11/24/12.  Didn’t post last night’s session.  But I will tomorrow, at some point.  Just finished my student’s recommendation letter.  Was going to put it off, the editing, AGAIN.  But I owe her much better than that.  Especially her.  So I sat down, finishing it with a policing eye.  And now, all the writer/professor has to do is send it off.  I won’t lie, I was looking forward to writing this, boasting on how I suppressed my procrastinating urge to take the student’s needs over my own.  Does that make me selfish, or even more of a writer, educator.  Can’t decide.  Don’t think I want to.

Just poured night’s capping song, most of the remaining 2010 Claret from night last.  And again, I find the wine tasting better, having a more enchanting note delivery this night than its predecessor.  Re-reading my notes from the tasting Room.  Interesting characters today, with this valley-oriented event.  I do get a bit annoyed when I pour, try to explain a little about the wine, not going overboard, and the guests simply turn their backs to me, fly away into their own feathering conversations.  Why are they there, to just drink?  I’m not drawing conclusions, even though there’s more than enough evidence for me to do just that.  I only want my questions, at very least, noted.  That tasting Room, the wines it represents, and I mean at ANY winery, changes characters, their collective, individual charismas.  And it only makes a writer like Mike Madigan eager to fire more honesty at his pages.  That’s what makes a writer.. Honesty, I’m finally understanding.  To Self-censor, as this industry would LOVE for me to do with everything I write dabbling in elements believed to be “theirs,” is sinful dishonesty–  No, rephrasing.. Mechanical dishonesty–  No, no.. need words better, more Literary.  Surfeiting fourberie, that’s what it would leave me feeling I was, if I ever did muffle Self.  Feel I’m running out of words, like language only so many shades, tints, for me to paint.  Guess another initiative to add to my research list.  Attacking language itself; knowing IT better than it can explain, unveil, present itSelf.

My glass, over there on the red end-table, surrounded by items random, odd, clunky.  Most of them related to my son’s existence.  MY little character, upstairs, in his newest dream set.  Alice told me this morning, by phone, that last night he laughed in his little sleeps.  What images fell from his unconscious faucet?  Tomorrow, the writer’s Friday, but hardly.  So much to do on Monday.  One of the obligations, or appointments if you could call it that: work.  Well, teaching.  Hoping I get that second class in Spring.  This idea of idolizing the Comp Book, for the English 100 section, may be gold.  Or even platinum.  Can’t wait to find out.  Tomorrow night–  I mean Monday night, sorry.. I’m going to overwhelm the students with material.  Truly stun them; re-affirm my name as a professor of writing, Literature.  And as a writer.

Just enjoyed a storming taste of the ’10.  Returning to my wines this week.. the ’12 Merlot, and MKCS.  Can’t lose sight of my label, whoso cellars.  And I won’t.  Not sure why this slouching scribe gets so dramatic in vino’s vortex.  Honestly, this wine’s just putting me back into last night’s themes: travel, family, exploration.. Paris.  Best taste.  Every time I drive to those ruins on the property, I moment-dream I’m back, in Paris.