Posts Tagged With: Journal

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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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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Thrown Motor

I did wake early.  But went right back to sleep.  No excuses but I’m here on the couch with regret in front of my son who should have a more written father this morning.  I wish horribly for coffee.  Still haven’t gone to store to get some obviously so I’m in a mood.  And one that’s hard to shake, frankly.  But I write on, targeting some short shot of fiction in a minute. 

And I write on after some pause, just staring at the floor and why, what will that do?  Alice about to launch for her run, and Jackie quite content with this one cartoon episode– and Alice reminds me that today’s to be cooler than the last two, high of what– “77,” she says tying her shoe and adjusting the heart monitor around her hosting-baby-two abdomen.  Perfect.  Just what the writer needs, more temperament…..  And coffee.  Why the obsession with coffee?  ‘Cause it leads to words, mercurial manuscripts and that’s what I demand crave order, like the writer I so admire, just type the reality around me and translate it later– and like I told the students, “just write, clean it up later.”  Okay, following my own lecture and counsel, I think.  I should get in the shower but I’m content where I am and in the song of consolidation I inventory everything I have now, or everything that need be inventoried:  SRJC class, bottledaux, mikemadigancrEATive, the novel…  And those be all the professional and mentionable facets to me, at the moment.  What about the tasting room?…..  Well, what about it?  That’s material gathering, and that’s it.. and yesterday so many people from Iowa it seemed.  And what were all they looking for?  Wine of course, but the whole tasting act; swirling and playing with the descriptors and catchy adjectives and feel knowledged.  Fascinating to me and for so many reasons.. “This is our first time out here,” he says.

“Oh, well congratulations!  Welcome out!” I say, putting out two glasses.

“So what do you all specialize in at this winery?  What’s you name?”

“Mike,” I say, hand extended.  “Cabernet.  We’re a big Cabernet house.. well we think we’re big,” I say, showing them it’s okay to joke when wine tasting.  And what did I imply by ‘big’?  I don’t know.

“Big?  How big are you?”

“Oh, well we only do about five to six thousand cases.”

“Is that big?”

“No, that’s pretty small.  Pretty boutique, actually.”

“So what ‘big’, I don’t get it I’m sorry.”

“Oh, not a problem, I just meant we’re big on Cabernet, that’s all.”

We both laugh, I pour the first wine, a stainless SB from all over the valley and he sips, his wife remaining quiet which starts to unnerve me.  Why isn’t she saying anything?  Does she have any questions?  Does she not like wine and was just forced to go/come along? 

“Do you like that?” I ask her.

She smiles with urgent reservation, but only slightly.

“It’s nice, nice, this is a perfect wine for the barn,” he says.

“Oh, you guys have a farm?” I ask, cuing the Chardonnay.

“No,” she says.

(5/27/15)

Categories: 6/27/15 Morning | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Walking to the adjunct cell,

where I now sit and write I heard a student behind me, young girl with two other girl friends, say “Well I want to be a teacher.” Not sure what I thought or how I thought what I thought after hearing her say that, but now I think “good for her”.  It’s a positive that some still want to educate and do what they’re passionate about in education.  Again I have no idea where I’m going with this or where I wanted to go but her words stuck to and with me–  Now I’m tired, and not in much mood to do anything but relax, with wine, with words and a book and read for once, only ‘cause I want to, not to review the assigned chapters I assigned for lecture’s sake– and now I can’t concentrate.. real life.. insurance and life.. life, always with its intrusions–  And Alice calls back to tell me everything is fine.  Now I need a glass.  Of something.  Pinot most likely, the Shone Farm Pinot I bought yesterday at Oliver’s.  The MOCK IMG_6863-1SOMM piece I wrote this morning has been for the most part edited, so I’ll post that soon.. was quite active at the winery with taking quick pictures, no notes as I wanted it all, the tasting-through of those Pinots and other discussions, the wine scores to the vintage and weather and what the vineyards could yield, to be kept in head.  To simmer and develop.. closer to my company, elevated thinking and visualization for the blog, and this ‘mikemadigancrEATive’ idea.  Having two wines sent to me from and Anderson Valley winery for review on blog, then more wine from another winery.  So, then you’ll ask, do I want to be a wine critic or judge or journalist?  I don’t know!  I just understand about this Mike Madigan, the one sitting here in the adjunct cell that I want to stay close to wine and I want to write about it and represent certain brands, or labels, in some new creative way.  Definitive and decided; punctuated with passionate forward with my own oeno-fervor.

IMG_6864-0My lecture for the night, for 100, planned, and I listen to this music and collect myself, and know I’ll do my best, and I think of Poe in his Philosophies on Compositions, on how convictions and the Artist’s sentiment is delivered and derived.  And, like Him, I won’t reveal too much.  Why should I?  Ask a winemaker how they did what they did, they give you the convenient version, the one they want you to hear and the telling they’re assured you’ll accept.  And good for them.  Why reveal too much?

I remember when I would walk campus and tell my friends one day I’ll teach at the college level, be a ‘Professor’.  And here I am, not with the demeanor or actuality I saw myself having..  But I AM teaching.  And I have wine.  And moreover I have my words and pages–  The MMS to greet this world.

(6/24/15)

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And– Universal

Decided to come back home after Jackie to school and the Schwab transfer…  In house, I can leave at 10:05, 10:10 at latest.. had the thought of going to the estate early and writing there but there’s always the distraction of co-workers, one of them wanting to talk or simply saying hello and me spending the five or seven seconds responding and follow with some pass-chat.  But I’m here, in the Autumn Walk fort with my music and a mocha (4 shots) and the quiet, the words and the visions; lecture last night even riled me, has me thinking about my Road and my future and “career” I want to build with this blog and my writing and the Autonomy of it all.  ‘IT’ all.

Already warming outside.  Wonder what the temp feels like in other parts of the country, in Paris, and Morocco, Egypt, Israel, Russia…  I want to see everything and experience everything, see more than just the world; its stories and everything it wants to tell me.  It wants to meet me just as I it.  And that’s where I’ll find IT.  A bit stuck now, for some reason, unable to develop any kind of meaningful direction or thesis with this sitting, but the mocha tells me to focus on this new house, the Autumn Walk base, where I no domicile with my son, wife, where it all starts, the building and the collective and profuse story of Mike Madigan the writer– budget and build and conserve and just write everything.. should I call in sick to the winery, stay home and write all day?  No of course not, I have to live to write and observe what’s out there, and wine is a prominent consistency in my story, even if I don’t want it so some of the time.  In college, walking the halls of Nichols and Stevenson, thinking about me as a professor, and that was ’99-’01, and now here I am an adjunct, never seeing anything full-time, getting an interview here and there over the years (none recent), but I’m still the adjunct, embracing it and abhorring it as well.  So I have that.. and I have wine.. and running.. being a parent.. my rush for TOTAL Wellness….. and all put into the bottle, for this Ox.  And quite primary, these realities, not auxiliary.  This is me, this blogger and using everything, me writing here in this new study just off to the right as you walk into the A-Walk station– my novelist hotel…  Singularity, I then think.. not so many projects.. the Massamen novel.  That goddamn book I have to write, as it won’t let me ignore it, and I know answers wait in the 100 days of 3 pages project I did last year into the beginning of this 2015 chapter– so I think more, more, get what I want, thinking into space and believing it: me with my own office, soon having an even larger estate to ourselves.. a farm maybe, some vines, waking and walking the grounds just as Al and Janice do.. only living, and never worrying.  About anything.  That’s Wellness, especially in totality, when you believe it and its so immediate.

9:27, and I’m more than relaxed at this desk.  I’ll take pictures today on the property, new ones of the forming clusters (Pinot), and the way the sun ambiates through the light leaves in their hang from the empowered and confident singing canes.  I just want to walk, look at them.. yes take a couple stills but just enjoy the air and the leaves and the clusters and them looking back at me, laughing, bragging that they will finish their project, and I don’t feel violated or assaulted by that.  They’re encouraging me to finish the novel, sell it.  “Harvest the full manuscript, all 307 pages, Mike!” I look back at them like I’ve disappointed them, but I promise I will, and I will comb those 350-some pages of the 100 days project.  I know there’s something there, my days at the last winery and how miserable I was, I can learn from that, all the entries I wrote while in that!  The clusters will be most proud of the walking writer.  I’ll make them proud.. I’ll give them no choice BUT to be proud of me.

(6/24/15)

Categories: 6/24/15 Morning, artist's notes ... | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Breath, Please

IMG_6851Early, rushing and moving as quick as this non-caffeinated vessel will let.  Drop Kerouac off at school, then to Starbucks to finally kill these mind-deadening articles…  Then hopefully I can run.  Meeting Alice here in home at One for lunch.. then after that to grading, to campus.. if I can finish these articles quick I can just launch from Yulupa & Bethards as I used to.  And I plan to head to Howarth, a run as I used to– this morning I’ve only been thinking about the blogging, and the writing I’m doing for these sites.. not sure it’s quite what I’m looking for or at all what I enjoy, and it’s not– why, the formatting, the rules, the handbook they emailed me on how to write the way they want us to write .. AND, the articles aren’t credited, my name will be nowhere around the article.  Just a contracted word generation.. Kerouac would have never done something like that.  Nor Ginsburg, Hem, Faulkner.. I’m Literary, and I’m tired of seeing myself tempted by wine and food and tourism edges and the way you have to write to be paid by one of the pubs.  Which isn’t much.

Writing a MOCK SOMM piece today.  And no more delay–  clock screams 7:43.. should get the little Beat out the door.

Need a day.

Off.

Just one to live and do nothing.

Not even write.

But I’m not sure I’ll let myself do that.

Maybe I should.

In the SBUX on Yulupa & Beth.  Had to go back to A-Walk as I forgot little Kerouac’s blankets and changes of clothes.  So I arrive here ready for work, ready to make the adjustments and edits to those numbskull articles I “wrote”.  Go into WordPress, can’t find two of the drafts, and one has already been edited.  The rhythm of ‘things’ and the general pattern of communication isn’t conducive to anything Literary.  This morning my old friend, who now lives in Colorado, sent me an article of a guy who’s on some mission to write 100 novels.  And the act itself is some grand project he’s undertaking and sharing with the world.  And I read that and feel ashamed with this kind of writing, or the kind for the sites, I mean.  I should aim higher, and not settle for this assignment or ones like it– shouldn’t say that, I didn’t, I thought it would be something it’s clearly not.

Emailed editor, or contact to see what the status is and what the hell’s happening.  Nothing back yet.  This is just what I don’t want nor need for the day.  Still nothing.. why do I let myself get into these stressful pickles?  You know what, to hell with her.  I’m writing for me.  I will not have my day or my blog or my efforts revolve around her or her pigeon-brained website.  How’s that.

Still nothing.  Going to stop checking, shortly.  Had the idea of– don’t want to jinx it.  I know what it is, I don’t need to record it here for fears of losing the vision or measure for myself–  Back to the 3pagesperday ideology.  I’ll start in a minute– now that’s real writing, true expression and the only bloody thing I should be doing.  Why waste writing for someone else?  Especially if my name will be NOWHERE around the piece that they butchered, and that evokes no thought or emotion or trouble or trial; not thought, no interpretation, no dialogue, no character development.. nothing!  Just that a tourist goes to a winery or hotel and spends money, contributes to the economy, or the owner’s pocketbook.. evil editors and their knives, their minds and mouths– draconian slurs…

Wine.. more and more on my thinking platter, how to work with it and that I don’t want to take the SOMM courses I looked into yesterday.  And why did I capitalize that?  They don’t deserve the emphasis.. and frankly, even the somms I do like or don’t mind being around have that beat to them, the one that wants to outshine and oneup everything everyone else does.  And I don’t want to be part of that.. I just want to write about it, about the wine and how its made and the winemakers and the spells in a bottle, like the Pinot I finished last night; thick but still gentle and convivial, open and caring; communicative and colorful.  Nothing esoteric or elitist with its riffs; just inviting and playful, fun and entertaining, frankly.

Heard back from editor, told me “the ball is moving on” and that she’s going to do the edits.  So no work for me on that plain.  Part of me’s frustrated, the other quite relieved– if you could see me now reader: me smiling, listening to my music, drinking my mocha, and I have over 2 hours to write, finish my three pages.. sell them.  And I will.  I will send them by email from my vinolit address and charge $2 for a three page read.  And the focus will be fiction.  Each piece its own standalone, its own piece, I will be in control and not have to be edited or checked or conforming to some fucking manual.. and MANUAL!  On HOW to write!  Who the f……. ever heard of such a bloody trudge?

My students would be proud of me, here, now vicious and animalistic, a page predator, devouring editors, and leaving their carcasses for other writers.. or we’d just toss them to the side and look for the next manuscript mutilator to tear, consume, dispose.  Nothing outside Literature and the narrative I’m intent on writing.. nothing.. not at this age, not with Jack and M2, my wife, my family– Mom making sure I get enough sleep even at 36, Dad with his never-depleted knowledge stream.. my sister the winemaking mentor for the writer/wanna-be oenologist–  Lectures.. tonight’s, written out and distributed to the students, telling them that it all must be embraced.. the net must be cast, take something that means something to you..

Have to use the restroom but I don’t want to lose my seat–

Started again chipping away at a short story I started yesterday in the adjunct cell… about two students, together romantically and working together on a Philosophy project, or presentation, and one of them, the narrator, wondering what happens after this, this being school, the project and the class.. the what the what the WHAT.

This café this morning, telling me to forget about that blog, and to make sure those vile bilebags pay IMG_6849me!  I will be invoicing them later, and I have more ideas on my approach to food & wine, and the wine blog and wine itself.. my wine thoughts.. so many ideas.. oh and now I’m hit with another idea for the short story.. how to market it and what the characters are meant to do.. the music tells me to keep writing and not end the sentence and to make a dent on the novel today if I find time, yes I will but after lunch with Alice, after I get the sandwiches from Oliver’s.. oh what a morning, I’m so relieved that cubicle whore editor took the pieces away from me.  But I will be paid.  Should have demanded the money upfront– next time.  Don’t punish yourself, Mikey, just write on and don’t stop.. writing the wine how it wants to be written, not how a publisher wants to.. Kerouac saw editing as lying.  So, hmm, that would make editors, this one and all like her, demons, the devil, evil and soul-stripping.

But I move on and rise above, fly past and grow onward in my story.  This current song has me relaxing, looking at the time on my laptop and it dialing ’10:07’ and I don’t worry or  stress or fret or become tight in my figure or flex, I just relax, see the hotels I will see and the writing I’ll do from the balcony, thinking about how joyous Jack’s expression will be when I return from my trip.  And there I go.. daydreaming…..  Time to leave this deluge of narration and thought, my moment, and get to work, on something I actually want to write, the short story about the two students and what’s for them just beyond their final project in the Philosophy class, and what’s for them later, later in life, when they ‘grow up’.  And then I wonder, what’s for me, what’s for me and can I ever grow up?  Why do I HAVE to be a writer?  Cuz it’s who I am, not just what I do or what to do– no fuck that, I don’t want to do it, I already do, several thousand words a week, sometimes a day.  Yes I treat it like a job as I want my children to see it as my job, “My daddy writes,” or “He’s a writer.” When asked what he does.  It’s that simple.  He writes.  And teaches.  A little.  But the roof comes from pages; novels and stories, the blog, notes… all of it.  Jackie already knows that the laptop is where Daddy works.. makes me grin….. 

(6/23/15)

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7.23 Miles Later

Finally had a run like I used to, waking before my alarming time of 4:30, launching at 4:45, and actuallyIMG_6824 hitting pavement at 4:47AM, my earliest run ever.  Actually made it to Mendocino Avenue, turning around just after turning left at Mendo & Steele.  My avg was 8:36, total time 1:02:09.  Still can’t believe I did it; thought about races to register for, but they’re pricey, need more money, and quick money, and that’s where the singular pieces will come into play.. the writing I’m doing for the online mags isn’t quick enough, not nearly enough.  I’ll vend these pages the same way bands and musicians and singers do their work. 

Jackie downstairs with me and Alice still upstairs, asleep, as she needs to be.  Want her rested and on this Father’s Day I understand clearly I couldn’t do any of this alone, none of it; not the run this morning and not the thousand words or 3 pages a day, not the blogging journalism, none of it without her.

Or without coffee.

Need coffee after those 7 miles and I need it fast, should have gone to Safeway yesterday, but I wanted to stay on the schedule, the schedule I designed and had to stick to for this morning.  And I do plan on hitting the cement again tomorrow, but only for 3 miles, and probably right from Jackie’s school, just 3, no more.  As I’m writing always and everyday so the same needeth be with my intervals.  And my relationship with wine, reviewing the bottles I meet and am pulled and pushed by with my poetic pulses– and teaching, teaching, this Summer class into which I’ll put everything I have and share every positive bend and stretch and lean, all of it; for them and their writings and reading and make sure they, too, run.  On page and with their ideas and what they want to try with the material.  I’m seeing now, at 36, what I really am and what I have to do and be.  A writer and blogger, and always moving.  Yes, I’m on the couch as I was in the condo and as little Kerouac enjoys his mornings– a plate of toys paired with a buffet of cartoonage– but this is after 7 miles, over 7 miles.  SEVEN!  When was the last time I ran that much?  Want to do the RAGNAR, run at odd hours, and far, and come home before anyone’s day or any kind of day has started.

I feel like a bull this morning.  A Kodiak, a crocodile, Gorilla, not fearing anything the story has for me or what my character might meet on his Road.  This energy and sight with this morning’s run, racking and siphoning such to my novel, and it’ll be done well before the semester’s closed.  And this is not a hope, this is a clear plan and all I have to do is follow-through, do so, write with my usual speed and one place.

No pain from jaunt to Mendo, not at all; knee left is composed, intact, and fluid; no tightness or that odd ache I experienced a month ago (more, maybe).  I’ll register for one race, at work, and finish the edits demanded for the articles (Napa Hotels, Sonoma Wineries..).  I had the idea yesterday to do similar blog posts for, and paid mind you, for running magazines and blogs, wine, Bay Area life (like SFGate or something similar); and magazines, blogs, on teaching.  Knowing what I’m about as a character, and as I ran back to this Autumn Walk fort, crossing Industrial to where Cleveland becomes Hopper (luckily with a green light, not having to fear the read and look around and some car nearly killing like that 8 mile run a year ago, when Alice was in Monterey..); it came to me, that question “What do you write about?” is actually quite fitting and motivating.  And what do I want to write about?  Parenting and fatherhood, running, health, Wellness, wine, writing.. all I can think of, what I think I’m about right now, here on the couch after 7 miles.  And how do I feel?  Tired, yes, a bit drained and fatigued but– oh, and FRENCH.  Français.  Ma nouvelle langue…..  I’m still writing, or my thoughts are, away and back toward me.  This is just a writer in the morning feeling metaphysically stratospheric.  Is it healthy, contributing to my Wellness and Personhood.. only has to.  And I don’t need coffee, reader.  Not now.  I might later, or I can assure you I will, but now I’m just with what I felt when I ran up San Miguel in the dark.

Just looked at the clock, on laptop, and only 6:35.  Wow, I think, thinking of all I could write today with this energy if I didn’t have to be in the tasting room.. but I want to be.. I want to combat house palate and look further into the wines and what they say and how they want me to write– then I think more about my blogging, and a business plan.. the areas or subjects I’ll attack and market to.  But running will most purposefully be a dominant consistency in my blogging practice..

Last night a no-wine night, may make tonight the same, if not for running early then writing early, and these early Sunday runs will definitely now be a ‘thing’ with me.  An “elite runner”, could I ever be one?  Well that means I’d definitely have to do a marathon or maybe even one of those crazy 50-mile runs.  Again I think of that guy that came into the tasting room at K—-, the guy who was if I remember right 54 and just did one of those crazy ultraruns.

I want to be that.

I want my son to have that as a father.

And my students to have that as their professor.  Or Instructor.  Teacher.  Whatever they want to call me this semester.

(6/21/15)

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Bonjour…..  En fin

Je suis fatigué, mais maintenant je suis éveillé .  And I don’t know how it happened, but it did.  In a mood to write for Self after a little editing of the Tours article, and helping Jack with his toilet mastery a bit.  Saturday at the winery, assured business and a bit of frenzy, no doubt.  I’m trying to write faster and with more accuracy, showing you reader what it’s like to be a writing father.  Of course, no run this morning from me.  and I could scream at myself.  Didn’t even set my goddamn alarm… et pourquoi?!  Distractions, deciding to open one of my ’12 wines, not sure which one it was as they became jumbled in the move to this Autumn Walk stronghold.  Only had a glass, maybe a glass and a half, but still that’s enough to make waking at mother-in-law hour nearly impossible.  But no alarm so what does it matter?

6:56… no coffee in house, that too has to change, but I quite like this morning for some reason typing to no caffeine.  Depriving myself that heated palate eros.. somehow contributed to my Zen at the moment.  Oh if I could have the day to myself, have the time to run and finish these article edits and just write for hours into the Massamen novel.  That’s what it is, what it’s all about and around what it ever-revolves: bloody time! Maybe I should run after work– no!  Make yourself get up early.. come home, eat a bit, put on running gear, and go to bed.  Earlier than Alice, even.  That;s what a running/writing father has to do.  Jack in front of me in the little chair we bought him, his first xmas, and he’s content in a way I wish I could be at my decayed age.  When first downstairs, he shot directly to his seat, placed en face de his little toy chest with his cars atop, serving and looking like his desk or workbench.  He meant business, my little Beat, and he wanted to play and watch his fancied cartoons.

Now I wait for coffee, think about the other two articles, papers I already have to grade, running… not much wine, or wine industry.. but the short fiction café, I want to stay longer.. more short-shorts, sketches, vignettes.. just write all day.  Can you imagine?  Me in my office with coffee and sparkling lime or lemon water as I usually enjoy.  This morning I’m filled with unusually dinosauric confidence and sight.. see the blog expanding unexpectedly, writing later to pictures I posted prior (Earlier in day or couple days prior..).. and just writing, teaching through my writing and not in some box, some sterile institution bowl.  I’m Mike Madigan.  The writer.  And yes I have a blog.  But am I blogger, I guess.. off point a bit but I need to write something, show I’m alive and with my own beat, peripatetic in my prose pulse, and aims, what I want to do and how I want to be see– right now Ms. Alice goes for her run and my personage falls knowing I should have been up and running when it was dark.  I told her that I’m going out tomorrow morning, and I need her help.  She joined my cause and vowed to aid me in getting to bed early.  So.. I will run.  I will run.  In that early hour and see the sun take stage… so, so, tremendously musical, its lyric composition, for me to enjoy.

(6/20/15)

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Handed To

IMG_6721Set my alarm on phone and left phone in study area.. ran downstairs at 4:30 only to turn it off, but now my body’s aware of the Newness, my new dedication to running, or that the thoughts want the pavement earlier.  So tonight, another nowinenight and early rising for the running I have to do, that I HAVE to do.  7:25 and Jackie’s dressed and I’m eating his waffles.  Lawn watered and we are both launch-ready.  At the BV SBUX I’ll start and finish and post the MOCK SOMM piece on that last Pinot I had, at work, then hopefully put a thousand into novel, then write a little more in the work log for the novel– I won’t forget about my book, ever, and I need to keep my Wild Writing about Wine–

Interrupted by Jack demanding to sit at the kitchen counter with me, we then had to gearswitch and start our march toward the door– life too quick and too much for me sometimes, this, this writing life, and I think I still may be tired from yesterday’s charge at the articles.  Now I wait for feedback.  And the eventual check.  This has to start paying, my sentences and introspective observations which I hope serve either purpose or me selfishly.  So far, so many years later, I–  Man blows his nose here in the Yulupa Starbucks, and I get annoyed.  I may be too annoyed for my novel, now, may still need to write freely, just type and see and sip the coffee and listen to this horrible folk music in the store– earphones in, find me Hutcherson!

There, much better, I’ll be ready for the novel in a bit– now it’s 8:32, I’ll go to Massamen’s days promptly at 9.  The life, the living, the growing up that I’m trying so animalistically to do, taxing..  Look at bank account balance, and further frutstrate.  Need to be a roaming writing, a vending writer, selling everyfuckingthing.  The track I wrote yesterday, a poem, half in the adjunct cell in the last few minutes before class and the rest in class– fever, disease, one student urging, “Teach on, Mike..” Showing them I’m the realest of teachers, the one that actually knows, and does, and practices, no preaching, daily, my routine, my SElf and diligence make me different, the most ferocious writer on the planet, maybe.  And now I start to wake, the coffee, but no wine tonight, have to run in morrow’s cruelest of hours.  Saw two runners on the way here, running up Yulupa, about to turn left onto Hoen toward Summerfield.  My old route.  Do I miss it, a bit, I miss the regularity of my outings and the play with speed, my interval adjustments, and how.. distracted.. someone behind me.. I hate that.. maybe she’s bored.. maybe she’s lonely.. I hope she’s reading this, and she gets her iced coffee and leaves.  “Yeah,” I think to myself, “get the hell out of here!” Standing behind a writer like that.. god I fucking hate that!

A song by Dizzy, taking me back in time, so far I don’t know how to interpret it, way before me, and when my parents were young, or even before them.  Not sure.  But this morning is now being taken by the writer, and the rest of the day, with wine and what I can gather from the Pinots and the Zin, even the Chards, and how they’re changing.  Have to be at the novel soon, and good, good, I read this wine blogs and adjunct professor blogs and I’m starting to feel, well, quite bored with their rants.  And I know, someone out there probably feels the same about my work.  But I’m just doing light research.. like one post I read, recently (actually at the red light on Hoen & Yulupa, headed to this coffee spot), was about how local restaurants are expected to carry local wines.  A bit interesting, as I see the potential professional and/or neighborly quandary, but doesn’t the restaurant have their choice?  Are they not autonomous?  Do they work for the wineries in any way?  And, really, how much am I supposed to think about this?  Dwell on this lack of communication and sword-swinging impasse?

Starting to exhaust from writing, and I blame yesterday, and the articles.. so why should I touch the novel, now?  Maybe I won’t.  I know I have to, and I should, but another yell from me, inner, somewhere, says ‘move along!’ Focus on shorter pieces, the poems and entries and the short fiction café idea.. ideas, like drugs, that craving for Newness, the worst and best of addictions.

How about a plan, I hate plans as a writer but I feel I need one now: after entry: finish track 3 (poem), the a piece of short fiction for the whoso magazine and the short fiction café.. done.  Now I relax.  Oh if I could have the day off today, just not go to that ravishing estate and sit in a café and actually scribble, like a madman, like Kerouac.. so many pages scattered, but now I consolidate and sell them all.  Everything.  And the first piece for sale, or pieces, are the first 3 tracks I wrote, poems, each a standalone to its own.  Listening to that Kerouac recital last night with the students and talking to them about Poetry and actually enjoying teaching again, like I have rarely, lively and engaged with the students and so many of them commenting on my passion and my fire with the words and literature and Kerouac..

8  minutes till I have to shift to other project, whatever I decide.. the track, the poem, recital, sell it, talk it.. walk and fly and worry no–  My Beat starts to increase in speed and I feel everything is music.  Last night we wrote to a Bonobo beat, and everyone was quiet, scribbling, to their page and newly written Self sense.

And I can only, only, be only, only me with this sight and hope of somehow and day being that, that what I see.

(6/19/15)

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10:08, and no wine tonight.

And bed soon.  And a run in the morning.  Early.  Earlier than early.  Alarm set for 4:45.  Going to sleep in running shorts, or have them right at bedside.  I’m just looking to meet time, which is 45 minutes.  I should easily log 5.  I have to do this for myself, and my running, really throw myself back into it.  And I will.  I’m going to.  Tomorrow.

Meant to post something to the teaching blog, but failed to tonight, playing with Jack for just a little as he went to bed, then diner, a couple re-runs of Curb Your Enthusiasm, which Alice and I used to watch all the time only now picking it up again.  And now this free entry.  I don’t even want to be confined by my own column, MOCK SOMM.  I’m just relaxing, enjoying the quiet of the kitchen here and listening to that fridge sings its one note.  And where am I running tomorrow?  Thinking up Hopper and back, something safe as it will be dark, still.  And my knee brace.. where.. oh, upstairs, in my drawer, I think.

I need to start training.  Really training.  For what.  I don’t know.. total Wellness.  More tomorrow.. have to sleep.  Namaste…..

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