The grapes land….
pages and pages……..
Back home. But only for a minute. Getting takeout from a spot down the street. Not too expensive, at all. Just a burger, pairing with a Syrah, I think ’15, that I just bought up the road, also inexpensive. Inspiration Vineyards, where I’ve been going quite a bit for the writer’s wine needs. Rand into connection through social, from CHI, finally getting to meet him and how beatific it was. Telling me I’m an amazing writer, certain enflaming and inciting, delighting my confidence but as well reminding me to write only wine, about wine, define her and explore the total narrative pulse to her intention.
At Lancaster, morrow. I’m going to do the “job” even less than I did last week. Only intent on showing people a time, one fun and not at all formulaically humdrum. If I sell, great. If not, no matter to a writer. I have pages, I have characters, reactions to the wines, the wines and what they do to the room be it the library or cave alcove, or the salon (TR).
Writing in the new journal at Moonlight Brewing showed me something about writing, and teaching, education principally, that I need to teach self again on certain curves and literary layers. And, that any negativity in life doesn’t need intersect with this writer’s story and page place.
Need to write everything. Wine is the cause and the laud and god to all this, what I see and how I see it. Everything I do is for that small label where hopefully my sister can make the wine and I just speak it and “sell” it. But, more than an it. Want my babies involved, somehow. Walking my own vineyard with a vineyard manager, he or she telling me about the vintage and the fruit, what the weather will do. I need be out in those rows. Mine.
Day 8 of this project, which I now see taking shape. Find self alone in home, with babies and wife at fair. Was invited, but wife urged me stay home, enjoy my only and first day off in however many weeks. Have other laptop out, to go through some pictures. Thinking of going somewhere, tasting, but where. Possibly inspiration, or maybe just get a beer at Moonlight. Not in the mood to run, although I know I need one. Didn’t sleep all that well, in fact went back upstairs this morning for a bit over 90 minutes for added still. What do I do, what do I do…. How about stop thinking, and just do. Don’t want to drive out to St. Francis, I know it’ll be a mad house, a matter hatter wonderland den there. Trust me I know… having worked in that tasting room for a handful of weekends (over two years worth).
This project, or part of its bend and send is to see what I produce in a hundred days. The end aim, get on the Road, either for Sonic or myself, wine, or ideally all somehow. Break the repetition of repetition. Short entries, more “real time” reporting. Covering self as not myself. Mike Madigan a self-examining journalist, or diarist. Something like that. There needs to be a change in the story and in Mike Madigan’s character. Day eight is our fist unearthed gem—Markers. The first marker, the project itself. 100 days, a book. What’s at the end, an airplane to somewhere, for something that WILL be written.
Quiet on this street. Hear wind, and chimes, gongs more so. Get out of the house, I tell myself. Be in prospecting mode, but not obviously. Here I go… into the day, into the new story of something that’s not yet telling me everything.
in EOD SB.
Need to do more journal writing. More notes to self. I am going to grab another legal pad, after all.
Haven’t noted any notes. Not one. Couple more calls then I’m switching gears, to something else. Planning on getting out of the office more, next week. Have more meetings, just get out of the office. 3:25pm, and I need more coffee. Need, but not letting self have one. Honestly not sure what I’m doing for the rest of this day. Writing, writing about writing, new notes on these legal sheets. About writing, about teaching self to write all over again. Responding to readings, book Mom bought me and the re-read of Road. Coffee cup on desk now is old, with old coffee in it from the morning. Gross to look at. Thinking of a topic, and that would be writing, wine, writing about wine, how the wine writes the writing, or at least with me. My first note on the first yellow sheet, first thin blue line.
I’m always timestamping and dating entries. What if I didn’t do that anymore. What if I only knew what the time and date were but didn’t disclose it, or didn’t as much? I don’t know, something I’m thinking about.
And again the idea hits me of super exclusive writings, sold. No more than 35 pages. Between 25-35 pages of prose. No more. Have it be like a reserve list writing release sphere. Chewing this new piece of gum and resisting temptation to hit more coffee, which would be my third cup of day, I saw the small manuscripts, which I would email to subscribers. What about… wine. Writing. Life. Work. Everything. Not about one particular thing, or maybe that’s precisely what it should be. Start at wine and extend from there. Yes. The all comes from last night’s Pinot, in many ways I feel.
The legal pad will be an exercise to itself, to fill it. Three lines in, nearly. About boredom. What I wrote about, I mean. Boredom is a choice, not the result of something that was done to someone, or the lack of anything. Just a thought.
Wine in kitchen.
Sold six bottles and a magnum, today.
What this new project is, I still don’t know. But I know what I want.
The grapes today, going through their stage shift, teaching me. What. To be more lovely, more full of not so much life but story… my voice.
Taking notes here as I did when a Field Sales Sup’ at Sonic. Should be observational and removed, objective. Maybe this project need be a third-person perspective and press.
Mike looks at wine, stops for a second and goes over day, the lady who kept describing wine as juicy, so juicy. Mike not knowing what to say. Mike accentuated and strangely actuated at counter in chair and wonders about this coming week. Another in his new post. Told some people in his new department that he’d workout with them, in some CrossFit-like class during lunch. He regrets his near-promise. Hell go for a run, not care about reaction. Mike doesn’t want some “instructor” yelling at him on his break. The run is for more than exercise, but contemplation and collection, meditation.
Mike sips. Possibly his last glass for day. Hot in kitchen. What does he want for day two… how should he know. This is a new project he thought of at the gas station while putting in gas.
Time to himself. Quiet. Everyone asleep upstairs. Wine. Meditation. More than that but a…. moment, to self.