from book

…I am, right.. a wild wine writer?  Sipping the Chalone Grenache I last night popped, when I probably shouldn’t have, and it doesn’t say a thing to me.  Thinking about spilling it out, but I’m in the mood to enjoy Saturday night from the tell of a writer, honest and sharp, curt and somewhat composed.  Felt myself slow after second beer, the quesadilla at that new place.  Went to Oliver’s for 3rd beer but I couldn’t.  Jesse and Kyle enjoyed theirs and I couldn’t wait for home, time for these keys and pages.  And now, another change.  Another turn in the story unexpected but I’m thinking that’s just what I need.  For a story.  For my health…

Photo on 5-26-18 at 9.27 PM

img_443313:13.  Not sure if that time is bad luck or not, but I’m back home.  Didn’t get license renewed but stayed in line till I saw lady clerk, young with glasses, and she told me after I asked her how long the wait was, and that I might leave and come back Wednesday, a day after license death, to go to the computer and at least register or whatever and get a confirmation number.  Which I did.

Now that I’m home, and with a clean house after cleaning squad finished their excellent job, soundless house except of course for Mr. Davis’ track, “I See Your Face Before Me”.  Need to write a track today, at some point.  Won’t lie, poured self some of the Felta Chardonnay.  Need today to be yesterday but with more expansion and dimension.  Providing poetry and…. Ready to start a track.  Jam with myself and this white wine…. Saw the ‘Speed Limit Enforced’ or some such sentence or fragment arrangement on a sign, driving back from Petaluma..  Had idea for poem, something to read.  Read it and record it.

Saw new business plan for self as a writer and blogger, right in front of me driving over the Cotati grade, with some motorcycle flying past me, obviously unaffected by the watchful sign and nonexistent CHP.

My pour was small, my sips are smaller.  If anything, soon I’ll go back to the Hopper ‘bucks and find a spot, order some pure blacker than black, lovely coffee, and write my verses for day, to sell.  I never do this, sip wine in day’s middle.  I’m feeling better, the drops seem to be working, work texting me saying how they miss me.  I feel immediate, more jazz-chore’d, musical and present.  Like my identity, Mike Madigan, was re-written.  By me and the day, herself.

What a day so far for this pink and red-eyed writer. 

Photo on 5-25-18 at 10.05 AM #2Had to call out again, waking up this morning with eyes dipped in butter or watery caramel.  And my mood, I won’t bore you with that.  But I’m here writing till I have to go to the DMV.  Going to make an assignment of it, a project… make my DMV visit make ME healthier, mentally and anatomically, corporeally.  I’m home with quiet and jazz as I yesterday was, feeling a bit of guilt for not going into the winery, but not.  In fact, I need this day off entirely to be for ME.  Reader— Do the same.  For YOU.  More than just every once in a while.  When you look in the mirror and have even the slightest nay about your inner notes and music, shove that facet to its antithetical.  You have to force yourself to do this, but the strain shouldn’t be that great if it’s a state and mind and state/stay of mind you truly want.

At the DMV, I’ll log every character.  Force self to do something I don’t want to, which is be there, and turn it around entirely to a writing piece, the act of writing which I love more than any labor.  Health is defined by us.  We decide if we want to be healthy or other, or worse.  Today, not being on one of those trite and all too circulated self-challenge shines and chimes, launches a storming toward total wellness and health.  All in Equilibrium and symphony placement and practice.

Had a sausage and egg sandwich which I shouldn’t have picked, nor should I have bought a mocha but rather just medium roast.  Would have saved calories and dollars.  But, I learn.  And that, learning, always learning, like me with French, and more habitually reading, is a healthy presence, identity and tone.


from book

…peace in the airy atmospheric and island tones and talk of it.  Like I’m not so much on a beach but on some patio, writing, putting the last laces in a book.  Looking at the little puddle in the stemless plastic cup given to me by someone, or bought by me at some point, I see more story, more of me and my present.  Wine provokes me to write more and faster, tell more stories from the tasting room and what people see and say in those walls, from that side of the bar.


Now, I’m compelled to speak to people new in the wine industry.  Not as an expert, or some burgeoning business bloke, but as someone who’s seen so much, from inner-winery and inter-departmental skirmishes, to inventory discrepancies, to tasting new releases and my walks around the vineyard, and around the crush pad.  Working at a winery, hoping for more pay but really the only way to more weighty paychecks is to sell more.  And, you don’t want to hound management for more money.  Love your character more than that.  Make the experience your own… but it’s more than that as well.  Manage your story, note everything.  Tomorrow I get there then take a couple notes, count registers (which I bloody loathe), open doors, open cages, take out wines…