Trying to wake. Coffee, cold and dipped in and out of a few sips already. Busy day ahead of a writer but I welcome all of it, the idea from yesterday haunting and taunting me every time I yawn. I can’t afford to be tired or focus on anything other than action, moving, getting done what I need to. A storm of appointments today, there’ll be no time to write so everything in this wined chapter and direction, for over 8 hours, cut and pasted to thinking, my character’s most intrinsic and functional form.

No kids in studio, so I have time. I have time for this, this sitting, wine thoughts all over my character’s perception and placement on this couch…. I think about the winery and the wine business and me in it a writer and blogger, honing more on the wine than the business and maybe that’s my business, what for the rest of my life should keep a writer busy.

I’ll get in the shower soon, iron clothes and be in character and get to writing spot before having to be at morning meeting which solves nothing and then my winery, the tasting room for the show. The bottled ox this morning, meditative and decisive, thanking the morning itself for this quiet, for this, THIS, me sitting on the couch with legs extended the later crossed and set on ottoman, blanket over stems. I can hear the sounds of the winery now, here in the studio with wife sleeping upstairs and me down here with this new conception and election, like I’m staring down at a crowd from a before unattainable mezzanine. A dream but not. New plot, clock, nonstop.

06:31. Giving self a bit more for this, the me here on couch and needing another sip from this mug that a friend and past co-worker at a past winery bought me while in Mexico with his girlfriend. I need travel, I realize, if I’m to know wine and define her and if not have some denotative then some abstraction in which I jot and sketch, note and quake in paragraph or verse form.

What Mike Madigan is, I think now a visual tells. Finally, right before 39. Now as wine and I have the dialogue of my life, why she’s here to begin with and what she wants me to do, how many books am I supposed to write, and what does today mean for the story. Right now, what I’m doing when in that tasting room, bottled ox or no, I’m there with wine and people speaking from what they sip and I note, trap and record everything, no try.

06:36. Now I’m ‘wake, functioning in my happy scribed turns. Need to wake earlier, as I do many times have in this journal my intentions to be writing at 04:00. I’m up now, though. Seeing everything in a vino and oeno scape before it’s poured. Right when I walk through the door, brandish an ink sword, record.


from this morning’s inward jot

“Do I have a career?” He wonders.  He does.  He does starting today, the new him, the new of Newness around him and in his innermost inner voice.  No more settling, no more of anything that unsettles him.  Only elevation, only elation, only the forward and no more settling, settlement.  Advance, advancement, what he promised himself.

This morning, I don’t blog about wine, or write about it, but what it embodies… freedom, aspirations realized and made tangible.  No more settling, no more nay-saying ebbs about my story, around me, distant or right in front of me.  If eel musical this morning, freer than free.  I see each of my babies, looking up at me and proud of their daddy, proud of what he does and what he writes, eager to hear new stories.  I’m free this morning—  NO, liberated, basking in this liberation and enlivened vibration, and climbing primal pulse, my own proverb, curve and verve.


Mike goes back and forth in narration, seeing his story at a crossroad, intersection, point of decision where indecision is death, worse than death.  He sees a vineyard in behind his house, it being harvested and he up early with the crew, helping them toss bin loads into the gondolas, even riding on the side of the tractor.  It’s time for dreams, he says to himself this morning.. no more expected, no more pattern, no more saying “I’m going outside the box”.  Life isn’t forever, life isn’t even life… life is curt, gone well before it can be appreciated.  He thinks of his childhood friend that dropped dead walking to his car after work.  Mike knows that could happen to him after writing in the coffee shop, now, walking to his car to drive to work to give eight hours of his life to a company.  Yes, a company he believes in, that he enjoys and for which he’s grateful for all tis motivation and story, inspiration and narrative, vineyard scenes and vineyard walks, wines and new characters.  But he wants more.  He demands more.  Of himself, of the opportunities he creates for himself.

Woman next to me with her daughter, and I’m guessing parents on the other side of the table, on my side sitting on the long couch-like seat with rectangular mock-leather pillows or cushions.  Three generations.. there, right here next to me reminding me of time, my time, here on the planet in my story and that I don’t know, I don’t know when I’m on my last page.  More opportunities, more Roads, more pieces and essays, and create— WAKE UP EARLIER.  Yes, I was up early this morning, well before wife and babies, but I could have been writing earlier, I could be at, should be at, 3000 words already.  But here I am.. different this morning.  Anxious a bit.. eager to be defiant today, to blast my way outside of normality and others’ expectations of me.. radicalized writer, tireless… seeing self get older and I won’t have my babies have anything less than a page warrior, knowledge addict, as a father.  Like my Dad, always seeing more, doing, doing, doing it.  IT.

He has about 20 minutes left to write, collect himself before his big day, the day that marks the death of the workplace for him.  Today he begins his official war to get to his office, to be free.  Again, no spite his company.  He just wants something different.  The difference of life, what so many say they’ll do and he’ll just do.  He was one of them.  WAS.