One assignment tonight, write for blog.  That’s it.  Back from 7 mile run with Carmen.  We did so in 1hr, 1min.  Planning on running 3 miles in morning, rising at 5:15.  Alarm, yes, again set for that magical clock setting.  Wrote some notes today, after vineyard tour with the four people from IN.  Story’s about guy writing poetry for a girl he works with, but never shows.  His friend knows, wants him to tell her, but the scribbling shy character refuses.  Wrote 2 little pages of material, while at the Reserve Room bar.  No wine tonight.  Just a beer, 2.  Sipping slow.  If I don’t run tomorrow morning, then I’ll write.. have a Barleycorn session.

English 5 tomorrow.. poetry.  1A as well..  The writing I did in class last night with 1A crew.  Going to delay material address, take them by surprise with certain Literary approaches.  Yes, some of them may be reading this sitting, but they’re not in anyway privy to the specific advancements of my lectures tomorrow night.  Where’s newJournal, could scribble specifics in there–

Alice watching shows in other Room, but I just noticed the TV sounds, the ridiculous reality “stars” speaking.  Putting Self in Poe’s place.  Can’t wait till the 1A class reaches his works.  He has a magnetic color to his compositions that Faulkner lacks.  On the run today, I said to Carmen that “I’m a carnivorous composition.. a professor with a better letter…” She lightly snickered, unaware of the past sittings I was referencing.  Should inoculate this first chapbook with that piece.

While running on the trails today with Carmen–my first official trail run, EVER–saw several benches, thought to Self I should do a run & write.  Complete device devoid.  To wander, unplanned, write in locations random, for sake of standalone piece.

Tired.  Too lazy to pull newJournal from running backpack.  Just want to sit here, report everything that streams through thoughts.  Sunriver AGAIN passed through vision while running today/night.

Constantly distracted by this bloody cellphone.  Sick of it.  Want to murder it.  Have it bottomlessly agonize.  Wishing there were no sounds now.  Need break, as I’m agonizing over schedules in head.  A student last night said she had to have things planned 3dayz in advance.  I only praise her, as this writer is in NO way capable of such discipline, pattern.  I’m 2whimsical.  That’s my voice, style, Literary Shape.  Mediated–

Need another beer, then maybe decaf.  MY shell, damaged from run tonight.  If I run tomorrow, I’ll only be going for distance.  3miles, no more.  I don’t care how long it takes me to do it.  If I do it.


9:46pm.  Taking Jackie to Ms. Lisa’s tomorrow, as Alice landed a sub gig.  So, I may have a chance to run, after all.. after I drop off the little Artist.  No matter what conditions confront me, I’ll always find time for Composition.  Tomorrow morning, after run, whenever I run, get flash piece done.. either Name Tag piece or what I was writing today–  But wait, I could wake at 5:30a to write, then run after I leave Jack with Ms. Lisa, then write more after run.  I’m starting to see that my frequent moods are simply the result of me not thinking, not composing Self.  That stops tonight.  And if I can’t type, have the blog’s immediacy, this bloody device, then I’ll ACTUALLY write.  PenToPapeR.


Thinking genre, what to put into this chapbook.  Or the others.  Poe, pushing me.  What I want to rid from days.. these devices, the quibbles, pestering characters.  If it’s not on paper, there’s no offense.  As I see it. Or what I should do, capture the tasting Room.  All the dialogue.  Seems like that’s all I’d write, dialogue.  You only hear conversation, questions.. “So where is this grown on the property?”, which isn’t that bad a question.  Or, statements, like “I taste earth in this.. I can taste the earth.  That makes it earthy,” someone said today.  Perhaps this observation’s sincere, but it was just annoying to me.  Probably not fair, I know, but I’m being truthful.  Another comment, “This is sweet, a sweeter wine than I like.  Why did you do this?” he asked, the man from Atlanta, about the Gerwurtztraminer.  I didn’t even know where to start with this one.

Time for decaf.  Excuse me–

There.  Letting it cool, starting.  Tomorrow, written from moment 1 to last.  Even while Jackie eats his breakfast, I’ll scribble single words– keep thinking about run through Howarth, Annadel.  Have to rush-run 3miles tomorrow.  Should only take me 22-25 mins.  Then I’ll feverishly return to castle2compose.  This decaf, perfect occasion potion, ‘specially when writing.  No jittery jolt, tremoring.  Just comfort, flavor.  Making me think of Paris, or those winters in Sunriver.

Students, responding blog prompts.  Slowly, however in certainty.  May post quick note following these words.  Always thinking of them, what could incite them most.. no, forward them.

Now, the exhaustion sets.  So pleased I’m sipping this dCaf.  Need to soon see Road, for sanity’s sake.  Thinking of bringing Kerouac poems to class.  They’ll be easy to find online, yes.. but I want to buy one of his manuscripts.  But if I do that, I won’t be able to write AS long, having to go to bookstore, then to mainland [main campus] to copy.  Time, too vicious with me.  So.. remedy?  Let me think, while I sleep.

Beat poetry.. interesting.  I remember seeing a video in my high school Creative Writing class, with Mr. Sullivan.  Had me so intrigued, all the comments from Ginsberg.  Thinking of them now, how envious I was/am of Sullivan for his Creative Writing post.  Am going to be doing so at Stanford, sooner than you might think.  Sooner than I[!!!] might think.


The TV, annoying, even

when on mute.  There, off–

budget, thinning.  Sell your pages,



Why the wait?

Licorice lines, lazy design–

my fault, I stalled.

Webbed in my address,

so easily stressed

she says.



bottles multiplied

Quick dash to coffee house to write, or type.  Always paranoid when working here, like someone’s looking.  Like these moronic kids behind me.  Not comfortable, should leave.  Did another racking, for 1st chapbook.  So ridiculous.  Getting tired of my habits, annoyed with them.  That was the last such act before I just start putting my journals out there.  And that will be me– poet, journalist– or diarist.  So sick of complicating my Literary love, with considering whether or not it’d be “marketable.”

Watching the rain garnish the Bennett Valley street, still.  Surprised how long it’s lasted.  Would love a glass of something red right now, but that’d slow me down.  The mocha, these additional 3 shots, to everything I’ve already had today bringing caffeine charge.. bettering my aim’s bravado, sharpening it.

Not comfortable here.  Need my own office, already.


4:37pm.  BACK HOME.  Caps off, sorry.  This final caffeine shot for day, telling me I need to get back into running routine.  But I can’t today, I yell back.  This rain isn’t right for my intervals.  Staying in session, writing, producing pages for the my journals’ invasion.. invasions.  And remarks, criticisms, backlash, fallout.. not in any way worried.  nothing can happen to a writer like me, even if I died.  I’ve written to much.  I’ll always be around, directly–

Jack, still looking through his books.  Deciding on tonight’s wine.  Thinking Pinot, actually.  And not the one from SFW.  Another one I picked up a couple months past.  Want to get deeper into wine, everything it surrounds, is surrounded by.  On next writer retreat: a different wine each night.  Yes, this means a lot will be poured out, but I need to learn, more exposure to wines out there.  Remove Self from comfort’s zone.  So, try more Chards, Zins.  Try everything.


Cup Case, Entry Flaw

Again reminded I should only be depending on Self for income, or “bonuses,” commissions.  Not going to elaborate, and not from fear, just I don’t need to.  Going to find funding for all I want in bottledaux.  I will publish by paper’s way.. BOOKS, as I’ve only ever wanted.  But I have to start with this blog first.  Another opening thought: all this “networking” in the wine world, the “industry” component…  What does it do?  And what I mean is:  What are the immediate material benefits to “networking” with these people?  One will say something to the effect of, “It may benefit you down the line.” Why would I want any career advancement to be predicated on others?  Why not my own merit, talent?  The sloshy wine world is full of this, has been since I’ve been in.  No, since I’ve been exposed to its scenes.  But, again, I’m not paying those ingredients much mind, other than I’ll use it for page propellant.  I’m in control.  And I’m an Artist, no allegiance to this industry.  Sipping an ’08 single-vineyard Cab, remembering how much I love wine, how well it corrals my type of writing, from these diaries.

8:56pm.  The videos I show today, especially that one of the bottling line, telling me I need to bottle my page blends.  Now.  Problem though, with today’s news: quite simply, funding.  Already dipped into my savings.  That’s why I need product of my own.  These pages.  A chapbook.  Don’t have time to gather a full book-height release.  Plenty of Artists out there, far less deliberate, contemplative than me, just writing & releasing, living from their Literary leaps.

This bottle’s contents, a bit reluctant.  Not oxidized or corked, just hesitant.  But I’ll keep sipping, giving it chance, just as I want readers to give me a chance– a budgetless penman.  Writing in kitchen, distracted by reality TV Alice watches, unwinding from her long day with an increasingly, persistently curious little Kerouac.  He sleeps, just up those stairs, right.  What’s through his little imagist thinking?  Would love to know.  His acceleration, developments, accelerating, quicker than I can handle.  And all I’m aiming to achieve–no, that I WILL–for him.  With HIM always in thought, MY thinking.

Class tomorrow night, no technological dependency.  Made that mistake for the last time, last night.  Only learning focus.  READING.  Bringing in poems, facilitating discussion, in-class writing (that will be submitted for credit).  Returning to my purist teaching approach.  That’s what’s significant.. not putting on some movie, showing excerpts to fill time then have some threadbare back-and-forth.  Would rather have page address than filmy mess.  Was so embarrassed last night when that happened, but the students were surprisingly comforting, assuring me that this type of thing happens, “it’s okay, don’t worry about it,” sympathies similar.  I moved on, quickly.  This did NOT weaken Mike Madigan.  It rebuilt me, in a number of ways that I don’t have the time to catalogue, that the wine won’t allow me to simplistically list.

Asked my 100 students to do some research on something they’re interested in, finding a credible secondary source.  I’m planning on doing the same, two-fold.  MY research, set to make a student, yet again, of the bottled ox.  Poetry, Literary Theory.. my targets.  Want my students to dive carelessly into learning’s joy, and I reserve rights to do just the same with teaching.. AND learning.  I want to be a student, one SELF-educated.  I don’t need some institution to grant permission for me to be an authority in what baskets my passion–  And my thoughts, cut.  Still laundry in the communal laundry/storage room.  The other night, when I wen to retrieve our pieces, only to find that some barnacle removed them from dryer, tossing them on some filthy table, ordered me to buy my family a house.  A standalone HOME.  Tired of this complex, its decrepit swarm of smarmy figures.  bottledaux, my only sanguineness.  But I don’t think it’ll take that long, honestly.  And the “traditional” division, meaning actual paper usage, will only make my company more truthful, Artistic, appealing to anyone admiring minds like mine.

9:21pm.  Off to get laundry.  Better be where I left it.  […]  And, only appeasement.  Away from the isolation of kitchen’s nook, here to couch, watching this “reality.” I will say, there’s a thematic consistency, a tonal punctuation.. a story.  But, Alice goes upstairs, and I change channel.  Mrs. Doubtfire, haven’t seen this in a while, years actually.  About to spring to kitchen for night’s Cabernet cap.  Rushing to terminate these blog typings, to write in newJournal.  Spoken Word, song.. MUSIC.  No formality, only FEELING.  That’s Art, to me.

Looking through these old entries, on blog.. I too have quite the linear motif.  WRITER STRUGGLES.  That’s what makes an Artist, till they find their time.  And I think I finally have, as an ox in this bottle, right before 34.  Just in time, with a marvelous little man, my precious wee Kerouac.  Wonder if the ’08 Cab’s still frightened of response, or even Human reaction.  Cork, still away from neck.  Off to pour4Self…

Wine, much more open; it’s reciting, astonishingly.  Not at all what I met when I pulled the traditional stopper from that slender extension.  Want music, like the other night, but I’m forcing Self to watch TV.  Not sure why.  The contents, collectively, about as absent of meaningful impact as “the industry.” The wine, though, wines like this.. absorbing, elementally engrossing.  And let it be understood, CLEARLY.. I have no skirmish with where I currently work.  I’m sipping one of their wines NOW.  But, they’re the exception.  What truly proves the “rule,” what’s ruling.  And that’s what I oppose.  As an Artist.  Need another sip, as I bore of talking about “the industry,” wine’s BB.

Cherry, coffee, mint, herb, surprisingly colorful tannins for such a lean vintage.  Glass, telling me to ditch this devil device.. be truthful, more so, in Artistry.  Pen2paper, newJournal: FREE.  Looking at this word doc’s page amount…  I’m at 420 pages.  FOUR HUNDRED TWENTY [hits harder when written.. or typed out].  And still, no book.  that has to change, if I’m ever to be free.  Watching news now.. bored.  Back to Doubtfire.  Starbucks, stating in ads, “Converts Wanted.” No way they’re getting my morning mocha money, tomorrow.  ’08, still in glass.  To paper I pass.  Avast amassed–  That’s who I want teaching my students.  Peace …

(1/30/13, Wednesday)

diarism prism

9/29/12.  Plenty notes today.  Piecing all together.  That spot, in the Hood Mt. parking lot, unpaved, still in/on mind.  Off to dinner with Alice.  5 years, a married character, me.  IF you were to ask me ten years ago where I’d be in 10 years, I never would have projected here.  Jack, focusing this penner.  Tonight, I’m going to take a close look at the wine list, targeting Syrah.  Took home some $ from wine club room shift.  Promise to write–er, I mean TYPE–more, later.  Peace … [6:48pm]

9/30/12.  My Friday night.  Interesting, that on my Saturday, I’ll be getting a cavity filled, working in evening.  Well, lecturing.  Tonight’s varietal, if you can believe it.. Zin.  An ’09, from the winery.  I don’t plan on ever making Zin, but I’m deconstructing it for character, and just as a standalone wine.  Everything in its stature, structure, stride continues quite level.. Love what’s on palate.  Again sipping…  A humble voice conveying assurance.  Returned to the book Katie bought me for Christmas, the winemaking text.  Still in winemaker mode, especially with this harvest’s pace.  Kazzy told me by phone today that our fruit could be arriving any day.  He’ll let me know.  Katie picks our Chardonnay tomorrow.  And I would be there if it weren’t for my bloody appointment.

On Self-publishing– still using the other night’s quote, from my students’ reading, to get novel on shelves.  Right now, looking at content scribbled on little pages.  Well on way, especially with the character today that said the nose of the Syrah reminded him of fish.  He laughed, as if to inform me that his opinion’s immeasurably valuable, that I should pay attention, let someone know.. Right away!  I didn’t know how to react, honestly.  And you know what, I’m glad that–  Sorry, readers.  Have to save it for book.

Feel like I haven’t written in some time.  I mean, really sat for a meaningful sitting, beyond my usual posting from phone.  Which HAS TO STOP.  Typing on this monster device, bad enough.  Posting from a phone, lower than any feared Literary landfill.  Don’t know why I capitalized, as no post from my devilish phone’s “Literary.”  Moving past, I think about the heat, what that means for grapes.  Not sure I’ll be in the vineyards early this coming week.  May be a good thing.  Should get some footage and stills of the Chard, or SB, being pressed, that juice surging from that nozzle.

Ms. Plath’s entries down here with me.  Remembering the class I saw on the Stanford website, including her work, analyzing her as a Literary celebrity.  Been going to my campus’ site quite a bit, lately.  Still in sight, but how will that blend with the winemaking efforts?  Maybe it’s okay to have winemaking as a hobby.  NO.  Want it 2B more than that.  I want to be a “professional” winemaker, like Katie, but keep/perpetuate/boast/promote my Literary practice, standing, roots.  What other winemaker has that elemental composition?  2nite’s session, looking to do 500 words here, for the “wine blog,” then 500 in novel idea.  May postpone novel’s .5k for morrow’s morning.  Setting alarm for 5am.  “Vineyard shoot time” I call it.  Want 1000 words in book, actually, from past notes, entries, pages, whatever.  Before little Jack wakes.  This wine, this Zin, of all varietals, tells me to do what I want as a writer.  IT urges me to follow Kelly, how she separated from clock.  And the Syrah I had last night, know I could produce one more enigmatic, more artful.  Just have to study more.  Thinking I should submit some of these pieces to contests, or competitions, after hearing the winery’s reserve Zin won a gold medal at the harvest fair.

Papers to grade tomorrow.  Leaving castle at 4p, headed for Starbucks on Farmers.  Know I’ll finish early, but the mocha’s muscle assures another thousand.  I’m hoping.  Also need to start running, again.  Maybe I should do that tomorrow morning instead of writing.  What?  How dare I write–I mean TYPE–such.  Writing first, all secondary.  Maybe I should one day craft a Zin.  No?  This is the Zin talking.  IT rewrote me.  Pushing me2POETRY.

I swim in Zinfandel from dim wells, never under critics‘

thin spells.  Pen’s perspiration, the way gin smells.  My sin tells

memoirs afar; scribbler scarred.. at concerts with a wand curved.

I’m gone, stirred.  All statements, articulated, hardly



Typing a bit before I leap over to ink, pages.  Need more condensed sense.  Tomorrow, probably no time to write, I’m guessing.  But I love that.  Want to not know what’s happening the next day.  Want to live in hotels, on Road.  Want to write verses on napkins, on resort stationary.  Cameras to my left, in their cases.. not sure why I told you that, but that’s what I’m staring at.  Well, back and forth, intermittently.

Thinking of “Life from a Comp Book.” Not sure what shape that’d take, but that too dominates my vision, fantasy, dream, pragmatism, what be.. what would.  This Friday, no goal.  Won’t let mySelf have one.  Don’t want to expect, disappoint.  Wanting nada.  Just hoping to sit in front a page, WRITE something.  A single sentence.  Yes, actually write, meaning ink to line.  Just one sentence.  A poem’d line.  That’s my only goal.  Oh, and to open 1 white, one RED.  Deconstruct, as winemaker.  Time for dinner, the quiche Alive prepared, paired with the other night’s Burgundian white.

Was going to have a night’s capping, but resolved against.

9/21/12 — Alone in home.  Sipping St. Francis Malbec.  Thought I’d be throwing into Cabernet.  But nay.  Every subtle shift suggests I ignore all me aggravating– those cruising with their shoulders obviously extended, acting as supervisors.  How can you supervise an Artist, especially one from realms Literary?  You know what– I’m just going to enjoy these sips, scribble, or type when wished.  IF anything, I’d rather to bed get early, so I can have another morning mocha manuscript.  Watching old Sopranos episodes, thinking they’re all old, as the series ended years ago.  No I feel old.  Need another Malbec glass.  I’m aging, like this wine.  Distractions, where art?  Only noting when I need, or feel concern, concerned.  Need to just enjoy wine, this night– the quiet.  that’s what she’d suggest, I’m sure.

Watching these reruns, thinking of my own business dreams.  Another glass…

Tired of writing with punctuating likeness.  Suddenly, the writer’s cranky, needing another writer movie showing, not this pseudo-artisanal “TV,” HBO.  I like the Sopranos, but seriously, how artful is this show?  How Literary does it fall?  Kelly, I can hear her, telling me to stop typing/writing.  What am I doing?  Is this good for “the business,” as Tony would say?  Need another sip.  Need more material.  Tired of character promising one thing, then perpetuating another cut.  Ridiculous, not worth documentation.

Feel guilty just sitting here, relaxing, enjoying my eve, watching shows.  That’s not what an Artist extremist does.  Right?  Only my character on mind, her processes, her sketches, her mind’s livings.  How does she live from her findings, expressions?

= Older woman, news reel this morning.. bodybuilding competitively, at late 60-something, waking at 3:30a.  My time, now, 11:14p.  Need fall into sleep, so I can wake for my morning mocha manuscript wag.

= 11:38pm, in a tornado of introspection.  I can’t not WRITE.  I’m into my Comp Book like a burglar in a fort’s stash.  Sipping this Malbec with my ink in a pot of fervor.  Taking a break, ‘cause I need it.  Independent penman, not needing 2B signed.  So, the chapbooks get shotgunned into spheres near, incredibly clear.  Me, in need of no permission, guidance, promotion..

= 9/22/12 , 12:33am.  —  After a random block walk, I’m ignoring page.  Spending night’s rest in simple enjoyment of night.  Wrong, not writing?  I hope so. That makes me evermore the writer I aim2stand.  The most Literary act I can blast is to not write a thing.  Done.  Out-clocking…

= 10:30pm.  Fleeing to paper after this notation.  Me, here sipping an IPA, counting day’s tips.  The wine club Room.. my worst enemy, most accommodating endorser.  How does that work?

Tonight, I’m not looking to complete anything, necessarily.  This morning, felt like a flat orchestra note.  Not sure how that happened, as I stayed home last night, didn’t sip that much.  Well, actually I just found that wasn’t case.  The Malbec bottle. two-thirds dead.  Staring at this cash stack, knowing I have to do something with it.. get this business aloft, FINALLY.  Won’t be able to put little Kerouac through college doing– singing–one song.  I need an ALBUM.  No, an ANTHOLOGY.  This laptop feels too official, to clinical, too expected.  Where is the Comp Book?

Suddenly, this device performs odd acts, only allows the oddest of spacings.  That’s what I hate about these buttons, these mechanized functions.  And I apologize, but I can’t get over this cash pile at left.  And I’m not bragging… I’m just showing–no, sharing–the fruits of this writer’s efforts.  Where’s it going?  To the company, to the office.  MY office.  Want to finish this entry so I can get into ink, actual lines.  The winemaking, ever on mind.. the Chardonnay I’ll produce with Katie, the Petite Sirah or Cab I’ll hopefully do with my brother Kaz.  The wine, only Art to me.  No status elevation, I don’t see that.  I’m about the Artist, the expression.  And the “social” media element, meaningless to the Artist.  Need music in this Room, should turn off the TV.  Why do I have that guttural screech box on?

Not sure what to write about, and that’s why I keep writing, as you know– to let writers, other writers, know that this happens.  The stalls, the lulls.  The wine industry, only material for so long.  In all honesty, it’s not as significant as people enveloped in its grips estimate.  It’s not.  Why, it’s commerce, involving a beverage.  Yes, I love wine, I even love “the industry,” but I will speak when I wish, even if it wishes I’d keep quiet.  Now, I move into a peaceful steeple.  Mike Madigan’s in an eased reprieve.  That’s what I need, at my age.  How is it I’ll be 34 next year.  Where did life leave me, how my light de-freed?  Getting a little tired, but the sight of this Self-company cash wakes me, over again.  And do I need another pour?  Of course..  Two guest today told me I need to enjoy the wine, more.  And you know what, as a winemaker, I agree.  That Malbec, I’m projecting, much more melodic tonight.  Tired, and I’m not surprised.  Can’t believe I made it through today, to be honest.  But here the writer be.. not at all distracted, focused in his sipNscribble.  Bowing out, for paper, colored traces.  Need certain thoughts to be heard, read.  Introspective edges, where I’m going.

And after the 1st Malbec sip, I’m convinced.. the winemaking, path performed.  Would love to go to bed right now, as I fantasized this morning, almost as soon as I touched down in the Room.  Now, the Artist getting truly sick of this device, its buttons.. this isn’t Art, not what I know it 2B.  Now, I have to proof this whole session.  Nonsense.  I should write this, then move on.  That’s Art, that’s Expression.  No editorial obsession.  Need another sip.. Malbec, where R U?  The lights seem lower in this Room.  Kelly would capitalize, not overanalyze.  Why can’t I do the same?  Think I may B overcomplicating.  Professor…


Tonight’s types– Chardonnay, Cabernet.  Not in a novel mood. Tonight’s one of those evenings where I just want to write freely, truly enjoy my truest of styles.  The chocolate accent’s more present tonight than 24 hours past.  Keep forgetting tomorrow’s my “day off.” Wish it truly were.  Teaching in eve.  Have papers to grade.  Behind, just like times old.  Keep stressing about writing this Kelly book.  Why?  How will that get it finished any quicker?  She wouldn’t want that, I know.  Compelled to take another sip, but resisting, holding in my types.  Looking at one of the pictures I took today, of the leaves, clusters.  Love this time, during vintage.  But they have to be picked.  Why is that tearing at sensors under shell?  Hard to tell.  Need music, but don’t want to wake little Kerouac.  Just the reason I need my own office, why I strive to one day one be obligated, EXPECTED, to write 8 hours a day.. not subscribe to clock spots, another’s druthers.  Now I’ll sip, celebratory, knowing certain curtains don’t dictate what’s the version certain.

A photograph I posted to the winery’s site received quite the response, today.  Photography, something I surely need pursue.  Like Kaz.  Speaking of my brother, sacrificed my lunch to pay his base a visit.  May not be making that SB with him.  May be a Cab, or Petite Sirah.  Not sure I want to produce a PS.  I’m not passionate about the varietal.  At all.  Has to be Cab.  And I’ll do the Chardonnay with Professor Kate, I hope.  Have to make wine where I can.  Maybe I can get a handful of leftover clusters from the winery, write a barrel or 2.  Has to be Syrah, that’s what I’d want from that estate.  Have touched my books in some time, only been tasting, toughening my palate, if you will.  Still don’t feel like it’s my Friday.  This Friday, in home by Self.  Not meeting coworkers anywhere.  Staying in castle, opening an SB, Chard, Syrah, Cab.. a mock-whoso tasting Room flight.  Can’t wait.  And food?  May simply have apps.. some cheese, crackers, veggies.. but I have to get writing done.  SIGNIFICANT progress.  I want some substantial cemented in 1 sitting.  Like all the artists I admire.. Poe, Pac, Plath.  Feeling reflective by this empty glass, wondering if I should add 1 more varietal to my lineup.  But is there another I enjoy to such a point?  What about a blend.. of Cab, Syrah?  I’ll do whatever I want, I’m thinking.  I know, I should be working on a book project, my novel.  But I needed a freewrite.  My former students would understand, especially those from that Fall ’09 1A section [peace, love].

Then, the night ends.  If I wake early tomorrow, like 5AM-something, I could have that session I did months ago.  The Barleycorn effort.  All for the novel.  That Self-published paragon manuscript.  Glad I’m done with glass, and that I filled that filtered water carafe in fridge.  Done typing, again.  Not natural.  Long 4 pen, ink.  What Plath grabbed.. what Pac stocked.

(9/16/12, Sunday)

entry, next rest

About to upload a picture, maybe a couple actually, I took a couple the other morning during the Chardonnay pick.  Just had a recollection, for reasons unknown and entirely unexpected, of the older man from Tennessee telling me, after I offered him a pour of Chardonnay, “Well most men I know don’t drink white wine, so give me red, only red.” He was one of, if I remember right, 68 elders from around the country.  All were sweet, excited, interested, and relaxed.  Most were, this character being one of only three exceptions.  Today, had another like-instance, a man from Delaware [Delaware!], lecturing me on the merits of California wines, saying I shouldn’t be pouring an ’08 Zin before an ’08 Syrah.  But after I poured, he recognized our/MY merits, methodologies.  This annoying role, a lawyer for a huge corporation [which he retold at least three times], Harvard graduate.  He let me know that he knew everything about everything– from wine, to religion, to politics, to local government, to driving laws, to landscaping, to napkin etiquette at a bar.  Not sure what I can do with this tasting Room character, but there.. he’s been trapped.

Know I should be typing in my book fantasy, but I just want to write freely.  That’s one qualm I have with the whole notion of a “book.” There has to be a plan.  It’s a project.  I’m still going to write one, but as I sit here typing to this Sierra Nevada Torpedo IPA, I think that may something holding me back from Self-publishing a work.  Again, I hear Kelly.  Telling me to just put it out there, see what happens.  Her blog, far more “followers” than mine.  She’s a true Artist, much more interesting, with all her travels, all the shows surrounding her suavely shaded wine glass, with their multicolored voices.  And her paintings, the sketches and random drawings, pulling eyes, lives, into their subtle soul scrapes.

The idea of finishing a book outside these logs, tonight me taunts.  Not going to brainstorm, as I suggest to my students.  Just going to write.. And yes, use much of the writing I’ve accumulated over years.  From that cursed plastic coffin upstairs in my closet, as well as from mikeslognoblog.. my notebooks, among places additional.  All those notes I rushed while in the box, in the devilish incubator, being indefinitely “trained” by one of the most brainless ditzes I’ve ever had the ill fortune of meeting.  Again, don’t think I’ve forgotten about that office.

It’s day is coming.

May be filming, shooting stills next week at 3:30am.  Well, that’s when I should arrive.  But I talked to the vineyard manager today, and he said it’d be fine if I show at 4am.  Have always wanted to witness a night pick.  Yes, I know that’s technically morning, but it’s night to most, as most are still in sleep deep.  Speaking of dormancy, I dreamt of reciting, last night, or early this morning.  I was in a jazz club, in Miami.. speaking words spoken to interested ears, eyes, minds.  Not sure what 2do with the echoing images.  But write.  2nite.  Posting, posting.. not writing.  That’s what this Comp Book’s for.  It’ll take me to my own office, to my travels.. to that hotel Room, that random bottle of red.


9/15/12 — Little Kerouac, 7 months old today.  And me, still chipping away at that novel, with this ’09 Cabernet in an annoyed glass.  Just wrote 300 words in a book, a NOVEL, idea.  Not calling it a project, ‘cause it’s not.  Wrote some lines while waiting for takeout from Mary’s.  Busier than busy today, with the whole “Crush Celebration.” Two big tours, which brought sales & wine clubs, and more importantly tips for my publishing fund.  Think I may be at $300.  Have to put that in an envelope.  Locking it away, disposing of key.  And me, only seeing poetry.. the stage, people reciting my words back to the writer.

10:54pm.  Need another sip of this Cab, see what it says.  My wines, those I’ll produce independently, will speak for themselves.  Not even sure I’ll fulfill the role of shepherd, but I’ll guide it, best I’m able, to its eventual bottle.  This Tuesday, when with the winemaking team, I’m hoping to just follow, take notes, pictures, observe in silence, gather material, become a maker of wine through others actions, influences.  Thinking I’m using commas incorrectly, altogether.  What kind of a writer/professor am I?  Definitely one who loves his wine, that’s been cemented in these “posts,” if anything.

11:01pm. Can’t get over this Cabernet– its voice, song, palate swiftness.  Need to touch base with a couple winemaking contacts, see what I can pick up.  Want to be the consummate consumer, like I tell guests, but I need to be one who truly knows wine– has a relationship with it.. MAKES IT.  Tomorrow, taking winemaking steps.  Calling Kaz, Katie, and maybe some other oeno-characters.  My wine needs to be made, just as I so immediately share my moments, repetitive rants on this “blog,” I need my varietal translations out there.  And I HAVE to write about it.  WINE, my relationship.. my LOVE AFFAIR with it.  While I sip.


9/13/12– Luckily, not as long a day for the writer.  [AM, some hour…]

10:06pm.  Only in a mood for verse.  Convinced, now more than ever, that’s all I have time for, anymore.  Pulled mySelf from tide low, only minutes ago, my wind slowed. Don’t have time, at least now, to write the novel I want to, to give Kelly what she deserves.  Hoping within the next couple months I will.  Stopping by the hotels today, dropping off promotional “lit” for a harvest event this Saturday, had me thinking of my travels on road, sleeping in random locations, writing those verses in unexpected beds.  Sipping whatever red’s on the menu.  Only days away from the road, I’m evermore certain.  I have to be, for my son’s sake, subsistence.  I’m writing for him.  I work for him.  I’m not at all autonomous.  And rather proud of such a realization.

Sipping my last Torpedo of night.  No idea where I am tomorrow.  Pretty sure, tasting Room.  A new character has caught my eye, rather poignantly.  Won’t get specific, even minutely.  But it will be revealed in one of the chapbooks.  This figure’s voice re-energizes my stance, my own role.  I’m realizing I can just rise, move, make a way of fair stray.  This character and I had a conversation in the parking lot, day’s end.  CharA shared with my new discoveries, a fermenting passion– new life, in wine’s shrug.  Felt jealous, revived, happy for CharA [Character A].  No such thing as “too late,” and wine’s world invites that.  Tomorrow night, opening something I shouldn’t.  One of my Lancaster ‘09s.

Should bring some grading to work, tomorrow.  But I won’t.  I’ll be distracted, probably taking lunch with coworkers.  And even if I didn’t, I should spend those 30 mins writing.  Yes, posting from phone.  So what, as long as I’m mentally alive.  Like I share with my students, like I always have.. “The onus is on you.” I have to truly embrace that voice, expressiveness.  So why do I continue to weigh down Self.  Consider this a meditation– a filed deliberation.  Can’t wait to put pen2paper.  And that’s the mentality I really need to Self-proselytize.  Organic, fundamental.. certain realizations tonight.  Love where my mind goes, how it works.  I know people only concerned with “when’s the next party,” or “when’s my next encounter.” Not me.  I secede in my Artistry.  That’s oenobellion.  Watching another documentary, that has me ready to challenge any poet entering lobbies.  I’ll travel with these poems, let it be known.  While raveled, sit 3 modems, set sit we shown…

tiring, already…  Must be tired from yesterday’s hours.  Have to credit that early evening mocha for ushering me through my speak.  Looking at my wallpaper, on this device, of French Mediterranean waves.  Travel.. not to get away from anything, anyone.. only 2 get more material, to put little Kerouac through college.  Want my little sire to have a true Artist as a father, one uncompromising.  If there’s a beach out there, anywhere in the world, that’ll write me my Kelly novel, I’ll find it.  True truth, in my new suit.

3:10pm.  With little Jack in nest, I can rest.  On these keys, yes.  I know I said I’d take a break from this drug of a device, but I thought it needed, to type..  Everything I uploaded from phone, now safe in this doc.  Well, kind of safe, I guess.  Up early tomorrow morning, having to be in vineyard for Chardonnay picking at 6:30am.  Today, for “internship,” I walked several blocks on the estate with winemaker and oenologist.  Can’t even recall everything I picked up from these two bottle brilliants.  But it’s in my winemaking Comp Book.  We tasted so many types, directly from vine.. Chardonnay, Sauv Blanc was first.. Alicante, Muscat Canelli, Malbec, old vine Syrah.. taught me to have more faith in my palate.  That’s what they both instilled in the writer.  The writing I did last night, in the Comp Book, to be put into a chapbook.  I am going forward with those projects.  I know, “Well, when then, Mikey?” Soon, I promise.  I know I’ve been saying it for some time, but beautifully sooner than what I’d consider “soon.” Watched a show last night where an “artist” was making quite the amount with his “creativity.” I just remember thinking, “if he can do it, I should have done so years ago.” Now’s my time, with all this material around me.. And the blogging, I have to say, even from phone [the immediacy of it], HAS helped.

In the mood for coffee, suddenly.  No mocha, today.  Didn’t have time.  Went to dentist from vineyard.  Found out I have a cavity.  I am a bit surprised, I have to say, but then not surprised at all.  Boring topic, so next…  Opening something else tonight.  But what?  Something to analyze for sake of notes I like.  Doesn’t have to be one of the varietals on the whoso menu.  How about the red I bought I Ty Caton’s?  Or one of those ’09 Cuvées from Lancaster.  The Malbec from St. Francis?  Not sure.  Just know I want to sip some wine, and dissect every characteristic I notice, then dissect the notes I get from deconstruction in the first round.

Last night’s lecture, progressed even better than the 1st.  And the lecture’s content, completely hand-written.  Forgot to print what I typed prior.  And I’m glad I did.  And, one of the pieces I assigned, class previous, dealing with one’s addiction to a laptop. Especially relevant, I realized listening to student reactions.  For the first time in this writer’s life, all’s self-situating into this melodic malaise.  Encouragement, like I’ve never known, from what intangibles around my books of notes float.  Finally, the composition targets me, congenially.

Speaking of THE Comp Book, where is it?  Oh, never mind, it’s still in work bag.  Would love to clean off this desk at some point this evening.  Tomorrow, also, back in tasting Room, I think.  Or am I on the mountain?  Doesn’t matter, there’s paragraphs everywhere..  Need to get some grading in tonight and tomorrow, as well.  Quite the busy writer, Mike Madigan.  Why the thought stream, the dirtiness, rawness of it all, favors my moments.  Just heard a noise from Kerouac’s Room.  May have been a sneeze, or unconscious cough.  Should I go check?  Afraid this swivel chair, that was once Dad’s, will make its low, aged squawking groan as I rise.

10:14pm.  Sipping an ’09 OVZ [old vine Zin].  I have no intentions of producing a Zin, ever, so I enjoy this as a total, consummate consumer.  Like how it defies the copiously fruity stereotype of Zinfandel.. the one I hold.  Nice floral aromatic net at senses, precise mid-palate, wild berry-centered finish.  Enlightening, for Zin-phobes like I.  Off to scribble in Comp Book, for 2nd chapbook.  Chap1, still to be edited.  Again, I conjure the correlation of a winemaker sending a wine to bottle and a writer sending a project to print.  “No going back,” as I recently heard a winemaker say.  Maybe that’s what’s been holding this writer still.


Tiring, but I’ll keep writing.  Time won’t defeat me.. this stubborn poet.  Glad I didn’t go out 2nite, succumb 2 pressure from “peers.” Kelly, still in her apartment, enjoying her night.  I’ve posted 2wice to blog, still feel stressed.  2nd writing movie, “Stranger Than Fiction.” Still sipping the Cab.  Is it speaking to me?  Oh yes.  But not interference.  Still staying home, focused on my work.  Looking over these pictures of 2012 fruit, b4 it’s picked, saddened.  Don’t know why, as I’m aware that the seductively voluptuous clusters have to B pulled, soon, giving us our wine, and me these wined sessions.  But still, it makes me think.  Starting the movie, as I want to watch 1 more, or at least part of another, after this.  Does that make sense?  Did I say that right?  The wine, turning my types into blithe brights.  OR not really.  So proud of my staying in typing bunker, 2nite.  Many other “writers,” I feel, would have gone out, drank, done nothing Literary with their eve.  Not saying I’m superior, by any account.  Just stating on this “blog” that I’m proud of my fortitude, at least for 2nite.  Haven’t visited Ms. Plath’s pages.  Time, 10:48pm.  Do I have time?  Don’t care.  Need another pour…

And, that’s the bottle.  Not ashamed, or afraid, concerned.. as it took me some time to kill all 750ml.  My stash, upstairs, begging me to publish these pages–  So glad I stayed in.  This writing, my oxygen, hydrogen, Life, Leap, Luck, Love.  The wine, still telling me to follow impulse, impetus.  Kelly, loving her night as well.  She halts in her sips, looks at her illustration.  This night, on glasses–  She thinks of her next trip, what she’ll hopefully sell.  She hates the fact that she HAS to sell.  But that’s the business, the “trade,” she realized.  Sipping again, looking at her watch, Kelly understands that her night’s passing without her permission.

9/2/12 — Back from work [7:08pm].  Not budging from this Literary castle.  One more night to Self, making it surely count.  Although, I’m not too disappointed with night last, as I did get out 1,000 words, posted that interview to other blog.  So tonight, no wine, just slow Racer 5 sips.  Watching another writing movie, thinking of Kelly, what she does when she’s not painting.  I know she loves her runs in Annadel, bike rides out in Bodega.  But I’m not sure what real “downtime” is to her.  Still learning, with this constant character.

Suddenly, feeling still, realizing project R launches in 3 days.  Probably taking notes tonight, at least a couple.  Waking early tomorrow to finish everything, before working at sister’s winery.  Have to be there at 12p, but may go in a little earlier.  Already tired of typing.  Should take a break.  Not going to just blindly follow my impulse to open Comp Book.  Breaking…  But maybe I SHOULD keep writing.  Write my way through this.  Whatever “this” is.  Opening Comp Book, but not touching pen.

Can’t believe I made it through today, honestly.  Wasn’t in wine club room, but it was just as hurried, hectic.  My first class session, has to be started in a way I’ve never thought of before.  The thought of Kelly’s novel sitting on a shelf, self-published of course, just rattled my stationary existential edifice.  Should get into some poem, would probably move things a bit in this session.

This typing, this laptop, feel so official.  Want to recede to rebellion.  That’s it– Writing in rhyme, lined form.  Whatever comes to mind.  That’s what she’d want me to do.  Miss Jack, Alice, but glad I do get 1 more night to Self.  What time should I tomorrow wake?  Maybe 6.  Or is that too early?  Not even 8, yet.  Hoping to screen 3 writing movies, 2nite–  Next, I’m thinking, “Capote.” Watched that film one of the last times I had a night alone, and wrote well, from what I remember.

All writers reading this will understand this next sentiment: I need new words.  Always used to encourage students to exercise syntactic variety, and here I am using the same modifiers, tags, descriptors.  Kelly would more than likely tell me to just write the way I write.  But I’d have to disagree with her, honestly.  I want to keep changing the way I write, for growth; for self-expansion, that transcendence, discovery I’ll address the first day of class.  And the Kelly novel needs better wording, new colors.  She would understand that, definitely.

She sits, watches the news.  But she wants to open some wine.  Not yet.  Just relax, she tells herself.  Her sketchpad, on lap.  She quickly draws the Golden Gate Bridge, but hurried, to highlight the commutes.  She thinks of what she wants to do with her night.  Maybe nothing.  And would that be so bad?  Why did she always have to be “productive?” She hates that word, fiercely.  It reminded her of a boss she had, at an office she worked at during her freshman year at SSU.  Some small fly-like pest circled around her space as the news descended from weather to hyper-exaggerative obsessive sports reporting, like it was the most important frame set in Human advance.

There’s no intimacy in typing on this bloody mechanism.  Now I do need a Comp Book’s pages.  Would rather write on a legal pad.  Should I hop over to the Safeway just down the block?  I’m sure they sell them there.  I’d think they do.  Staying here.  Need a break.  And another beer.  No wine 2nite, and for quite a while.  Stanford on mind, these lectures I’ll be giving this semester.  Want them to be Stanford-”worthy” while symphonically appropriate for a composition section.  That means, everything has to be written.  HAND-written.  My Literary act, now, in this night’s sessions: do nothing.  Nothing.  Going to let the story find me.  Land on me.  Squeeze me like a lover returning from war, recovering from illness.

More music, I’m thinking.  Want crowds following my words.  Having books on a shelf is one thing, but crowds following your speech–reacting to it, moving to it, repeating it back to you.. incomparable.  Switching gears, permanently.  And now, back to doing nothing.  Thinking of what I was thinking when I shot these stills on my phone.  This movie, seen it so many times I can’t remember a time where I saw something I hadn’t before.  Should I turn it off?  Of course, dumb question.  Just write, to TV– No, music.  More free with actual pages, the Comp Book.. Artisanal reality, adjusted normality.  Now, completely still.  She tells me to make mySelf move, forget about currency.  It has no significance.  Moment-shape, narrated comically.