflect that in that I just want to finish my novel here tonight and not go in tomorrow but just stay home, dive headfirst into the coffee and that cinnamon latte blend and end the noel where it is, in one day, so I can grow mmc.

I need to relax with my visions, my mmc dreams and those of the novel finally finishing.. oh, and making wine this vintage, as I boasted in earlier entires, do I want to do it?  Uh– I don’t think I can, with all I have going on, in, on–  Want more of this Merlot and I will, it’s 4th of July weekend, the time when Americans claim to revel in being a free nation when really they succinctly set themselves to sip wildly, get drunk, and say ‘fuck the rest of the world, this is how you should be doing it!’ Really.. okay.  I never get political on this blog, but I had to follow with that framing of my thinking.  Someone asked me today, “So what are you doing for your 4th?”

“Uh,” I started, “staying home and writing, and opening a nice bottle of wine.” But then I remembered I’m spending my 4th with Mom and Dad, so I added and amended–  “Well, with my parents, I’ll be opening nice wine and having a home-cooked dinner with family, nothing crazy,” I told Kaz, also a prospective mmc client.  I see my office, and me in there planning everything on a board, one animated and enjoyable and engaging for me.. my business and livelihood, what I thought about today while going to Alice to hear M2’s heartbeat…  The consolidation, continuing with confident continuity…..

(7/2/15)

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MOCK SOMM: Handley Cellars, Anderson Valley, Chardonnay, 2012

IMG_7008And the Handley Chardonnay, more than just a stream of me being proven wrong about the grape, the varietal, that problematic genre in oenology– no, this has its own -scape, and diction, and curvature with its apple-ized code and symmetry from scent to acidity to tactile ebb to its overriding message.  And I get the sense it wants me to survey its entity and scene, how it intends on greeting all my senses and receptors– the bottle, and this last glass, knows I’m writing about it– it uses me as a translator and courier of its thesis, and it says, like Amy Tan, “It’s a luxury being a writer, because all you ever think about is life.” And this bottle and its producer and the Anderson Valley AVA bring life with it to everything it contacts.  I’m smitten, enamored, befuddled, and seized by its synecdoche of notes and plays on my perception.  Yes, it’s Chardonnay, but so many, especially sommeliers, talk about “varietal integrity”.  Well here it is.  What more could a wine chaser demand?  Seriously, this writer wants to know. This is more than Handley at their best, this is the AV producer being what I would note equitable, candid, conversational– speaking through the Chardonnay varietal and showing what it wants us to know about its feel and voice, and tone, octave, beaming character oscillation.

I’m now more open to Chardonnays as you may know but this one teaches me even more than I ever expected to learn about the Burgundian loop-grape.  This is more than just “stylistic”.  It’s honest.  Declarative.  Instructional and comedic in how it appears to mock other Chardonnay attempts and projects.  “This is Chardonnay, real Chardonnay,” I say to myself, here at the kitchen counter, staring at an empty glass.  And I’m not “scoring” it as I don’t have to.  This is just a note denoting and connoting that I respect this wine and the producer and how it makes me envision the Road and what I’ll write about so many tomorrows from now.  Fantasized glass apparition presence–

(7/1/15)

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That One

6:49 and up with coffee and writing and thoughts of the novel and mmc.. always going, and that’s what this blog shows, and if people get annoyed with my consistency, then I apologize, but I won’t stop as I can’t, at all.  Ever.

Short thoughts from novelized mind and just keeping going and changing the state of affairs for the writer, voracity re-instituted and constituted..just a writer helping people with writing, businesses, and helping himself.

Closer to departure for day, intended to be the most smoldered episode of the week.  Class tonight– oh!  Need my Sedaris book!

1,613 words so far.  Over a thousand to Massamen novel, and a 550+ word letter to a friend.  Into my mocha, and thinking about how hot it will be today and how I want no part of that heat.  Who I have to call and what I need to do to grow mmc.  My perception, becoming encouraged, and with these writing nights I have ahead of me, I’ll dive into the novel like I never have– writing till 1 or 2 or 3.. then sleeping in till 8-something as I’ll have the Autumn Walk base to myself, and live like a writer with more focus that any writer out there.  And that’s what I’ll be and how I want to be see– no, how I AM and how soon everyone will see me: the hardestworking writer in the world.  Always writing.  Writing for himself and his clients and just living by and from and within words.

Very much feel the run, those 7.1-whatever miles I did on the treadmill yesterday afternoon.  The PinotIMG_6984 tasted better last night that the eve prior, and the Chard, that stainless Handley beauty, perfect for a warm evening in Sonoma.. the fantasy becoming MY reality.. have to call a prospective client, my sister’s friend, who owns a lovely little shop in Marin; purses and clothes and accessories of an artisanal tune..  I think businesses are fascinating, how owners shape them vs how they take on a life and mind of their own..  I’ll call her on the drive up to RRV.  And just think about what I could do for her; more of that story that narration, more visual, more showing how people come in and see her spot as a destination within a destination (SF Bay Area, as I’m sure she gets hit with her fair share of tourists..).  That’s right, I remember thinking about her and her shop last night while having that last glass of Pinot in the kitchen.  I’ll finish this sitting and go outside and give her a call.  Hate talking while I drive.  Always so encumbering and annoying and anymore disruptive.  When I’m on River Road, then Wohler, then Westside, I just want to enjoy, relax, observe..

Picture from yesterday, hug cluster of either Chard or Pinot, I’ll admit I don’t know.  Struck me, still strikes the writer, the fruition involved and how the weather it treats.. just a story on top of a story.. intimate and truthful, full of imagining and dreaming of how that cluster will taste once in the glass.  So I still write.

(7/1/15)

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MOCK SOMM: Handley Cellars, Anderson Valley, Pinot Noir, 2012

IMG_6979Not at all coy with its confident composition– cherry and some plum-esque suggestion coupled with ripe earth and softly-sequenced black spice– but again I find a Pinot far beyond the simplification and convenience of descriptors or some obscure adjectives.  I’m with that Literary shape of Pinot that loves its dance and its beat and the valley it calls home, most notably shown in its finish– chocolate chant and cherubic chime.  Everyone knows I love Pinot and that I follow it and when I find one I love I become childlike.  And now I’m childlike, again, but more than I was with the last Pinot I tilted into my talking, whatever it was…  This glass’ song folds my introspective bend to something which screams for more connectedness to Pinot, but also warns me that most of them aren’t this coherent and convincing.  Cummings said that “Kisses are a better fate than wisdom.” This Pinot kisses over, over, over and places me in reflective maelstrom, spinning till I can only hope to land for another kiss.

Gentle put persistent texture and a terrific turbulence about the concluding curves to the wine’s IMG_6980measures.  And that has to be the winemaker’s love for 2012, and Pinot, and Anderson Valley, and all stories connected to narrative wines like this– I’m bedazzled by how the oxygen just pushes more from the glass, a step-by-step calculation of the wine itself, taking on cognitive actions and orations of its own– this is what makes it obvious, convex and complicated.

You might read this and think, “So Mike just writes about wine and drinks it and drinks more and that makes it easier to write.” At times, maybe, but not with this wine.  It’s codified and inviting; defensive and seductive; sealed lips, but still eager for kiss next.  I’m challenged by this evasive dark dancer, and I follow her.  Wherever.  A coherent contradiction.  And that’s why it lasts and echoes and has the tremolo’d traipse about my IMG_6981Now.  And my fate, better than any sagacity, or kiss– it’s this, this moment, the standalone second about how I scribble and sip, and sip…..  Tomorrow I’ll fall or roll or stumble from the sheets thinking about that color, the darker-than-I-estimated shade of Burgundian beatific syncopation.  I hear and taste the music again, carry it with me through the day, and I thank my favorite AV winery, and know I need to get back up there, someday, when I’m not writing.  All wine writers or critics should write about wines they love to this extremity.  “No you have to be objective,” says some wine mag galoot.  But I don’t care, proud and posted in my partiality.  Corking the bottle, sad as I sit, like that last kiss on a date, only to drive home remembering the meeting over, over…  So I write a letter as soon as I’m home, to Pinot, to Handley, to AV, to anyone who’s had a wine like this.  And hope I hear back.  And if I don’t… then… then……..

I sip, write, imagine the kiss.  Again, again…

MM96

(6/29/15)

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Pommard Perambulation

IMG_0990The walk told me everything, and the vineyard told me more. That block by the entrance. Accumulating clusters and characters and the air with its brushy and coy song whispered through the canes, leaves as they fiddle with and taunt light. And I just watch, just like the visitors, tourists from Southern California to South Wales. Everywhere, just to look. The pace, unaffected by time its reminding me that I have to be at work soon. Not concerned, only connected to the green echoed visuality and the raw earthly dark tint of the cordonsIMG_0996 and soil and that sound again, the littlest thin muffle of atmospheric dialogue, it moving the leaves again, toward me and back and I just watch. Take a meek colony of still shots then throw the device back in the carrier and repeat watch, walk, hear and heal in the scene; what the world visits for. Vines, growth, the story and the past to their present and when IMG_0994they sip and look out from the tasting room there’s the realization; that connection, and I’ve always been taken by that. I walk further toward the gate and see a leaf, discolored which I’m sure says something, an ailment maybe or virus, I don’t know. I just stare, look and wonder at the colors, and am I supposed to like this scene or feel some empathy or compassion for the leave, or guilt that I’m photographing it with my phone like so many who see accidents or tragedies or some misfortune and internally are pushed to film it with a phone? Am I that? Am I doing that to this poor leaf, this poor cane, the vineyard? Am I THAT tourist? I put my phone away and walk more, to the gate but stop only feet before and go right, then down another row. Taking a closer look at the clusters I meditate on what glass they’ll be in, where, celebrating what. That tie with the people and the tables and glasses, someone’s house, someone’s occasion, someone’s something… someone’s family. IMG_0992 That’s the significance, not the photo, not me, not some magazine that throws scores at the bottle, utterly negating all the effort and time and sunlight and gusts that passed through the vineyards’ expressions and dimensions. Significance and the story of this 2 acre block involves the people coming to harvest these forming wee bunches, in the earliest of A.M.’s, leaving their families at home to arrive just before the sun makes even a slight statement, then they’re trucked off to be crushed, produced and shaped for sipping, leaving behind desolate vines, new end and start. And people will migrate to see that as well. They don’t care what the vines look like or where they are in their “season”, they just want to see, and keep seeing.
IMG_0989Then I open the gate, walk back to the tasting room. At least four looks over my left shoulder, see how the wind pushes those canes and the leaves, and that one leaf, the discolored, moving as it wants and me just staring. I go back. One more shot. And another. Now I guess I’ll work.

(6/28/15)

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Careers Whatnot and

IMG_6928And the coffee now being sipped, and needed as I very much feelthe echo and aftershock of lastnight’s wine.  Typo after typo in this sitting, but that’ll change once this coffee infuses and breaks up the weight of the Pinot and Syrah.  no run this morning obviously, but tomorrow morning I will rise early even though its one of my long days; at the winery then to teaching.  If I’m to become a masterful runner I must make time, sacrifice gladly the wine, and move on with my running.  In fact, tomorrow morning I’ll set the alarm for 4:15, launch by 4:30 like my motherinlaw, and be back to help with Jack and arrange what I need to for his and my, and my wife’s day to go smoothly.

Just made some notes for mmc (mikemadigancrEATive), a virtual office if you would, thought of that driving home from work last night.  So far, Blair and his wines are my only true client, but that will change I’m hoping after the meeting with Chelsea’s folks.. so much happening and so fast but I can keep up and I have to if I’m to have my office and be more into advertising and marketing as I wish.

So quiet in the house now, me at the island in the kitchen of this Autumn Walk base– think I heard J IMG_6929get out of bed.  No doubt he’ll head straight down here, downstairs to his writing father, finding him working and hustling and playing with words, providing my own allegory of sorts…  hmm….. allegory, there’s something that can work for mmc, somehow, with the idea of an allegory but I’m not sure what.  WHAT!  What could it be, possibly?

Not in the mood to be back in that tasting room, just want to play with words all day and plan for mmc campaigns and get closer to my office.  If I make today the grandest of projects, blog absolutely everything, that has to do something.. and I mean everything.  From when I pull up, to when I park, to setting up with Andy in the TR, to pouring, to walking the grounds if I get around to doing that.. again, everything.  “So how do you become a professional blogger?” I don’t know.  I guess blog everything, right?

IMG_6930The coffee starts to make its presence formidable and push away the wine’s placement, driving out an invader– there’s an allegory!  Again, just want to play with words all day, adjectives and linking them to wine and describing wines in wild ways as I do, like the Pride Syrah from last night, how dark it was and vampiric– no, used that before…  how haunting and scenic it was, just with the visual and how it say on your senses and provoked you.. oh Pride, all their wines, and those grounds.. dreaming dreaming and talking to myself in some odd wandering morning narrative, now the coffee is sure in spin, not quite as strong as the coffee the Pride pride made me that morning I went up there but close.  I’m awake and focused and mmc is coming to life, in this virtual office then to a real office space on H-burg square, looking down at the tourists and smiling with them, even though I’m working, but I’m working for me and where I want to and how I want to– I guess and entrepreneur.  I don’t know.  I’ve never really liked that word.  Everyone uses it and everyone flaunts it wherever and however they want to.  I’m just working for myself, that’s it, from words and my allegories with wine and the people enjoying them.  Wine is supposed to be enjoyed, and what you do for a living should give you pleasure, and I know the extents will vary person to IMG_6936person, but you should like if not love your “job”.  I’m only going to accept loving mine.  Like the guy from Maine who owns his own ad agency, who came into the winery months ago, right when I first started.  Obsessed with his website and how the business looks, that real CREATIVE agency feel.  That’s what I’ll have from downtown Healdsburg, and that’s what I’ll perpetuate with my “clients” and the relationships that I build.  Creativity.. that’s the important facet to my company’s name, not ‘mikemadigan’.  It’s the ‘crEATive’ that allows real life, that allows us to EAT, to have fun, to actually live and continue our stories.

6:22, and I hone 1000 words.  The first cup, nearly dead.  That’s fine.  I’ll make a second.  Imagine how much coffee I’ll be drinking when I have my own office and have to bring work home and work all night to make some deadline, or even sleep at the office– who knows–  I want this to be an adventure, mmc, and I want to share it with like-minded people, the creatives, those wanting to grow– no… expand.. no…….  AMPLIFY!  Clients that want to amplify and  re-emphasize and aggrandize their business’ story.  Creative, Creative…..  There’s no creativity in being safe, I dare say, so I also look for clients that trust me to take measure gambles with them.

IMG_6938Looking at one of the bottles I brought home last night, the Longbow Pinot, a barrel-selection project from Arista, here on the island looking at me, the last of it.. I think about the story of wine and how it comes to be and the fantasy, if you’d call it that, what brings people out here, the words they use and how they don’t know if there is some proper wine language and descriptive habit.. so….. what am I getting at?  I don;t know.  Like I said, if I had all day to play with sentences and words and the creativity now in my and develop it somehow I’d be able to tell you.  But I can’t.

6:41, the laptop needs a charge before too long as do I which is the reason cup 2 is already at writer’s right.  The day underway, as are my thoughts, and how to grow my friend’s brand, Archival.. focus on that words.. play with it.  Archive, something Archived.. a treasure, a story, a winemaking style.. what..?  I can only play with punctuation as well, the same way my sone fiddles with his toys; the cars and trucks and other vehicles he lined up for my parents last night on the carpet-covered chest (now at my left).

Sip one of cup2 and well on my way for a crEATive day.  Think Jack still may be sleeping, tired little bloke.  Probably could go back to sleep if I wanted but I have thoughts to develop, brands to grow.. building building building, I need to build and assemble this business of mine, be my OWN client, essentially.. market myself any way I can and what better than through this bottledaux philosophy?

Then I hit a wall.  I should walk away from this keyboard, just take time to think about my words and stories and allegories and– he’s up.  I heard him, my little Artist.  He’s on his way to see his typing father, and what better reason to break for me?  My immeasurable thanks again to Alice for this coffee, everything I thought it would say this morning and help me to write.

IMG_6937Jackie to cuddle with his mama, and me back to typing, and typing about typing, and about the business I’m seriously trying to build finally at 36 years of elderliness.  I look at the images and articles and concepts around me: the dishtowel with cherries about its surface, that Longbow bottle, the coffee, my phone, Jackie’s cars and trucks and whatnot.  And then me.  The writer.  And business owner?  Suddenly ad/marketer?  Yes.  And another YES.  Just keep moving, I tell myself, and that the stories need be told– it’s more than simple branding or any idea OF branding, but story telling, transparent narrative.  And I mean REAL transparency to the narrative.  Me: up early and writing sipping coffee, sipping more coffee to keep me writing and keep me crEATive.  Telling myself that I’ll blog and write and capture every goddamn thing I encounter today.  Story telling and narration and allegory and meaningful lecture to myself and the world.. TODAY!

Jackie just waking up, struggling to do so like his writerfather.  Now to cartoons and the day is off…..  Blog everything, capture everything, like him yawning and stretching on the couch and the sounds of this cartoon that my waking senses can’t yet adequately process.  But I keep writing and ignore this odd vertigo feeling that comes and goes.  That has to be the last of the lastnightwineinfluence.  I’m sure of it.  Today and tonight, no wine.  Have to run tomorrow morning, and early, earlier than early.  Go to sleep in running gear and just roll out and roll out to street, and fast, only one hour allotted.  And fast, fast, then faster.. if I stop then there’s no story, nothing being told or narrated.  I look over at Jackie, his contentment.  I want that for the day, while I create and while I capture.  Which will only further build and appreciate MY brand, this mikemadigancrEATive idea/project/dream/vision/hope/story/what/talkwithmyself/affirmation.

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From Remain

IMG_6908

My brother Kevin, inspecting the Pinot block…..

IMG_690710:04,  Mom and Dad left, and me here with the Pinot, the one a “friend” at work aside for me set.  Listening to classic rock tracks from dinner.  Dishwasher in full focal, and me here with this keyboard, indeed influenced, and more than likely not running in morrow.  And why should I when my wife was enough celestial to get my some coffee for rightafterwake.  MY wife, building her teaching career, and not settling, only advancing, having her progression ascend and never comfortably stabilize, she’s always moving and advancing–  I’ll use that as the model, her as idol, like the grapes of this vintage that continue their maturation, their storying.  This morning, walking the rows with a friend, I noticed, it came to me, the inevitability of a vintage.  It will happen.  Their will be grapes pulled and wine made.  The writer must develop as nature does: inevitably.  Tonight on the porch, sipping the Pride Syrah with Dad on the porch as little Kerouac played with his friends in minutes remaining before they were called away to bath and or bed.. he said, Dad, “It looks like something could come from these clouds,” meaning rain or some front.  That’s natural, that’s more than just simply predicted– it’s definitively systematic.  The writing need be the same, part of my climate and system and yes the wine to me codes but I entrench in my convictions and out carry my mission.  Again at the pictures, the onset of real pigment and life and visual– me lost in the night and my session, looking at bottles on counter, by kitchen– the SB and the Pinot, SRJC, that I opened a couple nights past.  And now this glass of barrel-borrowed Pinot, 2013, oh that amazing vintage– why are so many so quick to IMG_6922forget about 2012?  I’ll never get that.  And I’ll never get the innerworkings of the wine life and world and circle.  Tired, and bent from Pinot and not knowing where I’m going with this narrative– can’t wait for the novel to be done, what Mass’ does with his life and how he figures all into his story, what he wishes and what he sees, what he does wit his adjuncted reads.  My mind’s not the most sound it’s ever been, but I’m writing looking at pictures I shot this morning of Kevin and I walking that block and how the story correlates to my permanency here in this stage and moment– wish I were on travel, on some street and in some hotel unknown– is that not the life that we all want, the unknown and the unexplored?

IMG_6910Last sip–  Yes.  I know I’m one with wine and I can’t get away, not from the biological effect but from IMG_6909the character code it poses to my persona and Personhood.  I remember the first wine that really told me something, something– a 2000 Merlot, from a larger producer– An old song, Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”, comes on, and I think and think and imagine me, the world and the time and whatever– confused and contorted– others talk but I don’t listen, at all, because they talk.  I want to feel and think and postivize, that’s me and my aim, disposition.

Can’t thank my wife enough for the coffee– can’t wait to wake and not run but just write and look at these pictures more.  But now, I drink this Pinot that my “friend” set aside for me in “her office”.

(6/27/15)

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