has to be my drug of choice.
has to be my drug of choice.
Too many irons. Lost count of the fires. But closer to Freedom, for sure. Summer Semester starting tomorrow and I know something will happen from this term. Shit… something has to. Singularity’s thought and concept strangle me pleasurably. For business, I have to be more narrow, I see that. I scatter and diversify from ambition’s pose, which is a boon, but there need be containment and ‘less’, at least at first.
So many wines to write about. The SB I had tonight, the Chardonnay, the Sbragia Carignane, the wines from Foley afternoon, late morning.. what else… know there’s something else in my banks. Who knows… wine has me into its tornado tunnel of reflection and page stretches. But how to approach wine, like others don’t… don’t I do that already? Wine speaks to me in some growl of a tongue, then flees suddenly. Not sure why it does that— to antagonize or provoke or promote its own pulse in my cognition. Son coughing upstairs and I can’t concentrate— is it allergies, does he have a cold? Being a writing daddy, lately, has tested me. But it’s my doing, and reasoning. I need to wake earlier. Much earlier. On Day 30, or by Day 30, I’ll be so in the swing of waking at 04:00 that everything I want written for day will be on page before the day even lifts off.
Too many projects or ideas… just put them in the bottle. ‘Bottle’, in ‘Bottled Ox’… put the place in one place, be placed… So many times I’m told or asked, “Why don’t you write about this?” or “Hey you should write about…” That’s nice they have an opinion, but I only can put to page where I am and what I’m doing with who I am. From here forward, only one fire, one blaze, one inherent inferno. Everything connects to wine, on some strain sort, form and/or layer. Wine on right, small bit of white from last night, stemless Govino plastic glass, making me feel like some hick on a picnic. But I’m happy. Writing. Not TV on. No re-runs of Sopranos or the ever soul-lowering news. Nothing. Just quiet. My reveries, derivings, study. And Freedom… don’t have time to define it, but it’s close. OH, it’s so close.
Back downstairs from helping little Kerouac get settled in bed. Our bed. MY side of the bed. Makes him happy, so I’m fine with it. More than just “fine with it”, actually. Some might say ‘Oh he’s five, he’s too old to sleep in your bed…’ Yeah, well, it’s happening, I’m fine with it, and I’m in no way considering your “opinion” in any scope, scape, or sense. And now that’s I’m downstairs, I get into teaching mode… just talk to them, my “students”. Learn about them, the same way one learns about anything else. One reason why I love wine so much is that I’m always learning about it, about the cordons, the trellising methods, fermentation, and what’s in the bottle, glass.
I’m always learning. About wine. Literature. Teaching. And definitely parenting.
Not in the mood to work. It’s Father’s Day. I should be home with my family, I feel. But no. I’m working for them. I do all this, for them. Need more caffeine. Have to clock in and get to work, but I’m here early in this quiet building while it’s hotter than the inside of hell’s outdoor trash bin, outside here. In a mood and I need to write myself out. Should clock in but don’t want to. Have to straighten up after event last night, which is always fun. Just went out there, actually not bad at all (more than I can say for other wineries I’ve worked at, that’s certain). In fact there’s only really a couple things to do, so no complaints. IF anything, I should take a page from their book, be as organized as these events crews.
Take a page. Hell… take three. Sipping my sparkling cherry water, thinking of how much I want to just be home with the babies and wife, but I have to rack that sentiment into the present, focus on my Now. Have caffeine, use restroom, get tasting room set up. Work on client writings later, then my own writings, build this Mike Madigan brand.. words, wine.. health, education, literature, Philosophy/Thought. Have my business plan.. get on the clock, get to work, start… start!
Slimy fern seeds.
I’m in a net of formidable fortune.
Old olive oil and telephone chords.