Today, wine. All of it. Wine.

Research tastings with a co-worker then the pouring at Honor Mansion to Mom and Dad’s and pairing that Pinot with mom’s crustless quiche. It was all about wine, and how wine finds food and the unintended notes in whatever dish is called. Wine. All of it. And I know my label is close, starting small, a barrel this semester– I mean vintage, then more in ’16. Just grow. And grow quick. Want to write a short piece, fiction, this evening but I merely want to relax, unwind and detach with this nightcap, the Racer 5, over there by the sink. Cajoling myself to early wakeup, somehow. But HOW. Yes.. set my alarm? But I should sleep as late as possible since I have to be at the winery at 9:30, for the club event. So I’ll be waking early in any case.. so I fall asleep thinking about wine, my wine, the future wines I’m to make and how I’ll write about them. Thought quite a bit today about what varietals I want to start with, and I’ve settle on 2 of the initial 3 (which were SB, Syrah, Cab): SB, MERLOT, Cabernet/Cabernet-centered blend. And I want people to walk into the Room that first day and only see me, me the only one pouring MY wines… And hours, maybe 11-5, to start anyway. And no club, just an allocation enclave list like Arista. The whole wine club ideology has never settled well with me, ever. And my business plan, at first I guess, is just to sell the wine. Set some aside for library, some for first list members, then the rest to just SELL. This vintage, ’15, will be my last “training vintage”. I’ll talk to Mark tomorrow about getting some Cab.. a little over a ton, maybe a ton and a half. If were in a hotel somewhere, right now, on some writing or wine or winemaking trip, I’d sip something red and just think, maybe take a couple notes but many times I find it more benefits the writer to just think, live, and not write.

I remember the visual from today, out tasting and visiting the neighboring wineries. And now I’m stuck, like a tricky fermentation. I can’t move, I can’t write, I can only imagine my wine being bottled and waiting till the shock wears off, when I can finally taste it, pour it for guests, or family, or anyone. Wine.. stay centered in the wine, I tell myself, and making it, and pouring it for someone, a bunch of someones, and tell them I made it, that I wrote the “tasting notes”, that I wrote the “philosophy”, that I did everything, that I have no team (I can’t afford a team)… I’m walking in and around and about the wine, and what it says; the wine and I create concertedly.
So.. bed. Yes, again.. thinking of the Road, what I’ll see, and it’s with wine that invite, not the adjunct circle and pattern, that adapted death. Wine is about life and living and living madly.. so that I follow. And forever. Now I can sleep.

And my frustration mounts. And I’m not sure with what. Waiting, with time, not sure– So much still in garage, in boxes.. had to open the ’13 KB Pinot Michael gave me when we tasted from barrels. Had some notes scribbled today from event, from the moving of inventory to the bottle selection being poured for members, to food pairings.. all. Have three books at right, FINALLY. Why did I let them rest in box for so long? In that garage, which actually has quite the appealing dimensional outlay, narrow and not too stretched.. love the workbench Dad laid out, set for the writer son of his.. and my mood persists, and I don’t know why.. had a great lovely enriching day at the winery, and now I’m sullen, sour, sulked. And why. WHY! Have to think ‘Wellness’, and calm, find that Equilibrium.. Plath’s ‘Jar’ also in this stack I pulled.. then ‘Book of Dreams’ by Kerouac. And the Kerouac journal entries, did I mention that? Ugh this mood– what do I do? Hate the sound of TV and any sound right now.. need to look inwardly, and know again what I want. Wine, wine.. what to do with it, well develop my own label yes but something else. I mean, okay.. you make wine and sell it. So what. What else is there for Mike Madigan and his relationship with wine? Wine needs to quiet itself for now, or not, I don’t know.. again, I’m in a mood. And I hate this mood. I can barely push the keys. And this isn’t what wine’s supposed to evoke, or promote, slightly or evenly boldly stroke.
And the novel. God. fucking. damnit. When will it be done?? I need to have some pages, a towering colossal stack of, and submit them to some publisher, or self-publish– or should I type SELF. pub. lish. I’m just playing with emphasis now, but my mood curves my concentration. Have I had too much wine? No. Wish I DID. I’d have more, as my mood I’m sure would be more stratospheric. And the winemaking, when the fruit comes in, what I’ll feel and what I’ll see– the life in the bin, the grapes in, within, the future wine that’ll be sipped, all the frenzy of harvest. Soon, soon..
The reality show my wife watches, sickening. I love Ms. Alice, she’s one of the only ideas centering me and Zenning my inner-Rattler, but the reality show she screens is a mental contagion. I just have to note that, I won’t try to talk her out of her shows, I just want it noted. Noted– reality shows, is that “reality”? Tell me how it is. All the drama, and all the confession and exploitation. I’m getting ascetic with my session.. all published or printed or to blog posted.
I want to submit one of those dinosauric novels that barely fit into a to-go bag. In being severe, or more dire in my journal practice, I need to wake earlier, and run more. Just had my last sip of wine for the eve.
I want to know what it’s like to finish a book. To finish. Press ‘Print’ for the final page. Finish. A. Book. I will. Imagine the freedom that will brandish and antagonize. No more moods. No more constriction and no more noise.
While riding on the bed of that flat trailer (not sure what it’s called, what we put all the leftover wine inventory from the event, and bottles dead, poured), I had that inner-narration, looking at the trees and the other co-workers on the trailer with me, Ben driving the tractor and the time of day, just where I was driving back to the pavilion, watching the birds fly around the residence on property and the Pinot block to the right, just the moment– wish I could have recorded or written the narrative, but I knew I could and the fact I couldn’t, I recall, was part of the inner-monologue itself. Not sure if it taught me anything specific, there was simply something about that ride back to the event space that shouted for narrative initiation.
Reading this first entry from Mr. Kerouac, he writes “…art is work — what work!” And that’s all I want to do, I realized yesterday, tasting from winery to winery with Tome, that my ART needs to be my work, my job, what I do for revenue and what I do to support this new house; how I want Jack to see me and how I want him to mention me to his friends and his teachers and anyone that sees him. What will he see and feel when he reads this later in life, when he’s 19, or 20, or whenever. What if my novel, the one I finish, is the selected text in his English class, college? Every time ‘Jack’ is mentioned in Mr. Massamen’s narrative I’m sure he’ll roll his eyes, or look down. But he shouldn’t. He should smile, and know that he’s so very much beyond my perceptive abilities. Smarter than me, plainly. But in the Massamen novels, or books, or whatever they are when I actually finish them, he’s his (Mr. Massamen’s) nephew. And I’m sure Jack might wonder why I element’d the book so, but it won’t matter. It’s not the actual, but the fictive, and that’s what he should focus on, the derivative of reality that finds its way to page.

As a writer and diarist, I see my Self becoming more organized in fair. The book, or its possibility sends me, describes and narrates me, the actual narrator which I find confusing and confounding but I’m coercively concluded with my own sentences.. no exclusion of elements, like when I narrated to self on that trailer while others just talked– oh how I wish you could have heard what I to myself told, reader. My plan now after today’s sight: write, fly, land. WRITE. FLY. LAND. And I know just what I want, like Montresor, and I will have it, and yes it’s a bit of revenge, just a taste, but the ‘just’ is all I’m for fixed.