Posts Tagged With: Self-publishing

Everything Beautiful Little

Later in day, after work, actually night and I feel advanced and at the same time still.  Haven’t written much today but had a wondrously granting meeting with my friend Chelsea downtown, Healdsburg (funny hearing tourists mispronounce) talking about all that’s wine and vineyard and branding and all connected to what I’m trying to do, for me and clients.  But I haven’t lost my Literary leap and skip across these pages, and my novel.  And tomorrow morning, I’m waking at the running hour, to write– and with firm goal, goals:  3 standalone pieces, 500 words, at least, to novel– and read through the 100 3-page days.  Progress.  Get out of the pattern and keep with all I need.  But the writer has to organized, has to plan more and be clean and consistent in his practices.  Right now, in study, dryer going upstairs, the day’s lost its heat and this penner was engrossed in the outside temp as I watered the grass, looking out at the street upon and within which Jackie played only an hour ago with his new neighborhood friends.  Papers from last semester form a ruined tower on this desktop.  Key right– and a pen, disorganized and I hate that feeling.  And the Pinot I’m sipping tonight does nothing for the writer, really, but I’ll write about it anyway.  For content.  It won’t get the most vocal review but a review nonetheless.  A lot going on now for the writer.  Just need to consolidate; from bottledaux to mikemadigancrEATive–  Should be speaking with another potential client tomorrow, lady from NYC who owns a vineyard in Windsor, I think Chelsea said.

I take a breath, try not to stress and look at all the clutter around me, on this desk, I need my own office, and I think I’m nearly there.  Want another sip of that Pinot, to see if I saw what I thought I did, or if I can see something else.  Talk about something else, I order Self– so what then, I talk back.  I don’t know.  I take the keys that were on my right and move them to left, now there’s this lovely welcoming void on my right side, on this desk’s top.  I feel freer.  So more de-clutter, more!  And now the lock, that secured the small thin chain cages storage at the condo complex.  And tuck a power cord wire around one of Alice’s laptops, even freer, more liberated.  I can;t have anything around me, only recollection and thought, and the vision of how I want my office– clean and clear and no obstruction.

So plan for morrow:


-1 short

-finish short started the other day (about college students close to grad)

-recitable narrative (performable, 500 words)

-micro fiction piece (100-110 words)

-novel contribution, 500 words

If the write fails to do all above, then he fails for the day; battle lost and he hides till he enough strength gathers to charge, fight once more.  Noise, now, from the TV my wife watches to the dryer upstairs.. how does my son sleep through this?  I’m annoyed suddenly, and again think of the Road, what I’ll experience and not just experience but live, learn, appreciate and grow from.

Technically I’m over a thousand words for the day but I feel like I’ve done nothing, nothing, feel like that write who keeps telling himself that he’s a writer and he’ll be a someone someday, but I’m an adjunct, forced to pour wine in a tasting room– what am I doing?  Will wake early tomorrow, and leap from sheets with angered energy, and make progress that startles me– my Road only carved partially, the rest invites, and I bite, in that harsh dark morrow to next night.  Reading On The Road with the students this Summer, more so than the past two semesters, has taught me to be more a daring writer, and to truly shun what critics and editor pigs tell me.  Like the recent assignment with the online magazines, saying my writing style isn’t what there looking for and they won’t be hiring me back for more articles.  But they want me to do a round of edits on what I wrote, after she told me she’d “take it from here”.  I’m not angry though, nor upset, nor irk, or irritated, not incensed or bothered or befuddled.  Nothing.  Just moving on.  I won’t change, not at this age.  And why should I, why bother the world with my ‘I’m-going-to’s’ when I can just change and shift and have people saying ‘oh, there’s something different about his, isn’t there?’ That’s what I’d rather.  And that’s what’ll happen.  Only 9 minutes, one hour left in June 26.  And I need to get to bed, especially if I’m to get up when I want, need.  Thinking of my room again, my office, what I’ll see from those windows.  What I’ll write that first day, the first real whole day working there, remembering all the horrible jobs I’ve had over the years, from the grocery gig at Lunardi’s to the Sears days, to the insurance office in San Leandro, to the ad idiots in Marin, then to the box, the Kenwood winery, and adjuncting– and yes, the adjunct cage is the worst tie I’ve ever found myself in.  But I make it work for me and there grip has never been able to pause my page stream.  The more I look into the adjunct qualms and grievances, the more thankful I am that I won’t let myself get that way; I did when I was a couple years in, I won’t fib, but now I have more, I see more, and I want more.  And will have more.

Battery to die, this goddamn thing.  Still need to xfer that story I wrote in class!  Have that count for one of the pieces tomorrow morning, if I can’t think of more material.  Would love to keep it separate from tomorrow’s A.M. session, but if I have to type I will.  Would rather than just have it rot on those legal sheets– oh shit, it’s already on the list.  I forgot.  Nevermind.


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Clocking in only a couple, literally two,

IMG_6585minutes ahead of anything resembling a schedule.  First topic of address: the young boy yesterday telling me how unhappy his dad is at work and how he’s searching for something else, “But, um, he’s looking for a new job…” he went on, and I just looked at him with interest and I guess pity, or if not pit then something of sympathetic semblance.  I’m near a mood not for writing but I maintain, and I think this should go to the yrownjoy project, but I haven’t the money to print so I just type on in this cafe, scribbling notes to myself for the first day of this Adjunct’s Summer, in only 3 days.  May take Monday off, but I’m not sure– now I’m sure my wife will have a comment or 12 if she reads this, but I’m transparent in my diarist leans and that’s what pummels my thinking at present.  I have trouble now writing and I’m not sure why, have to give this 4-shotter a chance to challenge my nerves and concentration.. much better flavor assembly than yesterday’s, no adjustments needed.  More ideas accost me for the Summer, ‘wanting & needing, being the same thing’, just hooped into my head, thinking of Kerouac’s Road and my Road and what I want to do for a living and where I want to be in 5 years– shit, I’ll be 41, and my second baby will be 5, and Jack will be 25– with how he acts.  This morning actuating a silly disposition then to something moody like his writing father then to wander, to roaming around the house looking for some distraction into which to lure us, both Alice and myself.  He’s that clever, mind you.  And me here in the café again, and for what, material.  Not in the novel mood, but I know I should be.  Didn’t wake early this A.M., no surprise, as I’d premeditated.  Woke up near 1AM to get Jack, he requested I stay with him but his bed was far too condense for my figure so I left only to hear him call for me when I stretched out next to a sleeping Ms. Alice.  I asked him if he wanted to sleep with mommy he said yes so I headed downstairs, under that soft red blanket.  Should have set my alarm.  But I didn’t.  And I woke to him running into the room, Daddy, daddy, I have cars!” he exclaimed, referencing the cars one of the children next door him gifted.  And I woke still very much feeling the run from yesterday.  Thinking of running tomorrow morning, waking at the hour of my mother-in-law, near 4:30, to hit possibly 8 miles.. that would be amazing.  Slight pain in knee left but nothing bothersome, nothing that woke me in the night’s middle. Interim before work, when I collect, but not like the last winery, this place welcomes me and my creativity from what I can see– oh, forgot I have to email my editor/publisher, sent her some thoughts on writing about Mendocino Wineries and Oregon spots, but she can only appreciate them at this time, which I of course appreciate and wait and gather more ideas and research if not for my own writings, the MOCK SOMM series or whatever.  Reviewing my friend Blair’s wine tonight, well as a Bacigalupi PS.  So that’s two Petite Sirahs.. I can do that, no problem.  I actually don’t now that much about Petite Sirah, I know it’s dark and used for blending a lot, and my sister made one that scored 90-something.. but not much more.  So tonight I’m educated.

Just off phone with Ms. Alice.  She ran 3 miles.  Her last weekday off before Summer School.  I IMG_6584sometimes forget, and I don’t know why, that we both teach, that we both value education.  And that we both love the students and acknowledge the students being harmed by the political scuffles and the skirmishes between instruction and administration.  I see myself a desperate journalist, needing a story, and I already have what I need in my reality with Jack and Alice and this new Russian River winery and the blogs I’m writing for, with the wines I’m to review tonight– no need to wish, I have everything I need, in this mocha no tweaks necessitated as this Beatnik readies himself for all the stories headed his way and all the notes and how the wines taste today–  Distracted by the people walking by, with their kids and I’m only kaleidoscopically turned in my visions of years before me, how Jack will see me in my profession, in my writing, and how the next little Beat will see me, how I act and how I write then I think of Jack reading my work in college.  And if anything, that’s becoming a prime aim of this writer’s, with my Beat and my new assignments and the promise they promote and boast and now more people swarm around me and invade the café– think they’re watching me write and reading this prose for free but don’t the “blog” readers?  Confounded and confused, astounded and amused–

9:22.  Still a good 30+ minutes for my pages and the character I want to shape for my children– “What’s your dad do?” someone asks Jack or his sibling…  ‘He’s a writer,” the answer.  Simply.  Confidently.  And with a relucent amour-propre.  That will be me, their father–  Blair, my winemaking friend with his own label messages me about some new label designs, I envy and enjoy and learn and some much else from him as a creator, then I second-guess my thought of not making wine this vintage, just stick to the writing.. what do I do? I don’t have the money to get the Cab from Cloverdale.  So there you go, solved.. just write, they’re subjects, the wines and the processes.  Stay in the bottle, you OX!

Have to restart phone.. ugh, tech, why do I do this to myself? Why not just write and post prose to this goddamn blog of mine?  ‘Oh cuz you need a visual of some kind..’ What the hell… okay.. just know the writer loses his patience and his cool and… all.  More likely I’ll leave early today, to gather Self and write more and contribute to the novel and write thoughts about the MOCK SOMM column and how I could maybe syndicate that and expand it as a brand and company and approach to wine; a methodology and kind pedagogy about wine; falling further into a love with wine, a true non-self-anointing characterization.

After 9:30– edit then leave.  A hurried penner, me, incessantly.  But one thing to be promised by this crazy writer, I will note all wines today at work and review my brother Blair’s when I get home.. he said the PS has to be open for at least 2 hours, and I trust him.. but I’ll see if I can make that happen, if not, then small poured and swirl the sense right out the bloody juice.  Narrative qualities in everything around me, all the people and what they order and the pictures I just took and how I feel about the future and how my children see me…  Like Blair, his kids should be more than proud of their father; independent, family-owned wine business and his worldly familiarity with all things wine, and all stories and voices of wine, everything from the bottle type to the cork style to the label, of course, and the fact there’s no foil.  Finally!  A wine that doesn’t need that added unnecessary flex of process.. with these Archival bottles, you simple twist into the tree, and pull, let breathe.. ugh, now I can’t wait to try the Chard and PS.  Asked Alice to find the CH in the rack and put in fridge.. hope she remembers as this has to be done, two pieces, which would give me 1,000+ words of material for the column.. work night, work in wine but not too much.  Need those miles in the morning, on a rapid relay to Wellness.  And my office.  The Road.  MY label, Self-publishing.. ZEN.


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More Days

Wine at this sitting, putting me in a mood of wondering and reaction, reflection, and probably IMG_6566something else I can’t now think of.  Sipping one of my ’12 Merlots.  Never tasted like this with it more poetic edge and ebb– ugh, told myself I wouldn’t write in blog tonight, that I’d produce something I could, and can–  typing in the “Study” of the Autumn Walk palace, now.  And I think about the music they were playing at the beer bar at Whole Foods, while I was waiting for our burritos– punk, loud, disorganized, would have killed for some Hutcherson– huh, this chair’s rather comfortable and accommodating, love it, and love this moment and how the wine flies through my system and senses and what I’m meant and made to think of…..

My articles.  Should work on them.  But not now.  Now’s for this freeing session and the thinking accompanying, and everything associated.  My wine in the kitchen and I can only think of how I have no money to self-publish, put my actual ‘yrownjoy’ efforts on actual page so I have to use this bloody blog.  Should make a publisher print my work, yes the traditional route, that’s what I IMG_6565should do, so I’ll do, that’s what I’ll do– the Massamen novel and go everywhere with it and my thoughts in it and this blog will work for the novels, only garnish them and further elucidate and punctuate my militant manuscript manner.  But the distractions.. I suppose part of life and part of the time I live in but it’s not an excuse, especially if I am truly a militant and highly disciplined writer.  Watching my steps with this new writing gig I landed through Shana, see where it goes but I have to finish a novel!  I thought to myself today, while drinking that IPA at Whole Foods, watching the guy tending the bar and the other employees working; moving boxes and helping frustrated customers like me who don’t have the patience or wherewithal to find the cereal on the cereal ISLE, and the man making the burritos:  What if I died and never finished a novel?  I felt instantly horrible, horrified, like I was IMG_6557really dying and I needed to get that goddamn thing done.  Not be distract by ANYTHING.  No short story ideas, no sketches or vignettes or short-shorts, nothing!  Not even poetry!  So I have a new plan: type the novel, quick, then print, edit minimally before, then send out, shop it; the novel about the adjunct in the East Bay who has to have two side jobs then discovers he wants to do something different, a bunch of something-different’s– but what and how, he’s getting old…  But he’ll do what he has to, to be the character and life he’s always thought– but then I think of the value of the short pieces, but how can I sell them?  Fuck my frustration and how it cripples me– what if I produce novels like other writers do short stories, poems, or short memoirs?  I can be that writer, right?  UGH.. how many times have I had this deliberation?!  So it here stops, halts and dies and is buried.

I quite like this study, if you must know, didn’t know how I’d feel about it as I love the kitchen island, but here I am, looking at a picture I took today of the Mendocino Ridge Pinot, 2013, I poured for myself toward the end of the day, before the blind tasting Mark (one of the winery owners) initiated for us, again.. this one a 2009 Pinot, RRV, from a producer I’d never heard of before.  I like it, I guess, but it was definitely showing its age and losing momentum, motivation for its own senses and purpose and sense of any purposeful positioning of purpose.  And I’m overthinking the entire wine life again, but that’s what I do– my novel, about the teacher at a community college leaving it all, to live a life of ONLY art.. no conformity, no following, no more fucking applications for anything.

The Pinot, the Mendo Ridge, telling a different perception to this sipper, a narrative I envy, frankly, and that I want to imitate.  Someone today even said it, and I could only laugh louder than I ever could aloud: “This isn’t light enough to be a Pinot.. this isn’t a ‘real’ Pinot.” What’s a “real Pinot”, I thought.  But then, yes, it’s subjective, I know.  But wine isn’t “supposed” to be anything.  I mean, how could you say that all Cabernets should do this, or all Pinot should have this feel to them?  That will never make sense to me, ever.  And the night grows and with me, with it, I become agitated and irritable, the cranky aging writer who hasn’t finished his goddamn novel.  But tomorrow that changes.  No shorts– no poems– no sketches or vignettes or even idea scribblings.. only the novel and the novel work log, like .. you know who.

And journal entries are to be kept to a minimum, no more than 300 words per act.  And no more than 3 a day!  I want to see how disciplined I can be as a writer, see how Hemingway I can become.  This house, now, quiet, and the lighting in this study, as I just told Ms. Alice, perfect.  Lit but not too beaming that I’m squinting or wishing it were more dim, more ambient or whatever I need.  I don’t even know what I need.  Or.. yes, yes I do.  My novel.  Done.  Write in one place, just one, and have it published, and all the full-time pigfuck professors at the JC and Sonoma State and wherever will have nothing to say– an adjunct fled, with writing, and nothing else.  He doesn’t TEACH writing anymore, or reading.. he actually does both.  For a living.  Travels.  Lives.  Assigns his own assignments.  And nothing else.  I rub my eyes, and forehead.. I’m tired, but still more than angst-angled with my characters and what they want to do– list, wish list, me always–  Wine stained pages always aid for such discord.


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MY Winery Story…..


A run earlier produced a few ideas as to what I call my wines, the projects themselves; both Literary and running references. And as the writer walked back to the Autumn Walk base–only walking as the heat stopped me right at mile 4–I thought of the balance of wine and Wellness, and how yes people should sip wine, mine or any others, but as well know what they’re sipping; not overthink it of course but just listen to their senses and what those receptors are telling them, and what the wine itself is telling them; what i instructs and confesses and casts….
Didn’t have much chance at work to research as I did on day 1, but I did notice as Kevin and I did inventory that inventory itself as an act can be made so lovingly and comfortably simple, simplified– no surprise drop-offs or organizations or re-organizations. And tonight for the winemaker, or writing winemaker, no wine; only water and a little leftover birthday cake as I need my thoughts atmospherically clear this eve; and to wake early in morrow’s wee-est of times to finish a short story I started. Yes about a winemaker. Yes based on both Blair and my sister. And yes, a vision of what I hope to be– no, what I HAVE to be– with my wines. Tasted a little at work today, just a little and this I tally as a winemaking study act: the ’13 RRV Pinot, the texture and how that transitions into the “finish”. And then I thought how much I bloody loathe that word, “finish”. Why would you ever want a sip and its echo to end? I mean, okay.. I know it HAS to end in tangibility. But what about thought? What about the reflection? The idea that was presented to you, like a short story, or novel, or memoir? Why can’t someone sip a wine and keep thinking about it, or discuss and if they wish deconstruct what they just tasted? Not bludgeon it with excess analysis, but simply communicate. Where is the “finish” there if the words continue, if the thought gallops on? And that’s what I want my SB & Cab, and in later vintages a couple projects in each type, to execute and birth; dialogue, a story, thought.
I’ll open something tomorrow night, but I’m not sure what, doesn’t have to be SB or Cab. Just a wine to study; its functionality and Literary qualities; the “palate narrative” as I thought today with that ’13 RRV PN. And with the narrative, I have to see intent of the wine, what it aims to state and the thesis it demands to deliver. And does it? Yes, I’m speaking of wine as a cognitive and interactive entity. The wine should have some form of rhetoric, and a certain shape and sequence to that rhetoric, revealing its truest of collusions.
A bit after 10, and I think of my tasting room, and the inventory and where it’s kept. Do I do ‘appointment only’ or open Room for the world to come sip? Or do I not do a TR at all? Over-thought… sure I’m not the only winemaker to do this…..


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Over 2,000 words already.

And I still want to write more. How sick. But I stop. Racked a short-short story to the first issue of ‘yrownjoy’, see if I follow through with that– but now, no, I have to! Have to fill these income gaps. $6 an issue, print 20 at a time.. easy. Should cost $3 an issue, printing.. so, like I said, easy.. just have to market my self and this modern pamphleteering effort.
Ugh.. have to get ready for work. but I’m excited, really, will take more wine/winemaking notes, but not taste the wines today as I WILL run.. 6 miles, get back into the shape I was in for that Hot Chocolate Run.

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MOCK SOMM: Sanglier Cellars, Sonoma County, “Rouge Du Tusque” — Red Table Wine, 2011

IMG_6377And I met one, a Rhône blend I love. In fact, as Poe said, it’s a love that’s “more than love–”. And I do, I do! Finally! Pardon my effusion but I can’t seem to conceptualize why it took so long to find this prominent small producer, but the Story made it so, with Ms. Chelsea and her amorous little daughter, Emilia, walking into my tasting room. She gifted me a bottle of their blend and I tasted it nearly immediately; it had everything I look for in wine character; credibility, believability, narrative, conflict and tangibility of persona– and I know, a somm would break the wine down by IMG_6378remedializing descriptors, but this wine, my new love with its Literary pervasiveness and apparition-like palate, warrants more. Poe too said in his ode to his love that nothing could dissever him from her. And that’s just what my inner-narrative composes alongside this wine, such staunchness and genuine harness, with its gentle but assertive and definite palate intention; red fruit and a serenading attack of spice swarms, introduction to conclusion. And with my consideration of this new oeno-seraph, its producer in downtown Healdsburg, near the square which I transfusively adore, I want to let it connect a bit more with oxygen, which is what I did, pouring myself a full glass soon as in my writing cave– And then, connection and dialogue and I found myself like Kerouac atop his underwood, traipsing further into the blend’s paragraphs and sensory syntax– me, the writer, caught, with bottle now versifying more energy behind the crimson fruit catapult– and I love when wine does this to me, and few do, especially Rhône blends. And what would other critics say about it, I don’t care, I’m in zealous sentiment, partiality. I feel like Hemingway when he saw the dark-haired beauty, noting a sense of belonging. I belong to this blend, and how I don’t need to figure out– I’m compelled, propelled, to my own Heaven and Hell. Singing alongside the Rouge, feeling wild and roaming with the boars and finding a sheltered sepulchre; all life, no exit. In the ‘Tusque’ room, fulfilled and fostered in tasted intricacies– No Rhône before’s done this to me.

IMG_6380Yes, you’re expecting an ‘MM’ score, but I’m not a bloody sommelier. I’ve written my capillaries with this bottle, and that’s what I intended note. I’ll be by their tasting room before long… Was supposed to go today but Life slithered toward my periphery. I stare at what’s left in the bottle, maybe enough for another glass tonight. Which saddens me. Only so much of the Love tarrying. Perhaps enough for two glasses, maybe. Eager to see what new chimes me await in palate and odorous plumes, resonance.. I wait.


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With this move, there’s always something to do, so I come home to an empty house, Alice and Jack at the store and I have to rush this session. I need a session unrushed, which I’ll get on Tuesday, after the final, the 7AM 1A meeting. Heated quiche from the other night in microwave. Soon as I came home I started my snacking, so hungry and barely eating a thing all day. Have to finish the short story I started drafting yesterday– or last night posted. And more winemaking notes for this vintage and my label.. thinking of writing a certain piece, something like a manifesto but not really about how my label will be executed and how I’ll make wine, and how I’ll sell, and everything about the model the business will take. And I’m learning more than I ever expected to from Arista, just in the one and half months of being there, seeing how Ben and Mark interact with guests and ‘list members’ at the even yesterday.
On that ride back up to the pavilion, Ben pulling us on tractor, how I just thought, narrated internally and I wish I could have recorded it somehow damnit but maybe that’s what makes it so rich is that I can’t remember precisely what I mentally wrote but that I knew and know that I took time to Self to merely think, observe and appreciate the moment. The Estate, the Ride, the Road, ME.
Quiche finished.. and the novel, the novel, and how I’ll fund it as I noted earlier with the media and the blogging and videos.. all for the novel. I’ll have this blog be like my day job, if you will, and all else, which is printed, my true focus. This beer tasted incredible, especially after going to the condo and removing mold with Dad, best we could. This new house will be a pristine palace for my family, a safest of safe places. No impurities or clutter or filth– it shall be clean like my prose, and welcoming, something my son and second little Madigan can be quite proud of.
Can’t believe the semester’s over, but I have to get over the nostalgia, bid adieu to the two most forwarding and inventive student groups I’ve had in years. And I keep thinking, thinking about the adjunct role and what to do with it, how I can use it and how it’s entirely my story, my novel, even more than wine is. Wine is merely something that I relatively recently fell in love with. It’s more what I do contrasted to who Mike Madigan truly is: a writer, Literature lover, teacher. And that’s why I write about wine the way I do and why I think my approach to wine is more than merely “marketable” and that this business idea will catalyze and fund my printed projects. Me, in that haircut place today, scribbling like Paradise on the Road, in the back of a truck or in some field somewhere, journey path progression– all! And why stop? Like Michael said to me the other week: “It’s still being written.” His counsel and narrative, like tutelary talk, arrive punctually and with gravitational sagacity.

I’m not sure how much time I have left in this quite house– ha, used to say “condo”– but I breathe, and refuse to get stressed about anything this move, or now just a matter of selling the condo, involves. I told Alice over the phone that we should consider this prepping the condo for sale, and just selling it, like a war. And I know I always note in those emotive curvatures, but I’m quite serious. That goddamn structure, with its mold and its cracks and its bloody surroundings–from the neighbors (but not Ken & Jen) to the neighborhood to busying Yulupa Avenue–needs to be forced from our lives. Done. Departed and divorced, and thematically scorched.
So.. what do you want, Mike? I mean, what do you really want? Enough bullshit. Enough of the goddamn wishlisting. What does this writer want? ‘Well, to write, and live from it, buy some land somewhere, in Central Oregon maybe, Sisters I’m thinking, and take my family there every summer, play and relax and be in Nature and just reflect on life and my children and how lovely it now all finally is, and be with true Personhood.’ But who knows, I can only wish, I guess, but not anymore, no, what am I saying– I will make certain things happen and keep noting in this Comp Book I’ve kept all semester and draw my existence from the view required to be the writer I need be. Like Hem with his residence in the Keys.
I don’t have the luxury of preliminary anything, I realize. Just leap, and act and publish and do– oh now I’m rolling, and I should write Bear Republic a thank-you for this very Racer 5, the one that gave me a thousand rushed words before Ms. Alice and little Kerouac came home. No, no preliminary, this is the actual, the tangible, the pages that will make the remainder of my presence, stage, me in role in character in actuality, in this new ME. No distractions no devices right now I just don’t have time for anything that doesn’t directly involve the page– I watch the footage I shot from the trailer, and I need to be around vineyards, always, and there’s more money in the wine world that can fund my Self-publishing aims and visions, the plateau that all writers want: approval on everything, passage on all projects, and who better to rely on than mySELF? Oh.. and don’t think this entry is parergon to anything! Just like I’m not an adjunct! This sitting is whole, it is coherent and tells its own story, the capture of a rushed adjunct between houses, and between ideas, and between stages, sections, one mundane and the other radically cosmological! Just wait, reader. Just wait…..
Been dying for the keys all day, and here I am, and there’s my mind, out there, wishlisting, and what’s wrong with wishes? But they can be made immediate, not so distant and not so theoretical.

So this novel, this novel, this bloody fucking novel. What about it? What will it tell? The adjunct’s life and what he thinks of, or how he regrets what he chose but he knows what he chose, to be an English Professor, and now thinks ‘oh maybe something else.’ This has to be Bear Republic talking. It has to be–

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2day’s story–

IMG_57786:54, just got to campus. Optional day for students. Thinking of new ideas for what I’m building in being a writer, and putting the novel on hold, or rather having it be my toy truck project. One student in room with me. My adjunct days, or the dependent/co-dependent days of living so are coming to an end. Won’t go off on that and I know you think I will, but I’ll refrain..
The wines from yesterday, and just how I felt driving around, introducing myself and finding new interpretations of varietals and business models.. has me thinking of expansion, and doing something MAMMOTH in the industry.. blogging and tasting and Art and photography.. all of it, and blending it with literature.. saying this wine would pair well with– OOOO!!! Just thought of something else.. have to type it.. “class” if you’d call it that starts in 3 minutes, now 2. Jackie and I up at 2 till after 3 watching cartoons, but I have coffee don’t worry. Told Alice I would sleep between classes but I don’t see myself doing that, knowing me and how much I want to write after yesterday’s RRV mission…

Home. And I’m writing. Posted wine review, see what happens.. think there’sIMG_5746 something quite valuable and antagonistic, valuably antagonistic in this MOCK SOMM column.. again, we’ll see. I am tired but I know if I have just one cup I’ll write luminously and with seismic force.. I say that and cringe, thinking of the people in Nepal. How and why does life do that to people? Wish I could fly there, document it to tell there story, and help in other ways. But I know me and I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to handle it; the pain, the death, and the sight of harmed children. Was going to watch a WWII doc the other night and stopped when I saw a baby crying, atop rubble. I felt sad, sick, and ashamed I even saw that pained curvature to its eyes, mouth, brow, arm.. ugh, no more.
And my baby, little Kerouac, up early this morning with his cough and me bringing him downstairs to get his mind away from the discomfort, turning on cartoons. He was much better, more talkative and expressive for it, and we all went to bed for a couple hours following, so I have no regret in what I executed but my body and sight, thinking is affected. I’m slower, and sensitive I notice to sound and how I touch things, even these keys. But I’m sped in my keypushes so I’m determined and strangely comfortable, at Peace with this sitting (on floor, against couch, next to backpack).
Consolidating blogs at semester’s close, my left knee.. more coffee.. a nap.. haircut….. Jackie….. Just a few subjects strangling my sensibility at the moment, and how I discussed this morning with two of my stronger matriculants the contradictory and widely ugly hypocrisy of academia.. more I think about me and my story and role as adjunct I see these pages taking me away, and soon, and the inventiveness must perpetuate.. bottledaux as a company.. ‘WRITen’ as an idea, and the whole vinoLit philosophy I formed in ’09/’10… Think, don’t stop thinking.. brainstorm as I urge the students. When I look at some of their journals and see how heaping they are with thought and just true stormings of the brain, I realize I need to anger my own efforts. Antagonize them. TAUNT them. Treat them as caged cats that only want to fight back. SO I do I will I’m going to.. all day. No nap. Fuck a nap. What would that do but make me dead for an hour or more.. no writing when you’re sleeping. That sure as shit won’t finish a MS.
And back from a distraction. Email, social media, pushing the blog and what have.. So quiet in the condo, and I know I won’t sleep. And I’m not that tempted anymore. One of the social media tributaries is slow, or clogged, simply not functioning but I won’t let it damper. No.. I write on.. and I’m hoping tomorrow at Arista gives me more material on wine and wine thoughts and words as it has since I started. Huh, look at the writer fly across his keyboard. You know what, reader, I will have that next cup, if you don’t mind… And I’ll rise in a minute from this floor. Wine.. wine tasting.. winemaking. With more and more flowering showing up in the vineyards, my wine nears, my Cab. OR Pinot. Shit, what do I want. Why not try Pinot? The chemistry dimension or segment you can find assistance for, with. But how it tastes is my conduction. I’ll again study what we’re pouring and elect what tones I want visible. Yes, I’m challenging Pinot just as I’m sure it will challenge the writer.
Already coming to a thousand for the day and I can’t wait for tomorrow, for the reactions from how I describe the wines, which a better 99-point-something percent take to. And, sometime I instruct myself there, in the moment, in the TR while I’m connecting with a local or tourist on how the wine presents itself that day. Wine shifts shapes, I evermore appreciate and see and think that’s what people forget. “How will this taste in two or three years?” How the hell IMG_5793should I know, however the wine wants itself to taste. Now some winemakers will give you a thought that’s smattered in formula and some obscurely worded prediction (if they have their dictionary or thesaurus or ‘phonics’ book close by) . But I’ve found the wine is more cognitive that we give it credit. And, again, that’s why wine is quite plainly FUN. Why would you want to know what you’re going to get for your birthday, or xmas, or any occasion. Isn’t the tradition of surprise much of what contributes to and establishes life’s allure and cherished chase?
Looking at a picture from yesterday, of the soil in one of the VML vineyards. And I’m not sure, why, just the richness and texture and visual voice.. that image and.. I don’t know, but I’m captured and developing in my survey.. the seen, the scene.. I react and.. and….. I don’t know. Splendor, sense, Art, writing, a story, new ME: NEW MIKE. One I like, or even love. Again, I

Ideas.. a broadcast in addition to the writing.. just keep writing and working and thinking and capturing..


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Beauty Brooding

IMG_5691Attestedly, Pinot and I have a flimsy relationship– we bicker, we contest, we ardently altercate. But not tonight.. tonight we dance, thanks to this Russian River producer.. the fruit is not in any angle contrived or forced, or one-columned. I’m being spoken to, in song, in verse, this ’13 is like a convincing cloud of sensory force that I’ve never met; that other Pinots in set would envy and downright deplore for its palate prose. And maybe this would be the glass, my second, spurring the writer, but it’s Truth– this Pinot is its own mandate, a sovereign sewing of empyreal ebullience– wild herbs and field-y tones taunting the caesura of raspberry and maple, slight cedar– but I‘m not approaching the wine that way, with the dumbed cataloguing of notes and ‘descriptors’. This character deserves more, and more, and by ‘more’ I intend a story, and I envisage, some world, or setting, or moment where character like myself and another like-penner perambulate in words and recitals and– some crowd, listening to our words, all prompted by this Burgundy, from Westside Road… Next sip, forcing my diffidence, causing me to reject any and all boxes, and cherish my own chatter. When I find a wine like this, this is what materializes. And Pinot, of all forms, genres. This is no wine review, no silver-tongued sentence sequence, just me writing to wine; evidence irrefutable of the writer tilted and terrifically taunted by a new wine find. And Pinot… Pinot! I don’t want to be one of this new fashionable fold but it looks like I am. But that wasn’t the writer’s desideratum, by any measure. And that’s my understanding of Pinot as a presence: vagary, the espial; ensuing enclosure. But I’m digging too far as I tend to do, this writer-slash-professor.. I should have just sipped and scribbled, jotted some humdrum banality and skipped along with the glass-tilts. But that’s not how we arrange on page, we writers, the word-warpers loving simple syllabics with a bit of sip. And like Kerouac, there was a decision I’ve been meaning to stamp and solidify but it’s been tossed away from my perceptive plain, and pleasurably. And I thank the PInot, this ’13, for getting me to clarity some coherence of paragraph, composition.. wine wine always in a wine, me and my cyclical sentiments… my Beat.
And my glass empty. A lull ebbs in my Personhood. And to do.. what. Nothing. Just stare at this bloody glass as any Beat would. My curves and coursings opaque in any rationale, and so mundane when I re-write, and re-re-write. But this bottle’s solved that. And I’m untroubled. From this Pinot. Why does it confront me from sides blind? It, this contained vivacity light but not so, aims to have its Self heard. And I know you’re asking, “Where? From where? What winery?”
Why does it matter? I’m a writer, find love, a wine, mine, mind molded and resulted. Freed, me.. That’s REAL capsuled composition. So I sip again…..


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4/18/15: A Matter a matter

First, walk with Alice and Jack up Bennett Valley climbs (by golf course, those streets, with those houses that cause fantasy in me), then coffee (mocha for the writer), then rush ready for work then a frenzied day of pours and preferences and varying attitudes from so many from so many somewheres.  Now I’m in the nook, ever-focused on consolidation for the students, writing the most interwoven and intricate and antagonistic lectures I can.. so the maddenedread blog will be executed at this term’s end, which is now only a matter of week from the when in which I sit.  Tonight’s wine, a Zin, the Dry Creek option from Arista.. then later write about the RRV Pinot, then just, quite bluntly, keep Self writing, and no TV, no shows, not even the writing documentaries I frequently use to push Self.  Monday a day off for the writing adjunct and I’ll spend it completely in adjunct role, and I’ll write a lecture on Sedaris and the essay form, around 1500 words worth.  I’ll have them all silent and connected and eager to respond but reluctant to as well.  I have to keep writing and posting and SELF-publishing to this bloody blog so one day I can print and disseminate my own efforts.  I do value the traditional printing and distribution of page, but this is what I have to do for the being time.

I do find my Self in a bit of a mood, here at the nook table, acknowledging Time’s assault on me and my work and my knees and the patience I may have never had.  I want to walk outside, and I would on the Road, at whatever hotel I’d be put in, just walk and with no aim or destination, stay away from the bars and people– just find the moments for Self, look at sky, knowing it’s the same as Yulupa’s but with varied angles and positionings.  The Life– topic and glow, in the pages I’ll show, who’ll read and who’ll conceive?  I’m quite overthinking the prospects and punctuations of my presence, with any.. but there I am, HERE I am.  And I don’t know what to do with this mood.. concentrating on wine, making wine, wine of my own and with my interpretive sieve.  Know Eddie thought of this once, maybe once or twice before he was published, but I can only wonder, and I’m getting tired of wondering, why am I still pouring wine like a local dunce and why do I let my Self be lead, carrot’d as an adjunct by Them– those chairs and deans and presidents– doing whatever on stage on professional development days, trying to look like one of us or give some convivial impression.  And who’s now the dullard?  You should have seen him, this guy, this ‘president’, dimwit dope with that assured grin knowing what his salary is while adjuncts laugh at him and thinking of throwing something.

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