Another Island

IMG_8805 Wine, today was all wine.  But as well, a return to running.  6.2 treadmill miles today, then home to shower before the crushpad, where the Cabernet, the last Sanglier lot as I understand was crushed.  Now the writer’s at home, battling several distractions but here in the homestudy writing about the day and how it only moreso convinced me I’m a writing/running winemaker.  Tomorrow morning, although I’m sure the wine will still be felt, I’ll be writing and journaling, inventorying all.  The run is starting to catch me, a bit, but not as much as I thought it would.  Must still be in a bit of shape.  After the 6.2 I took to the basketball court to shoot a few.  But not many.  I know Glenn would call any minute and ask me to come to the press and I did and he later messaged me to be at this house for the wine club/employee/grower event at his house.  Myself, didn’t sip much, but there at home I have surveyed both the La Rochelle Chardonnay and the Selby Merlot.  Not aiming for any level of effect but just to be in wine’s story– the write can only think of how many weeks are left in the semester and how much longer he has to wait to launch both the startup and the website for ‘mmc’.

Smelling the other fermenting wines in that room, one of the barrel rooms showed me what wine can IMG_8812do to senses and the story, how it’s perceived by a writer like me.  A writer– like me.  Down comes Alice, what haveth she to say– “Where’s my ipad?” Then up she goes, pointing out to the writer how big her stomach gets.  I remind her she’s pregnant which is unnecessary but I do to comfort her and she smiles airingly and I can’t help but imagine my little girl here in this house, crawling around like Jackie used to in the condo.  Wine is family, and a family business.  So I need to push harder with mmc and vvv.  There are universes and solar strokes nearing that I never before pictured.  So here it is, what the writer has always wanted and I can’t be slowed even for a minute– I should be drinking coffee right now no worry I will in the morning keeping my story going and all these short stories and narratives involving and revolving wine and winemaking and wine drinking, what the grape says to me, leaving behind the bloody adjunct de-signification, how they lower us and throw us where they need us and– no matter, this semester, F ’15, will be a bold forward in my wine label’s methodology and bottle titles.  Already have one thought of , the “Adjunct’s Succession Blend”.

IMG_8814Now, for cap, the write sips his Lagunitas bottle.  Then I need bed.  A fine rest for the writer and a sturdy state for the winery, Arista, come morrow, where I know I’ll taste more wines, Pinots, and a Zin– oh and that Chard, maybe two.  The writer’s exhaustion him catches but the book grows and I hope to be on the Road soon with my little pages and whatever pens I can steal from the plane and hotel– simplicity in my saunter and syncopation, my synapses rile in new realizations and thought so going back to Mendo someday soon and confronting that tight-greasy-faced pig that rejected my writing pulse, telling him something like “Oh I’m doing fine, I’m writing.. and what are you doing?  OH.. still teaching English at a community college?” And yes that sounds vindictive and petty, ‘cause it is. It’s warranted.

Then I calm down.  It’s the weekend, if I even get those.  Do I?  The downstairs of the Autumn Walk IMG_8824base, quiet, and me with this laptop on my lap and my family upstairs asleep except for possibly Alice who took a nap only a handful of hours ago.. provides the writer some pause, some collection, and another sip of this Lagunitas Sucks– was tempted to have more of that Selby Merlot, but the writer’s done with Merlot tonight, done with wine.  Beer’s what the character craves.  And another cruise through the day’s stills.  So I deep breathe, hear the back neighbors but ignore them, already fantasizing about the coffee– oh, I should make some now, and I would, but I know that would anger Alice. I should be upstairs now but I’m a writer with a flurry of character quirks.


Pinot and the Penner

IMG_6856On my last Pinot glass, and feeling relieved and free, with this consolidating urge, all writings funneled and filtered into one effort or voice, or book– that’s what it is!  I say to myself.  I need only to write books.  This wine tells me to fall further into wine’s story and into the voracious vortex that laments my wine curiosities.  and I won’t lie, reader, I very much feel the wine tonight, oh yes I do like Hemingway at La Coupole, scribbling away at my novel and — then I think of something else to do.  Away with this notebook, I tell you– or laptop rather (that wast he wine typing, there)… earlier writing in my little notepad on the patio of this Autumn Walk base, looking out at the street, watching Jackie play with his friends and even when there was no one there, on that pavement, I thought of the moment and how terrific, utterly, it was and is to be here on this street as a writer, watching you only son interact with the other younglings… another sip of this Boekenoogen ’13 Pinot.  Knowing I need to have my own label directly in motion at 2016’s beginning, seeing my son in the tasting room, greeting people and telling them we’re pouring this, that, a blend and a single vineyard whatever…

Getting up at 5AM tomorrow morning, somehow.. last glass nearly finished.  But then I look down at, to left to couch’s side, and I see I have at least two maybe three lion-like licks left.  Shit.. why did I pour myself another glass?  I blame myself and the day back at the winery today and how it, Arista, even more made the writer yodeling in wine’s promise.  So now what.. I guess just drink my glass last, and watch a movie, one that will keep the writing writing in morrow’s harsh morrow.



5:14am.  Barelycorn.  Did it.  Woke hungry, with stomach, angry, confused.  Much the way Jack must feel when he rises.  My clothes, someone–I mean someWHERE– in here, but not sure, so I can’t go running.  And even if I could, I’d choose not to.  These keys, making noise.  Don’t wake the little Artist.  There…  The fridge makes its running hum.  I have cover.  Least from my perspective.  Tired.  Thinking of falling back to sleep.  But then what kind of writer would I be?  This is when my consciousness is most beautifully brave, odd.  Stay with it.  Readers: if you’re doing same, don’t go back to sleep.  Make yourSelf stay away.  If I fell back into dreams, what would she think?

She’d understand, I’m sure.

Not in the mood for work today.  Not even microscopically.

Only want the Road, time for me.


In this dark, though, I have to retreat into Self, and all I have are simple recollections.  Maybe I should go back to sleep–  Is that what this entry’s about?  Shame.  If I could just have a cup of coffee.  But that would wake him.  And if I could just re-situate on this couch.  No, same.

Tomorrow’s run, shoot for 10 miles.  Try.  That would bring me to 17.75 for week.  Have to make Self run Sat and Sun, optimally before work, have that momentum and energy established.

Pretending I’m on an overnight, somewhere.  That I have a conference at 8am, knowing I have to soon be quite sharp, that I SHOULD go back to sleep.  But the reality, later.. I’m just pouring wine.  Talking about it.  Trying to sell it.  No Art in that.  Yes, responsibility, stability, but there’s not much Art, honor in that ‘act’.  Or maybe there is.  Maybe I’m just a cranky 34 y/o.

The cellar master said I should taste my wines today [he said that to me the other day, after shift’s end when we all went to cellar to get a bottle, reward for day’s doings].  Guess I have to, as immediately after shift I have to get the little Artist.  His reaction now, when I walk through Lisa’s door: perfect day topping.

5:27am.  Is my throat hurting?  Oh, I hope not.  Want to save PTO time for a couple days next month, take a weekend off to finish some work, spend time with Jackie.

Decided:  Today, bringing first two standalones to work, from book.  I’m finishing this thing, this first chapbook.  Time to start saving money, making more of it.. showing people, especially those fools so quickly labeling me a “blogger” or “social media guy” that I’m anything but.

I’m a writer.

I have



Refrigerator stopped with its running.  Now I have to pet each key rather than push, punch, or tap it.  Will not be sway on today’s lunch–  I.  Am.  Reading.  Moving forward with this book, which I just last night learned has well over 20k words in its area.  Delightful.

Memory:  Advanced Poetry Workshop, 1st semester, Senior Year, SSU…  One of my fellow students, a girl I had a good relationship with, Melissa, calling much of our class “poetry snobs.” Not sure why I remembered this now, in this darkened play area for Jack, with quiet fridge and quiet everything.  I remember thinking she was right, though.  Many of them, especially this one, can’t remember her name, had quite the opinion of her work.  And others.  And she always used adverbs, she loved them; they were like specially glazed sweets to her; she couldn’t use them enough– “I’m ALL about adverbs,” she once said.  I probably with Melissa rolled my eyes.  Would love to see her at a reading now, the Adverber.  Battle her or something.  And that’s much of what provokes me to attend readings, now: push to show others that I’m better.  Which I think is healthy, quite resounding.  But I need to finish works, commit them to memory if they’re to be read the way I like.  If there’s 2B any magic in my stage.

Still very much awake.  How am I doing, Ms. Plath?  Would love to read a poem or two from her right now, but my books lie in the kitchen, under the table.  [5:38am]  And I’m not going on the bloody internet.  That would kill what I’m doing.  Infect it, nullify this delicious dark.  Fly flying back, forth, before screen.  By my nose, buzzing my lashes.  There it is again.  What does it want?

5:40am.  Will there be any grapes on crush pad when I arrive today?  Hard to say.  Think harvest may be dumbly done.  And with my harvesting of poems, for 2013: want it to keep going.  I won’t let it be still.  Today: can lie, say I have wine club letters to write, retreat to other bar, write more verse.  Genius.

Alice’s friend, traveling to Southern California to run a half-marathon.  She’ll be on Road, if only for day.  She has something taking her– reasonably loud sound outside.  The paper man, I think.  Or is that my little Artist, upstairs?  With no sight, depth perception in this dark, I can’t tell.  One sense drought curving its cousin…

Coffee.  Much on mind, very much.  That Italian Roast, probably my favorite of the 3 types I bought the other night.  [bending legs a bit, as they were falling asleep resting on this pillow.]


Tired again,

and there’s still a

whole day

for me– stale



DID Ms. Plath ever go back to sleep, even for a power nap?  I’ll settled that she didn’t.  She couldn’t afford to, with two children, her “duties” as a wife.  Think I just heard my little character.  Need to edit this, with famished shark speed.  1,000 words before 6am.  Not often it happens, but no wine, or my beloved artisanal beer is much to credit.  They only slow you, reader.  Coffee, that decaf, an illustrated, IMMEDIATE solution.  I’ll also thank Mr. London for his character.  Think Martin Eden did the same thing.  Been a while since I read it, semester ago.. years ago.

The fly again,

Motorcycle in street, either

showing off

or rushing to work.

Either way,

go away.


(5:54am, 10/16/13)

Catchup Call

Final post for day.  Finished 3 pages.  Ran 10 miles.  Complete numerical rundown:  1:22’49” total time; 8’14”/mi pace; 10.06 total distance; 1,146 calories.  Surprised I made it over 10 miles.  My right knee really started to smart, right at the end.  Sipping some sparkling water, watching a documentary on TV.  Feel like I’m repeating what the end of the 3 page stint.  In the tasting Room, not much adventure, not like what I’m seeing on this program, traveling all over the continent for certain sights.  All I need is the Road…  This consolidation, though, taking more time that I thought.

Capping book1 at 120 pp.  Next collection, much shorter.  Not sure how many pages, but less headache, less wait.  Watching this piece on Discovery, I feel like I haven’t seen a thing.  Nothing on this planet, much less this continent, this country, this state even.

Think I may have to stop the typing session.  This exhaustion’s too much at moment.  I’ll note the night’s remainder, in Comp Book.  I’ll be back to this fall in early morrow.  Yes, lovely reader.. with coffee.  Bon nuit.

10:45pm.  Curse this writer!  Decided to cut book in half.. 2 chapbooks.  First, 59 pages.  Second, 61.  It’s the right move, I think.  I can edit them quicker, sell them, have continuous profit.  There, I feel better.  So glad I decided against wine, tonight.  And quite happy my day’s quality improved, that last night’s rattles left.  Have to do a better job controlling my own inner seismology.  IT’ll be better for the writing, my eventual business.  IT’ll get me to my office, to the Road, quicker.  Almost time for 11 o’clock news.  Challenge 2Self:  finish a verse before 11:30pm.  Write how you think, not concerned about formalities, typos, errors any.. just write, musically, artfully.

11:07, done.  19 new lines written, added to a couple I wrote the other night.  Standalone done.



Driving back to

IMG_2029Following with impulse to write, but it’s difficult, from this exhaustion, whatever bug has invaded my lining.  Jack’s birthday party today.. family, friends, celebrating my son’s life.  1 year on plant, for my little Artist.  Alice, already, now at 8:26p, retired.  One interaction I have to record from party: a conversation between my friend Melissa’s husband, Troy, and I.  About drawing, painting.. something I need to answer, a curiosity that need be quelled.  I told him the other day, that I want to ask him a couple question.. everything from how to start, to what I should draw, what I should start drawing, what he does, and all pertaining.  He told me, as I do with students or anyone else curious about writing, “Just start drawing…go to a park, bring your sketch pad, and play with color composition.” Glad I heard it from his dialogue den.  Now, this’ll be precisely what I’ll do.. just play with colors, inventory every effort, session.

Still feeling symptoms.  Light cough, intermittent sniffles, rare sneezes.  Combatting it with a 2008 Decoy Merlot, that my winemaker sis brought in her supply of wine for Kerouac’s gathering.  This is just the type of Merlot I want to produce.  Poured night’s cap just over ten minutes past.  Quite full, that bowl.  Notes– blackberry, licorice, mint, mocha on nose; palate: syrupy cherry, lingering licorice, mint, thick and slow progression; finish, all notes remaining with generous tannin dispersal.  Can’t find anything to critique, really.  And why should I?  I’m writing about it, writing alongside it.. I love it.  Why do we insist on complicating things– moments and matters in Life?  ESPECIALLY WINE?.?!!

This blog, beginning to get traction.  Significant readership.  So what do I do?  “Monetize” it?  Did Hemingway have ads on the sides of his pages?  I want this to be a gallery of Life.. MY life.  Not a forum for soul selling.  So that issue’s anesthetized.  Glad.  It’s.  Dead.

Back in TR, morrow.  These evidences of slowness need to depart, already.  Need another Merlot kiss.  ’08, again my vintage of interest.  Katie and I didn’t get to talk business today, and that’s fine.  BUT, our bottling’s right around the corner.  Need to ask her about aging potential, final fining, or blending.  Last minute edits, possible adjustments.

Honesty, in this prose: calling in sick, tomorrow.  Don’t think I’m sick enough, thankfully.  Would rather be in that Room, talking to people, listening to their demands, be they wine club members or other.  Domestic, abroad, interstate…

On mind: poem.  Cubist standalone’s.  Still have quite a bit of the Decoy left.  Sipping with melodic murmur.  This writer can’t afford to be “sick.” Writers like mySelf, Mr. Hemingway, don’t get “sick.” We have a certain power that makes illness unknown, even symptoms’ thick.  Just looked at clock.  8:52pm.  May be right behind Ms. Alice.  Tomorrow morning, on way to Estate: buying sketchpad, colored pencils down the street.  Cheap as I can find, to be sure I do something with them, so there’ll be no pressure.  Either I do it, or I don’t.  Just going to blend colors, color intensities, blending on top of other blends.  Was interesting today, Troy telling me to look at a translucent glass sheet, tell him what colors I saw.  He told me that’s how you deconstruct what you see as an illustrator.  Going to try this, FINALLY.  Write what I find, or don’t find.  Who am I doing it for?  ME!

(2/17/13, Sunday)

Sixth Discourse

Up.  Early, 653a.  Still reflecting upon that beer, last night.  My further intensified obsession with simplicity.  Minimization.  Blog [or log], and book.  1 hand-scribed journal.  That’s it.  Tonight, progress on book.  Haven’t contributed in a while.  Longer than I’d like.  NOTE: going after old blog entries, mikeslognoblog and bx.  Discovery, fruition, profitability.  Jack’s counting on me.

1:17pm.  No class tonight.  So, grading, lesson planning, writing.  Have to stay ahead of students, that’s how I’ll have a prosperous quarter.  I mean semester.  Must have Stanford on brain.  Was in a cynicism mist, early, this Valentine’s Day.  What pulled me from, Jack.  Of course.  This little character, to be 1 on morrow’s turn, has an odd power that shifts my shape with only seconds of interaction, minimal contact.  Need as much of him in day’s intervals as allowable.

Gorgeous outside.  Low 70’s, I want to say.  Going to coffee shop on 12 & Mission.  What do I want done?  1 target [in this new hyper-obsession with simplicity]: BOOK.  That’s all.  Analyzing my character Kelly, my Self, whomever’s around me sitting.  And focusing on older entries.  I’m starting to see them as THE key to getting on Road.  Jack, asleep upstairs.  Me, down here, with only this monster, its cranky keys.  Looking at beginning entries, where I link Literature, Writing, with wine.  The energy on those screens reminds me of how I am now with winemaking, with a carnivorous passion jog in my efforts, small or grandiose.

Speaking of winemaking, I need a new wine for tonight.  What, what…  May actually buy one at store when picking up groceries for this V-Day dinner.  What varietal?  Cabernet?  No, tired of the Bordeaux bull.  Surely not Zin.  Pinot, maybe.  I do love that Moshin Sonoma Coat bottle.  Think the last I had was an ’09.  Still thinking about the man from yesterday, from Montana, who made blends from fermented berries and cherries.  Another just sprung to memory tarmac: the lady from Florida, writing down everything about each wine I poured, reading aloud her descriptors, several times with each wine vocally noting “the bouquet.” And I thought just now about my winemaking aims, how what I want to do with making wine will influence my “career” moves in “the industry.” I want to make wine on my won [yes, I intentionally wrote “won” instead of “own” …] terms, for mySelf, and a potential future label.  I don’t aspire to be on a winery’s winemaking staff, in lab or cellar.  Not yet.  Unless I knew the offer would truly do something significant for me, for MY wine.  Think I may stay with social media, blogging, sales, some VIP tours, the like, for now.. all while saving for my future crushings.  I can’t afford a pay cut, that’s for sure.  And, I want to make wine how I want to make it, translate varietals how I want them to be seen, tasted.  How I think they–the varietals, their parental terroir–want to be portrayed.  And since I have a Merlot in barrel, in the winery’s cave, I should probably pull a Merlot from Oliver’s shelf.  Decided.  But what vintage?  Want to see how they age, so maybe an ’08, or a REASONABLY priced 2007.  No more than $35.  OR 30.

Older entries, “reviewing” wines I was that night or a night recent sipping, giving me story ideas.  Magazine ideas.  How does a wine get formally “reviewed?” Can you be formal in reviewing wine?  Something else with which to toy this evening– or on 12 & Mission, in BOOK.  Needing coffee right now, actually.  Had a couple cups at Omelette Express with Jack and Alice, with my eggs, “country potatoes” [or whatever the owner calls them], two bacon strips.  Which is different for me, outside regular character, as I usually have Diet Coke.  But that’s a beverage I’m looking to remove from my Now.  Why?  Simply, I’ve found it to be poisonous.  Jack needs me HERE, and I can assure so not just through career efforts, but ones nutritional especially.  Need to do some blog maintenance before working on book, in this sitting, on couch here in living room, as both J and A upstairs slumber.  I need to keep adding to my catalogue.  In the “All List,” I’ve recorded 15 standalone’s.  Wonderful, but I need SALES.  Much as I’d like to Self-pub a 100+ page ms, I simply haven’t the funds.  SO, my brand, MIKE MADIGAN: one of 50 to 60-pagers.  Releasing one every month.  Want this to be steady stream.  Thoroughly Picasso-like, completely Cubist in habit, shape.  ~2/14/13, Thursday

poem measure, 2/5/13

“…Tired of paragraph, formality.. Me, the writer laughing at

reality.  Step never

passively.  Home sick, or so I in-called, but not ill.  Tie

idea knots and their plot’s killed.  Another fill

of goblet.. obligation, no, pause it.  I recite

V1 rockets at skeptic, devils love to critique but never read

it.  Literary Life, I still bled it.  To dystopian doorstep

headed.  But I’m fine, need the material so I can band

a separate strand over 3 hands.  MY sense, sensibility,

2 separate sensei.  In, my hesitancy then weighs.

My pen strays with bent rays.. Colossus,

Cloverdale to Caracas, floating away imagination–

eroding the phase infatuation.. think I’m sane but

unexpectedly brained.  Tremendously Self-trained,

oration to scuffle rumbles tangible, for

those time barely unmanageable.  Plan 2not

scam a bull, my urges.. only charge, solely

card.  No ID.. low, high, plea.  I’m

entrenched in where and with what I’m bent.

On calendars like lent.  But how, when there’re

spikes sent?  …”

journal, 2/3/13

9:19pm.  Back home.  Sipping something artisanally beer’d.  Want to print more poem.  Looking down at these pieces that I sent through machine, last night.  Need more, produce revenue, or something tangible.  The group I had today, taking them to Mountain’s Top, made this scribe’s shift.  Enjoying quiet, here in home study.  Should be actually studying.  Anything.  My French, Lit Theory, specific Authors.. even my own entries.  Still sipping, scribbling, thinking of the morrow.  Need to be, recite/act/exist more out of character.  More separatism.  “Whoso would be a man…” as Emerson said.  Tonight, letting worlds know, I don’t concern Self with expectations, what others retrain from others’ efforts.  Managers, benefiting from our efforts.  Not letting my son’s father live that servitude.  Never.  Only surrounding Self with those like today’s visitors.  That’s Art, and from here out, only Art.. and if there’s lack, I’ll find Art in what I can.  Not sure I’ll reach target tonight, here in studio, sipping Little Sumpin’, knowing more need be typed.  Less pics, less video, less “social” media.  That’s not Art.  Art isn’t even here, in what I’m doing, typing.  Want more ink spilled.  Tangible animal, standing full– my objective, rhythmic perspective.  Listening to these instrumentals, thinking of more words spoken, turns chosen.  Tell stories before my shell’s quarried.

What I believe.. INDEPENDENCE.  You already have sight of my scope, but I elope to notes cloaked.  Looking around my home bunker, I realize consolidation’s ever-necessary.  More poetry.. in-moment pulses.  Reading past entries, wondering home time arrived where it now ticks.  Must be immature, I’m sure.  Not thinking right tonight, as I write my plight.  But, reading this only issue of vinoLitLetterz, I see my urge has been admirable for some time, since 2010.  Before, really…  So I’m told by Craft to return to ink, sheet.  Where’s newJournal?  Think maybe in work bag.  Just want music, tonight.  No formalist twist.  The more postmodern I go auburn.

Should be writing paragraphs now.  Not how I’m thinking.  More song, instrumental-focused.  Wish I could have written at Mountain’s Top, today.  Just give me 2 hours, up there.. promise I’d have a few dozen pages fermented.  Actually, just had idea– keeping2Self.  Thinking I’ll finish entry in morrow’s harshness.  Time, 10:08pm.  Having trouble thinking I can spend any of night’s remainder in anything other than pagination.  Why?  Why can’t I allow the writer to LIVE?  Isn’t that more Literary than actual writing?  That’s what I’ve been professing.  Anyway…

Sloppy session.  But at least I’m writing.  Sure Mr. Hemingway had a seated stroll or three like these, or here Me.  What else am I going to do?  I’m a writer.  I don’t have any interest in “partying.” What will that do?  Won’t finish manuscripts quicker, that’s certain.  Now, tired, uninterested.  Maybe I should return to this effort in morning..  Would that be so horrible?

Tired, retire to comfortable quagmire.  Could I push Self, maybe.  But I want to to “relax.” Actually NOT work.  Barbaric, I know.  But I’m here, complaining.  10:38pm, just for purposes, notation.  Little pages to right.  Should write as I do in tasting Room, in-moment.  That’s what’s really REAL.  Where the Art sits, waits for written connection.

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)