Ride, Back to Paris

10/2/12.  Tuesday/Sunday.  Typing next to Jack.  His position on this couch, fiddling with toys, shapes, animals, varied trinkets suggest I do the same.  And as Kelly has so many times ordered me, stop thinking.  Altogether.  Just create.  Jack stares at me like I’m brewing some special panacea.  I wish, I tell him in glance.  This morning, did some writing for book up at that Hood Mountain parking lot.  Full page of prose, about half another poetry.  For day’s rest, cleaning desk.  All that clutter, document filth, stressing the writer.  Jack attempts to toss the little stuffed cartoony-looking tiger I bought him at a local book store.  It isn’t propelled far, but he picks it up again, projects one more time my way.  Now, he tries to reach for these keys.  What would he type?  Let’s see…  Tried to put board in front of him, but he went so far as to wrap his arms around the whole device, bigger than his frame’s width.  He has a gall about him, this little creature that I have to, should definitely, emulate, especially at this point in a writer’s life.  He watches me type, again.  As if to meditate in the Crafting of this paginated mediation, like that one session in my Paris hotel Room, looking down at damp side-streets.  Was I meditating that night, or just enamored?  Could there be a difference in this/that case?

Managed to type a thousand yesterday, passing the coveted mark at Farmers Starbucks, but didn’t dig into old efforts as I’d hoped.  HOPEFULLY, today, I’ll get to visit some of those entries.  Maybe even the ones scribbled at the box.  If I remember correctly, I think I managed to fill two 50-sheet legal pads while in my ever-changing cube [both location, organization, winery assignment].  I laugh now, seeing that all that writing time was on their dime.  I need to fall back into past, for gathering savory snippets.  Kelly once told me how she redrew many of the pieces she did in her first drawing or painting class, freshman year.  Where is that creature when I need her?

Hot outside, again.  Temperature fall begins tomorrow, even though it’s set to be in the 90s.  Think I’m in the tasting room.  And if not, I’ll be on the mountain.  Could use the views, honestly.  New material, I have it already, in all these wine-hunting tourists that flock to the counter.  One guy the other day, said one of our Chards had “great butter.” I laughed a little, the scribbled his lines out of his eye’s grasp, but right at his 12.

7:34pm.  Hate the word epiphany, but–okay, revelation, I had a conscious-constricting revelation earlier.  After writing in Hood Mountain’s parking lot.  On branding, of all things.  Singularity in branding, as it pertains to me.. making a living as a writer, Artist.  Keeping all written affairs and efforts simple.  So what was it, EXACTLY?  To stop the 2nd blog, 1StopWineBlogShop.  And I don’t do this from depression, frustration, anger, exhaustion, knee-jerk deduction, excess passion.. nothing like that.  This idea was so adjusting, definitely instrumental in my mental makeup, as far as these blogs go, especially with my writing, that I had to pull over to write it in my winemaking Comp Book, just under the poetry I scribbled on that 2nd page, disrupting that piece’s physical continuity.  But I didn’t care, still don’t.  Everything, from here forward, bottleaux.  The Ox, in his Bottle, will continue his advance.  Maybe one day starting a bottledaux publication.  A bottledaux wine bar.  Art gallery?  Who knows.  But everything from Mike Madigan, now, bottledaux.  vinoLit, yes, still very much present, just not physical.  It’s the mentality that started this union of wine & Literature, as you know.  Feel so free in this new trek.  So, more photos on this blog.  Video.  Everything wine, Literature, Art, photography, film, music, expressive, Human, enjoyable…

Last week’s early A.M. pick, on mind.  Probably not doing so this week, and that’s fine. I want to capture the berries being crushed, that free-run rushing into a bin, then 2 tank.  bottledaux intends to trap EVERYTHING Mike Madigan sees, experiences, that he sees as captive-worthy.  Third-person, so arrogant, self-anointing.  Sorry, readers.  But I can’t believe I’ve had this level of sight with these 2 blogs, before today.  Focusing on that will only keep me stalled, away from my office, away from Road.  These pictures, from that early Chardonnay pick, had me wanting to go back out.  I don’t care if I get paid.  It’s a bottled lark for this Bottled Ox.  One of the vineyard managers said I was like an Army Ranger out there, with my black jacket, stealth movements, unexpected location shifts.  Just remembered him saying that while here in the chair– when he came into the tasting Room at his day’s end, sipping a glass of ’11 SB I poured.

Tonight, for the author a 2011 Rosé.  Actually, Rosado Garnacha.  Found it today while stopping in for a tasting at Naked Wines & Tasting Lounge, where Blackstone used to be.  They share the Room with St. Anne’s Crossing Winery, one of Wilson’s labels.  Haven’t popped it yet, waiting to pair it with the Whole Foods [Paycheck] burrito I bought.  Carne asada, naturally.  Alice bought one of my most loved writer movies of all time, her 5 year anniversary gift to the writer, “Midnight in Paris.” Not much a follower of Owen Wilson nor Woody Allen, but this film speaks about everything I’ve attempted as a writer– everything I still want to do.

9:31pm.  I’ll finish the movie’s remainder tomorrow, hopefully.  Have class, so I’ll probably get home late.  An interesting day as a writer.  And there’s been a couple other “revelations,” but I don’t feel need to here have them noted.  Keeping these others to Self, for cognitive cementing.  One more glass of the Rosado.  Not as full as I usually Self-pour, but it’ll do.  Haven’t taken first sip yet.  Anticipation, something like what turns with Kelly…

She only drinks one wine type cold, Syrah Rosés.  Oh, and occasionally Viogniers.  On nights off, which aren’t often at her Creative rate, she watches older movies, or animal documentaries–ones following endangered creatures, in places far, removed and secluded.  Kelly’s transfixed on letting life happen, following the question mark, keeping inquiry alive, palpable.  She has only time, then not enough of.  And if a gallery doesn’t like the piece she brought them, she continues as if there was no rejection.  She doesn’t acknowledge rebuffs.  Her focus always stays in her present project.  Since leaving the restaurant, she’s been one living.  She’s in perpetual performance to avoid rewind to simplistic existence.  This is what she wants.  And she has it.  It’s hers.  So she’s off.

Me, I can’t help but stare at this fading glass, think all’s about to change.  And tomorrow, whether in tasting Room or on mountain, I’m keeping character, both concept of and mine, in cue.  Suddenly annoyed by certain shifts.  Need quiet.  And more wine.  Hate how short days stay drawn.  Time for the Ox 2 stop.  This session, starting to hurt.