Opened something I shouldn’t have, but who’s to say I shouldn’t. 

img_5540I was in the mood, I was curious, I know what I wanted and the bottle was opened.  Just took first sip.  This month, I finish the re-write.  The re-organization of certain story attributes.  The wine agrees.  She tells her truths in rhythmic and rhymed roads, and I follow, wanting to taste more wines… project, now, build cellar.  Write about every wine I taste, even if I’ve tasted it a thousand or so times like the Roth offerings.  After tonight’s dinner with family, only sipping that Sbragia SB I know I need to taste more, more wines.. tomorrow with wife in Healdsburg, the J Winery in whatever town that is… I’ll buy pragmatically.  One bottle for cellar, one for immediate, or proximal greeting.

House quiet, babies asleep, perfect for this bottle.  Not sure why I felt guilty opening her, but I don’t any longer.  With the visuals of travel in my sights, more necessitations of exploration deconstruction of certain oeno-universes mandate themselves on page.  I look right at glass, swirl a coulee times, not too forcefully, and wonder what the wine says, thinks of me, wants to say, would have been in five or ten years later had I not.

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Leaving in a minute to get son.  Second coffee cup, the stuff Mom and Dad bought me

img_3362for birthday.  And this shit is STRONG.  I feel like I could write a whole collection of short pieces right now and bind it and start selling, changing things forever, getting myself a car, one that I want to drive, and that small house in Monterey or Carmel.

Little pages on me at all times… pen to paper.  Be a real fucking writer, not one of those blogger idiots that “write” “notes” in their phone and forget about it.  Use to be me, but here meet the new me.

Nice to meet you.

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Long as I’ve been up,

the wine writing daddy needs this. No TV, everyone upstairs asleep. No voices. Me fixated and concentrated on my wined thoughts. Decided to open a ’13 AV Cabernet. Discussing with co-workers earlier what we wanted from this business, from our careers. First such multi-character back-and-forth I’ve had in longer than I can now deconstruct. Some time, since such. I know where I’m going, that’s all I know. She tells me to enjoy my visions, this Cabernet. She also tells me to stop worrying. About anything. “You’re in control, don’t you get that?” She hammers. Think I know what she means, then other times I just pour self into self-doubt’s cup. I don’t feel like working tonight. Just freewriting. Being me, and as freely as I could and can ever see. Wish it were raining. Could use those drop sounds. Would pair more than well with this Cab.

My own wine. My own winery… Goddamnit, I’m having these thoughts AGAIN? Take a breath… just enjoy the thoughts. An adjunct English Instructor, starting a winery. Or do I want a wine shop? Or both? One of the participants in the after-work talk said her cumulative promise was to be self-employed. No boss. No one telling her what to do. Simple, but I agree. My aims are a bit more anatomical, so maybe I disagree. What if I can have both. Shop, sell my wines in the shop. Then… have the shop be a client of the larger creative marketing and media verticality… This postulating wine and I having a much-warranted discussion, after this day type. I have to stay in wine, no matter how moody I get. It’s never the wine business or industry, or the tasting room… it’s me, trust me. My biggest problem is my attitude. This Cab reminds me, tries to help. Hear daughter cough, then cry… pauvre fille. Cry stops, but I wonder if I’m wrong for collecting as I now do. Glass gone, and I remember what Mom told me ’bout them. To cherish them. All from my late-Aunt Terri. Life and death accentuated in tonight’s sitting on this hard floor which now pains the writer and suggests that maybe I look at the wine again. Capping of night, sit on the couch… think of tomorrow’s lectures. HST, Plath… life, death… my love of other artists’ work that furthered into the inescapable connection to that end. There need be more poetry about me, with wine, with the shit in the industry I still scrutinize and cite, jab and stab.

This morning, up at whatever hour, I was concluding the day would be a demon-day. Testing me– no, more. And it did. So… the writer celebrates with his aunt. Can still see that grin… the teeth.. hear that laugh and feel her hand in mine dancing at my wedding in ’07. What happened. Why. What will happen in my story. And… pourquoi? Too much for this floor, and having an empty glass as I do. My wine diary… need submissions and just scribble. I’m deciding more wild ways, more poetry in my vinified haze…

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Couldn’t go back to sleep 

so I decided to rise only to have Jack meet me downstairs.  Working event later at winery and not sure when I’ll have time to write.  Not going to worry about it.  I can write what I do now.  Should be focused on time with babies anyway, as I’ll be home late-late this evening.  Glad I’m up now, but hate writing on phone.  Why don’t I have laptop out?  Too clunky and conspicuous.  Just notes for now.  Want to be more like son in how he completes stand-alone art projects, wakes early, and gets right to whatever he was working on last or beginning new projects.  He has the wee hour ethic and habit and persistence of a winemaker.  

And, will I get in a vineyard walk today at any point?  Stressing about way too much.  Why.  Enjoy your morning with little Kerouac and Ms. Austen, whenever she wakes.

Put ice cubes in coffee in tumbler I left in fridge over night.  In mood to have it extra cold.  Jackie watches a different cartoon with little puppies that talk and band together— think they have super powers, or some level of otherworldly power.  On missions of sorts.

“Dada,” Jack says, “do you have a butt promise?”

I laugh and say, “What?  A butt promise?”

“Yeah, a butt promise, I have a butt promise and I throw my butt in the garbage.” He starts on his second waffle and stops the butt promise sagacity.  Watches the gang of endlessly smiling mini dogs run around and accomplish things.

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Couldn’t go back to sleep 

so I decided to rise only to have Jack meet me downstairs.  Working event later at winery and not sure when I’ll have time to write.  Not going to worry about it.  I can write what I do now.  Should be focused on time with babies anyway, as I’ll be home late-late this evening.  Glad I’m up now, but hate writing on phone.  Why don’t I have laptop out?  Too clunky and conspicuous.  Just notes for now.  Want to be more like son in how he completes stand-alone art projects, wakes early, and gets right to whatever he was working on last or beginning new projects.  He has the wee hour ethic and habit and persistence of a winemaker.  

And, will I get in a vineyard walk today at any point?  Stressing about way too much.  Why.  Enjoy your morning with little Kerouac and Ms. Austen, whenever she wakes.

Put ice cubes in coffee in tumbler I left in fridge over night.  In mood to have it extra cold.  Jackie watches a different cartoon with little puppies that talk and band together— think they have super powers, or some level of otherworldly power.  On missions of sorts.

“Dada,” Jack says, “do you have a butt promise?”

I laugh and say, “What?  A butt promise?”

“Yeah, a butt promise, I have a butt promise and I throw my butt in the garbage.” He starts on his second waffle and stops the butt promise sagacity.  Watches the gang of endlessly smiling mini dogs run around and accomplish things.

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09:11—

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!

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