Back from industry holiday party. Not sure what I’m feeling. But when I’m able to translate, I’ll put it in book. Deadline, 1 week away. Will I make it? Not sure. Probably not. Of course I can give Self an extension, as I’m the publisher. But even still, if I don’t, that makes Mike a bit less credible. Never mind that for now, to this ’10 Cab I just opened, for night’s cap. At “party,” I sipped nothing but sparkling.. well, 1 glass of ’09 Meritage just before leave. Today at work, 1 Mountaintop Tour, Tasting, followed by hours at counter. 1 group, all of which were beyond limits legal or letting, nothing but adversarial, challenging me on my assessments of French Oak vs. Hungarian. Didn’t let it bother me a bit, as I know what my understanding is, and I didn’t wobble.
So now, to this ’10… A bit young, but there’s structure, voice in that glass. Little Kerouac, asleep upstairs. The whole time at that corporate assembly, thinking about how I’m not a single writer/grad student in San Ramon anymore. I’m a writer, father.. this needs to produce, this “blog.” These pages. Focusing on honesty… Need to be cannibalistic with my candor. So, I find some winemakers to be prima-donna-like in their everything. They make the wine, yes, and this writer has nothing but worship for their fruitions. But that does not give them warrant, although they think it does, to belittle, criticize, screech at people near their streak. And to be honest, they depend on too many variables to work in their favor– to many conditions, climates, factors and forums to be considered TRUE artists. We, of pen, only rely on ink, sheet, what strikes us. In end, manuscript. Hopefully. Yes, I’m guilty.. right now, with this ’10, Crafted by my friend Zach, I’m hopscotching on opaque keys. I’m not moving balled-point across a line, as I should. Actually, the next journal I buy will be without lines. Just a blank page. Carousel’d composition. Realest Art I can convoke. And that’s all I hope to be, when I grow up, if I ever do. An Artist. Of pen. Not laptop. The Cab, telling me to– I don’t care what it’s telling me to do. You know me, reader.. I’m Independent. Of everything. Even wine. I write what I conspire. Till I eternally retire. Writers, evermore introverted.. what makes us REAL Artists. Our overhead, little. Dependency, nil. Lovely way for forage. Boastful winemakers: Learn from us. Another sip… Opening. At first, I thought it a bit young, sharp, shy. Now, swagger, play, personality. That Cabernet ballading.
10:12pm. Tired, a little. Tomorrow, tour with some wine bloggers. OR social media types, something to effect. Should get there early. Might need a 4-shot morning mocha as I had this morning. Not sure what’s upstairs, in my “petty cash” stash. Even though there’s nothing “petty” about it. Those bills, mostly tips, going towards the launch of bx/MADIGAN Publishing. Need my office.. NO distractions, not even wine, I’m now thinking. Only need what’ll 4ward my Art. This wine, much I love it, slows things.. the Creative process. Not at all what I need.
What I love about this new phone, and the phone that on me DIED.. it’s my own journal, of sorts. A visual second, minute and hour stream of my MY moments, discoveries.. CAPTURES. Want Jack to have a father valuing essences, complexities of TIME. Much I hate the clock, I do acknowledge its significance. Need to have more patience, but not be laissez-faire in scribbled soundings. How will that help anything? Can’t write well, or brilliantly [as I aim] if I fear. So this industry, “the industry” as these winemakers call it, or “this business…” should be mindful that REAL writers’ hover with other druthers. See? Most would respond something to chord of, “What is he talking about?” But they’re not writers. They may keep some “journal,” logging every few days or so. But they don’t see what we do.. They don’t paginate at our rate. My glass, empty.. just being honest. Think I need another pour. Tonight, my Thursday… Just filled another glass. Should probably slow. Want to reach 1k– No more focusing on word amount, I promised Self. I’ll tell you, reader, I’m more that thankful for this love of Writing. Not going to call it a “gift,” as I don’t see mySelf at such levels. But I do feel better when I write. Or even type.. just being honest.
The sunset tonight, making me think of others, around globe. What if Jack turns out a writer like I? Don’t want him 2B me, at this stage, still wishing. That’s why I’m more relentless in my pushes, to that Equilibrium, subsistence from passion. With this last glass, I can’t stop writing–I mean typing–even if I wanted to. 2morrow, my “Friday.” And so… Is anything different? Not at all. I teach day next. No rest for the REAL Artist. Just going to stumble to 1 THOUsand wordz… Scared to sip this ’10, again. Makes me think of a winemaker in his, or HER, little lab, testing levels. We at pen, just write, re-write, again, in send. Looking at his glass, quite full. And me, after bubbles at the “party,” a little afraid. Just want to vent on corporate wineries, but I don’t have to. As I don’t work for one, thankfully. No one pulls Mike Madigan’s strings.
Getting a bit 2 fiery. Still a healthy amount in glass. Should just sip, see where it sends a scribe. Tour tomorrow morning, hope the 4 shots help. Little K, upstairs, quite quiet. […] You know what I hate? Devices. Like this new DEVILISH iphone. It’s like having a manager at home, in LIFE. Bu only if I let it. So it’s my fault, I know. NO– It WAS my fault. No more. After this glass, I’ll be another character. A writer unfettered, one better. Just saw I’m at 999 words. Now if I cared so about counts.. what am I saying, I do. Time, 11:06pm. If bx was Self-sustaining today, I wouldn’t be so “responsible.” But shapes shift. That’s where clock stops. Where a writer plots. Sip 2, where I skip new–