Tag: Journalism

autre

nightly

Thinking I’m going to use the biz stash to pay down what little debt I have. Writing, at least mine, doesn’t require funding. Pen, paper. That’s all I need. My “overhead.” It’d be responsible to put this accumulated cash, that’s doing absolutely nothing where it is, on my small card balance. To reward Self for the act… Haven’t decided yet. Maybe some iTunes money, for some new songs. But even that, what would it do for me, really? Well, that’s kind of a silly probe. It doesn’t have to “do” anything. I enjoy music, study its word content, enjoy those Wine Bar beats when I write, so maybe I should. Beautiful outside, I see through blinds. Off to run errand.

Mike returned from his tasks, saw his desk, its barren medieval frigidity. He wanted it to look busier, but had no idea how. He was close to the end of his most recent book project, or “idea” as he had it deemed, but didn’t want it finished. The thought of no more writing on his character, Kelly, horrified him. That, and he was bored of the project. Not her, just the project.

I halt in the entry, the project, because there’s nothing there. I’ve said before, Kelly deserves better. I try to start over…

Mike sat at his desk, exhausted from self-inflicted appointment hopping around Santa Rosa. He wanted only to be busy with the writing. Not really with the blog, but with that book, the one about her. What would he do with her, if or when he finished the book. And it was an ‘or when’, not an ‘and when’. He wrote: “She painted then stopped, painted faster to slow her sight and shade, on canvas. She tore the last attempt. She wouldn’t, this blank piece. The blankness faded into her vision, kaleidoscopically captioned.”

His phone rang. A text. Work. “Please have your report ready when you get in tomorrow. firt thing..” He’d had it with their demands, their expectation, their excessive projections for him. How could he cross that line, he again wondered. Into Autonomy. Into Art. Full-time, Creating.

“Where are you gonna be tomorrow night?” Elyse asked, leaning into the already impressioned cushion

“Cloistered in some office in Sausalito, meeting with a client,” Kelly said, looking into her coffee, thinking it was coagulated somehow.

“What is it?”

“My coffee tastes funny. Anyway, yeah, in a meeting.”

Mike stopped. He didn’t know where this was going. Maybe he needed to brainstorm, more, on his character. How would he start? With wine, of course. The most bullish Cabernet he could find in his stash. He pulled the cork like solution was inside the bottle. A novel was there, glass 1 through 4. First glass, nearly heaping. He imagined her on a shelf, somewhere. His name on cover. “a novel […] by mike madigan”. Yes, he would have it lowercase. Looked more Literary. To him. Second glass, he wondered how he finished the first so speedily. He returned to the keyboard, knowing it wouldn’t be novelty.

As she drove, possibility’s fit flurried linearly about her whirl.

5/15/12

autre

1000 Words, Road A.M. [stabilized]

Post author By mikemadigan
Post date May 14, 2012
No Comments on 1000 Words, Road A.M. [stabilized]

Wasn’t going to bring laptop, but, as I stated in a note I took this morning, I rarely get around to transferring the writing, just ‘cause of my writing style–it being so fast, in-the- moment, streamed. Time, according to this device, 8:51a. Knew I wasn’t going to get here at 8:30, as I wanted to, or usually shoot for, since I made coffee at home. Two strong cups, still swimming in my system. So, hoped for 8:40a, but was held up by a bike race here in AV, all along Chalk Hill. Lucky me. Listening to Thievery, as always, with window down. Thinking about day ahead, and this Sunday (my home tasting, Wine/varietal analysis). Thinking I’m only going to do 1 wine. And the varietal? Probably Syrah, as I think it’s the most fun to taste, composition-wise.

Quite pleased with the stills I yesterday shot in Sonoma’s Valley. The music stopped spilling through my phone. Why does it always do that here, on 128’s side. May be a signal issue. Just noticed some vineyard workers to my left, and up the embankment, walking rows of a vineyard. Never noticed there was one up there. Should have known… There’re vines all around me, why I love writing here every Saturday, Sunday so early. Today, I’m betting, quite busy at AV Winery. Can’t wait for the tours, the characters, their reactions to the wines, how they describe them. Okay, music not working on phone, will play songs here on monster…

8:59a. 51 minutes left to Self, for the page. Not sure where to go with this session, except to tell you how I can’t wait for Artistic Autonomy. That’s towards what I’m writing. It’ll be better for, certainly me, but more so Jack. I won’t be gone 8 hours, 8+, five days/week. And Self-publishing, I’m holding back for now. Doesn’t mean I’m going to halt in allocating pages to this book idea, I’m merely holding off the actual publishing of the work. Don’t think it’d be responsible to spend that much money on something I may not have adequate time to sell. So what will I sell, in terms of written works? Self. I’ll be the product, the brand. Why would someone want to purchase me? Don’t have an answer for you. Just have to put all channels of my heart into these syllables, and KNOW I’m doing the right thing.

Need new business cards. Soon, AGAIN. Luckily, I still have well over 100 to last me a bit. Oh, just remembered I have a Cabernet at home I could use for Sunday’s analysis. Completely forgot about that bottle. That saves me some currency, in my evaporating balance. Love the song that now plays. Makes me think of France, Paris, traveling. Can only imagine the sights that Mom and Dad are capturing, as I type here on the unpaved earth, counting down minutes before I have to “host” people on tours. I love what I do, now. But, everyone knows what I really want. And, being only 17 days from 33, I continue to deteriorate into an impatient dust storm. But, I’ll write my way through it. And, I stall to say, this blog will help. I can immediately release my reactionary prose, verse. But, there is a deadline. 12/31/2012, 11:59pm. After that, I don’t know. Before that date, I will have my Autonomy. My office. My crafted Now.

Disappointed I didn’t wake the other morning at 6:20a as I targeted. But, this morning redeems. Love this cold air sneaking into this dirty cabin. When was the last time I had this mini-tank washed? Just had a flashback of my Literary Lunches on 1st & Main, with this current song, “Illusion (Rollercone Remix)” from the Hôtel Costes 5 Album, or one of the versions, I don’t know. Either way, I remember having my second mocha, typing angrily, racing to soak into every drop of that 60-minute freedom injection. Isn’t that more or less what I’m doing now, here in the XA? Somewhat. From here, I go to a beautiful winery. From the Roasting Company, I always returned to a malignantly toxic, vile, office, surround by wine industry snitches and opportunists. Topic next …

Kelly, recently went to NYC, I was writing the other night. Her first time on the East Coast, in Manhattan. The biggest break for her as an Artist. A gallery caught news of her odd color blends, blurred images, visual voice. A couple galleries, hosting a collective showing, paid for her flight, hotel accommodations. Interesting writing about this character, being envious of her talent, progression, travels. Can’t be annoyed by this paginated presence. She, I feel, will carry me to what my work needs, that perpetual mobility. Can’t afford to give her a book yet, with all those paper and copy costs, so she’ll have to settle for a stationary situation on these blog screens. Sorry, Kelly..

Nearing my thousand. That was quick. 9:21am. Time passing cruelly, just like at that Roasting Co, with its airborne coffee essences, walled paintings, view of the 1st & Main intersection, passing characters [tourist, local]. You know what, giving Self till 9:30a, then stopping, cruising over to the Jimtown Store. Maybe I’ll treat Self to one of those Chicken Salad Sandwiches. Truck just pulled in behind, to left of XA, only to speed off obnoxiously, using the dirt as annoyance artillery, attaching to air. Not bothered, only motivated to faster finish. Back to the paper vs blog issue, just thought: Yes, as I’ve so many times before noted, anyone can write a blog. BUT, there is only one ME; only one of my voice, style, page presence/persistence. Just as there are so many musicians out there: So many have demo tapes, indi albums, singles, EP’s, what have… but it’s the ones with unique flight that reverberate with populace, stay in minds, and INSPIRE. So yes, there are other Literary bloggers, or just writers with blogs. But they don’t, can’t, NEVER will write like Madigan, Mike.

9:27a. Over 1k, typed. No troublesome transfer. Should get on road a minute or two early to JTown, enjoy more air in this cluttered cabin. Need that car wash, soon. Need a nice mobile office. Just had bikers pass, laughing, one of them saying “I’m getting tired, thinking of that wine already!” The other biker, his right, laughing. Now, me, leaving. Love the AM session, almost as much I infatuate with Kelly’s corner.

(5/12/2012)

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5/6 & 5/7, 2012: II – referm

Post author By mikemadigan
Post date May 10, 2012
No Comments on 5/6 & 5/7, 2012: II – referm

9:25am. Has to mean something that I woke this early, came to this spot so prematurely before work, just to WRITE. Has to… Over 34k, so far, in book idea. Not going to call it “project” till it’s done. I am over 1k for day, though. Music, still playing. Should probably scribble some verse before I go in. Shouldn’t I?

Wonder how the event went last night, at winery. Sure I’ll have a recap, of some kind. Still seeing cyclists. Have my little notepad in back pocket, will try to translate/work/mold this recurring symbol throughout day. One cyclist, in one of those nearly-horizontal bikes, with a yellow tarp, or covering, around him, completely. Odd. Completely odd. But who am I in judging? I’m the one pulled over, typing in his car.

Why does time pass so speedily when I’m writing? Need more time. For this entry; For book; For Jack; For EVERYTHING. Can extend time/Life with running, biking. Don’t know if I’ll get off early enough tonight to go for a run. Maybe I need to wake cruelly early tomorrow. No wine tonight, to give it serious attempt. 9:31am … To pen, ink; paper, lines…

5/7 – 10:04pm. Driving home, and once home, thought about nothing but winemaking, writing. Finished the last of the Matriarch, ’08 by the way. Only thing distracting me, Jack’s increasingly elevated orations. Mom came over tonight, bringing some of her famous enchiladas. Rather spicy, this occasion, which I wouldn’t like if anyone else had it prepared. But her fixing of such a screaming dish, masterful. Nice persistence in all notes, unique texture, and it went well with the ’08. Although, I will admit, I needed some of the Geyser Peak Sauv Blanc she brought over, after some bites, because of the fiery flexes. Another example of wine, family, pairing in perfect persistence. I plan on continuing the night’s session. For which project, I know exactly. Not disclosing exacts, as I don’t want to curse anything; What I always seem to do.

With winemaking, all I can do is wait. I swear on my son’s soul… I deplore waiting. Something I loathe more than bigots. More than classists. More than political pundits. In the tasting Room today, towards shift’s conclusion, two characters entered with palpable self-assurance, -ascendence. While tasting, they asked the same questions repeatedly, after I the same them answered, quite curtly. Then, they let their reactions be known, with obnoxious audibility. Citing every “nuance” they could find. “The tannins in this vintage are much more angular than the ’07,” one of them said to other. And they kept on, on, on with their Wine Spectator-esque-ly simplistic dissection of the wines. Felt nauseous listening to them, so I went to pour extra for the two older ladies from the East Bay, two sisters who came to replenish their cellars. So, I also entertained on 101’s South: Why does wine keep some so sweet, while making the antitheticals so abhorrent? Wine shouldn’t be so complicated, no matter how bedazzling it tastes.

My account balance, lowering with alarming self-suffocation, endangering the “wine biz stash.” No more coffee brothel visits. And yes, I blame them. Making my own coffee, tomorrow A.M. Why I’m not having another nightcap now. Almost done with a song in the Comp Book. Need to do a reading. Are there any this Sunday, after work? Two brownie bites, my cap. Never used to have a tooth so sweet. Tomorrow, a run. Affirmably necessitated. Will run so fast it hurts my Self. And why, thou asketh? So I can be ALIVE. I need be, to WRITE.

Still a bit warm, in this condo. And it’s supposed to be even higher in temp slaps, come morrow. Over 90, it’s prognosticated. 2012, hopefully a fantasy vintage, for me as winemaker. And writer. This Sunday coming, while in home, solitary inscribed, I’m looking to sips a flight, as I did that one night well before Little London landed. That night, I had before me a 2010 SB, ’08 Sonoma Valley Syrah, and ’08 AV Cab. This flight, I’m thinking, all Cabs. Below $30 current. Want to produce affordable “cult” wines. Whatever “cult” means. In fact, no. I don’t want them to be cult. Not looming for novel magnetism. Just want to produce bottles. Sell. Be Autonomous. All this wine I sell for other people, makes me more confident in my individualistic flounce. All wine based, regularianly…

1StopWineBlogShop

Wine Snaps, 5/9/12

Tags Journalism, Napa, Photography, sonoma county, wine, Wine Journalism

autre

5/6/12: Album/Book Co-ferment

Post author By mikemadigan
Post date May 8, 2012
No Comments on 5/6/12: Album/Book Co-ferment

Clocking in, 8:35a, on 128’s side. Five minutes late, but I’ll let it go this time. Wasn’t going to bring laptop, after posting over, well over 1000 words to blog last night, and not getting one “Like.” It’s my fault, completely. Shouldn’t be throwing that much “product” away, into a blog. That should have gone into a book. In fact, after this check-in session, I’m going straight to my latest book effort. Going to blend in a little of BOOK1, here on desk top.

Lots of bikers out today, cycling up hill, eventually to drop into Alexander Valley’s heart. Can’t let mySelf stop talking–I mean writing. This mocha, really working. Morcheeba playing through phone. Spent close to two minutes getting music cued through that evil little tech piece. So, would have clocked in earlier.

New schedule at AV Winery, having Thursdays & Fridays off. Much better having two days of rest, WRITING, adhered. An even more sizable cyclist squadron passes. Today should be hot, giving the leaves, vines, eventual 2012 fruit more rudder.

8:41am. Just opened BOOK1. See some passages that I could use for this latest book effort. With my “branding,” coupled with the reality of Self-publishing [in other words, me paying for everything from paper to binding to all else…] keeping all my releases under 100 pages. But over 50. And, I want every release to contain between 40-50k words of content. That’s what I’m thinking, right now. And I know I keep saying ‘I need to get serious about releasing writing beyond these blogs’. But this is different. I want to rebel against the expectation that I’m going to “blog” something. [And I didn’t know “blog” was a commonly accepted verb… Just my point: what social media, the immediacy of the internet, wine’s greedy INDUSTRY, and bloggers (those without conviction, confidence to Self-publish actual pages) have done to language.] I want to be seen as one always releasing publications, all Self-funded, sold. Meaning, all consumer direct. Like painters, other Artists. Like Kelly.

Beyond what I told mySelf I’d do, in terms of word count. No matter. Well, actually it does, as this is all being “posted” to my “blog.” It’s fine, I keep telling Self. I want to share these moments, with those willing to read them; with those who actually READ. More cyclists. Never seen this many on a weekend morning before. This has to be suggesting… What? That I need to be outside; That I need to be mobile; That I need to escape; That my writing needs to escape [DEFINITELY]; That I need to be truer to Self, as Kaz suggested; That I need to… WHAT?

My music stopped. Ugh, now I need to remedy the stall, which will eat into my typing time. Why I can’t just enjoy the quiet, this new office spot of mine, here on 128’s side, I don’t know. Maybe these cyclists are telling me I need to drive around, look for another spot. Okay, now the quiet’s getting to me…

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one last note,

5/3/12

Was going to post a poem I wrote today, to this blog. But that’s like throwing it away, I feel. And yes, I’m standing by that statement. I post journal entries to this “blog,” rushed writings. Poetry, paginated Art, need a book. Performance. Maybe it’s above a simple binded paper brick. I’m “cutting & pasting” it to another “doc.” Deplore all that tech talk.

5/4

Working a wine club event at St. Francis, tonight. Excited, honestly. Haven’t poured there in some time. Tomorrow, at Lancaster, want to get there especially early, to shoot some footage and snap some stills for the other blog. Want to start a Lancaster video/photo journal… Ideas still fermenting… Tomorrow, looking not just for growth in the buds, but development, new “nuance” [overused as the word continues to be], in what we pour. Thinking of Paris, listening to this new station. Want to walk along the Seine, over and over. It needs me. Well, maybe not. But I need its views, bricked paths. On the flight over, I’d finish a short collection. Then, when there, write until I had more than I wanted to edit [which always seems to be the case anyway, like now..].

Had a dream last night about being in a maze with old coworkers from the box. Everyone around me was in costume, as if it were Halloween. One character, can’t remember whom [although I have a pretty good idea], was dressed in devil getup. I remember him dropping his pitchfork, and me having to leap over it. Was following “friends,” but I lost them. At dream’s end, I encountered someone dressed as Mel Gibson from one of his movies, one set in the 18th century, or something. Not sure if Gibson was ever in a film set in that period, as I can’t stand him as a human being. Either way, the dream had me waking to thoughts of deception, industry and societal guises, rouses.

11:39am. Had two cups of coffee, made in-house, this morning. Energy, still very much with me, makes me think, with this station’s songs, that I should research places on my travel list. If I can’t go there, to any of those there’s, now, I can certainly research, learn, immerse Self with Self-education.

5/5

Stirred this morning. Thinking about last night’s wine club even, wine club members as a collective character, wine itself… Off to AV early this morning, to clock in early. No 128 session. This all needs a new shape, I’m realizing. Travel, new views, sounds, languages. CHARACTERS. Maybe I should rush-write my novel, just see what it does. Need coffee. And a new little notepad. Will stop by drug store, pick one up. Mocha, or home cup? Wish I could just write the rest of the day, that a chair, ink, were my only commitment. Today, only jotting notes; Think in whole sentences, write only partials. Tonight, work from memory as best you’re able. Don’t scold yourSelf if not every scene is “adequately” captured. You’re writing for yourSelf, not some pompous wine industry magazine rack resident with a polished cover… Artistry only from me. Not predictable journalism.

Think I may need a mocha. I’ll use some of the biz stash; I’ll have to, as I don’t want to use debit, disrupt my funds. Besides, I’m well past my saving goal for the business, anyway. Out door. Clocking out to clock in, up there…

10:20pm. Sipping the Petit Verdot/Malbec blend from last night. And as I suspected, its structure has further settled in the bottle, and now on palate. Today in AV, shadowed a trade tour with the owner, winemaker, and GM. Learned more about the winery, which I appreciate. And, probably even more substantially, more about their terroir that creates that Cabernet character; the more subtle, composed, musical Bordeaux. Touched down on winery grounds at 8:30, left at 6p. Long day, on paper. But passed more than fast, in mind. Tomorrow, I’m leaving as early as I can for a 128 session. All to be typed, in standalone’s, for some Self-published effort. All day, thought of poems, sovereign prose pieces for reading. If only that were my commitment. But then I thought, only minutes ago, right here, on my downstairs couch (one of them, the one directly in front of TV screen), “It can be, right now. Just change everything. Right now. Just write.” Thinking wishfully.

Need more money for publishing bigger works. Have to start with small. And I want to start my research on other countries. Today, thought of Austria (probably ‘cause Dad’s there), and the Czech Republic. It’s the history, the developing value sets and thought patterns of Man that engage me into travel, carrying nothing but essentials; pen, notebook. Today someone asked me, when I told them ‘I’m a drinker with writing problems’, “What do you write?” I told her that I write about 60% prose, both fiction and non-fiction (then qualifying the latter with the tags “expository prose” and “erratic entries”), and 40% poetry-and-spoken-word-poetry. Should have just said, “Diarist prose and poetry.” Even that I don’t like providing. Why should I have to place mySelf in some category? Why do I have to tell people WHAT I write, in a language they find acceptably plated? I write, EVERYTHING. I’m a WRITER. And I write what I feel like writing, when I feel like writing it. Maybe my attitude’s in the way. Again.

When on tour, I will not allow Self to carry a laptop– Stopping there. No more saying what I’m going to do, promise lists, similar. But, one thing I AM going to do–well, DOING–is my Sauvignon Blanc with Kaz. Thought about quite a bit today while listening to Jesse, Lancaster’s winemaker, talk about the various projects at the Estate. Was also triggered by owner Ted’s emphasis on the winery being non-corporate, independent. Autonomous, able to manage every block and micro-block in the vineyard, having total control over the fruit going into the bottle. Could only think of my writing. My characters… Kelly. But I’m not sure I want total control over her. Want her to tell me what to write, how to write her. Is that excessive in demand? She paints, even on oddly warm nights like this one. I think of all the Cabernets in the lineup for tonight’s event, vertical tasting, at AV. Left before it started, but I walked to my car thinking how all those other wines, and ours, are heralded so strongly. My writing can only have paralleling prominence if I put it out there. Which I will. Now…

Details, for new pieces: 1) Cave, in AV, 2) Barrels in cave, 3) Buds, 4) puddles of wine on back counter, 5) lids on glasses set for tasting [containing aromatics, notes, character of wine], 6) vineyards I’m not familiar with, 7) traffic on 29, Napa, 8) corkscrews [not sure why, I just they’re neat, and serve such a loud purpose], 9) a microphone, reciting into it, people listening, 10) Petit Verdot/Malbec blend, darker than dark in my glass– Gorgeous.

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raining albums

Seated for session. To light rain. Only briefly, as I crave new songs, those from ME. This morning and all day. That’s what’ll carry me to the road. And speaking of roads, Mr. Kerouac was 35 when On the Road was published, I read in this intro by University of Connecticut English Professor Ann Charters. But he’d been widely known for Beat life, prior. Reading this book makes me feel like a student again. Mentally Alive, just wandering, and wondering, in my curious pursuits. One of my former young scholars, Becca, posted yesterday that she was in the library over 24 hours finishing a final project, or paper. I, again, envied her. Want my only obligation, commitment in life, other than Alice and Jack, to be this page. That’s Art. That’s Wine.

Listening to the “Smooth French Café” Pandora station we have playing at work, in the Room. Doesn’t sound as good here at home, for some reason. Maybe ‘cause I don’t have the vineyards to stare at, or those glasses to polish.

3:08pm. Watching little Jack. His powers of observation, reaction, and vocality have elevated in poignancy, remarkably, in the last three days. Just returned from a visit to my grandmother’s home, where my mother, Jack’s Grandma, was waiting. Jack napped on 101’s southbound, but once on Enterprise, in Rohnert Park, he was ready for stage. He and I now listen to the French Café station. Again, for me. And now I think about the Kaz meeting this morning. It’s decided, firmly, from me– I will be doing a Sauvignon Blanc this year. He broke down costs, most informatively, helpfully. I brought the laptop over to this couch’s arm, overlooking little Jack. He sings with this current track, “Let it Die” by Feist. And now, he seems unsettled, my little character. Can only write in these little half-minute jabs. Some writers view it cumbersome, such circumstance, in having a child. I quite love the challenge. But, I do need to wake earlier for some truly uninterrupted pages, longer sessions, especially with finishing official projects [chapbooks]. Closer to 5pm I get, the more I debate with a cup of coffee & glass of last night’s Sauvignon Blanc. To be frank, I need the vigor that the dark French Roast will inject. The SB will merely slow me. Not what I need now, at this hour.

In a minute, working on a project, just to work on something other than this infernal blog. mikeslognoblog, need to visit soon as well, for purposes of paper-prone projects. This morning’s meeting with Kaz has me again appreciating the separatist approach to Craft, be it winemaking, writing, painting, cooking… And I feel this way every time after spending time with him. He makes me more confident with my notes, verses, notebooks, diaries; In my separatism, Creative defiance. Will be life-changing, I’m sure, making wine with my brother, just as it was/is with my sister, Professor Kate. The side-by-side we did this morning, of the Chardonnay types, both 2011–one partially oaked, other stainless–showed me that the more beyond mere mold you go with Creative efforts, the quicker, easier, all else into place, Equilibrium, falls. Have to start brewing that coffee, finish the last song I started, yesterday.

More and more places, other stages on the travel list. More recently– Venezuela, Vietnam [can’t remember if this was already on list..], Switzerland, Egypt [this one already one, just re-emphasized], China, Russia (namely the capital, and some parts of the eastern wilderness), Sri Lanka. MALTA! Just need to be as non-stationary, pen and notepad in hand, as I can from this day onward. With the writing I want to put out there, I can’t. What will get me on the road the quickest, I think, is Spoken Word; the poetry, music. Need to have that be my Artistic “day job,” and this prose, the blog, be priority’d after my rimed and metered obligations have been met.

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another course

7:46am. Woke exactly one hour, forty-six minutes ago. Didn’t rise, even though I was awake, mind quite wide. Another blunder. But, I did, finally, last night and this morning, begin reading my Kerouac book. From the intro alone, I’m thinking… “Writing, a book, novel, over making wine, all the time.” Can’t go forward with this SB, or any winemaking for a while, till the writing’s solid, stable. Review of On the Road, from the NY Times [only my favorite publications on planet, the one in which I hope someday to be reviewed so encouragingly] alone is enough to get me typing faster, taking more notes of what’s around me. For BOOKS’ sakes. Speaking of little notepads, I need a new one. Will get one from Safeway before or after my mocha rescue.

BOOK1’s folder stares back at me, from upper-right zone of laptop, what’s not covered by this “doc.” Finding those pages, synced with this book, its ever-so-early day wave, persona jolt, can’t be simple happenstance. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since my alarm woke me from that dream where someone I knew [in dream itself] had a dog that gave birth to a village’s worth of pups. One had to be put down, I remember. Can’t un-puzzle the message of these sleep visions, but maybe it’s meant to be sorted out by today’s notes, in a new pad. 7:54am, better be “responsible,” motion towards bag packing, eventual door. Till I write later, too much later… What I should be doing is just relocating to a café.

10:28pm. Had a great tour today with some members, and their friends from Salem, Oregon. All day today, Kerouac on my mind. Yes, my son Jack. But also the presently addressed Jack. The introduction, in my version of On the Road, addresses his three week typing rush, to finish his novel. I find, then, that Mr. Capote responded with his typing vs. writing comment. “That isn’t writing, it’s typing,” something to this slant, he said in hissing address of JK’s work. I never knew this line was directed at Kerouac. I admired it so much, prior. Now, I angrily disagree. Don’t mistake, I love Mr. Capote’s work, his persistent prose, tone, innovation (especially with Cold Blood). But, I feel he’s a bit out of line here. And obviously wrong, with the success of JK’s manuscript, lead in the Beat movement. Tonight, in bed, reading further, past into and into actual authorial content.

No wine tonight, although I was gifted a bottle of ’09 Zin from the visiting club members today. OR was it an ’08? Either way, it’s Zin. Not much of a Zinfandel pursuer, anymore. Used to call mySelf a “Zin guy.” And I hate that kind of language. But I was. Now, I’m all about the Bordeaux. Both white, red.

Will again TRY to wake early tomorrow. Had it, this morning. Somehow woke at 5:58a, I think it was. Fully awake. and I remember thinking I have over an hour of quiet writing, reading of Kerouac’s work, should I rise, leave sheets. But I didn’t. I re-descended. Need more songs, verses in my portfolio, and I truly think the morning to be a more advantageous time to write in such genre. Still dream of stage, when awake, when walking around the terroir in AV.

Suddenly, I find mySelf afraid to read through the pages of BOOK1. And, I find I’m ever more annoyed by the whole blog concept. Jack Kerouac didn’t worry about what image he was going to, or should, “attach” to his entry. Or “post.” He didn’t fret over not posting in the last couple days. He wrote when he wanted, I’m sure. He was an Artist, not some social media/blog/industry troll. I’ll be honest, this whole blogging concept is becoming more and more laughable, ridiculous, rather sad. Why not just write, type, PRINT. On PAPER. At this year’s end, bottledaux ends. I’ll bet you, this installation will be “liked” by a couple. But how many will read it; retain, reflect? How many will ACTIVELY read? With a book, it’s bought, pulled from shelf. Then it’s up to an actual reader to jump into the author’s Art; relate it to his/her Life, experiences. At that point, the writer already knows his/her work is acknowledged, from the sales, reviews, adoring letters. A simple mouse click, flamboyantly insulting. And it’s not Literary. Am I quitting? Not at all. I’m just outlining the presence of this project. And the last word, on the final page, will be written, or TYPED, before 11:59pm, 12/31/12.

Tomorrow, my Friday. Two days off, consecutive, following. Can’t remember the last time I had two days. Telling Self, now, I have to get up tomorrow morning. What time would Kelly suggest? 6? … That means I’d have 1 hr, 20 mins for page. What about the old SCC (Solano Community College) commute time, 5:50am? That’s only ten more minutes. What if I do something crazy, just animatedly wild, for the page? Like, 5:15a, or 5a? I believe the more out-of-character I become, my writing’s profile, presence, prolificism accumulates, gets me closer to a BOOK. So that’s what I’ll do. Not worried about blog appeal anymore, at all. I’m not trying to appeal to publications, anymore. Nor is “the industry” in possession of any sought approval. Already over the “appropriate” word count, amount. Clocking out, already eager to sip coffee. This hoppy beer’s annoying me, and my key pushes. [5/1/12]

autre

Slow Rowing

Tasted a 2010 Cab, from barrel. Couldn’t believe the charm it already had.

Taking notes now, next to Jackie. All I have time for. He’s speaking to me in his dialect.

Right now, sipping an ’07 Sauv Blanc from AV. I’ve tasted a few ’07 SB’s of late, one of the a white with SB base.

Need to revisit the BOOK document on desktop. Do something with those weeks of sessions, instead of just having them rot in this machine’s bile trench.

Eye, left: want to itch, scratch, snatch it out of my head. These allergies, making the day, and this session more struggled.

10:02pm. Failed again this morning with waking early. Problem, giving Self the option of waking when I wish. What I’m doing is still having the alarm set for regular time, 7:20am, and hoping rise at 5-something. And, for information’s purposes, I’m still in debate with Self on the purchase of the SB fruit. Don’t want to aggravate these allergies further, so on I’m moved…

Kelly, I’m sure, doesn’t let allergies bother her. IF she has them. Not sure she does. She’s never told me. Thinking her painting pace has been increased. That’s what I’m seeing for my character. But then again, only she knows. On the couch now with TV on, not a rich time for mental illustration for, with, in, about my character. My goodness am I a mess. Wish I had more of that ’07 Sauv Blanc left. AV Winery produced it, and it’s still holding up championingly. Makes me think of that ton, or half-ton, I might buy. Such a mess be this writer. Exactly why I need poetry, SONG, more than prose in this day. She agrees, tells me to abandon the project envisioned to keep consistent with expectations. Shoot for written radicalism, she urges, in less words.

She recently started making herself margaritas, only when she paints. It was still warm, almost on 11pm. She thought about making herself one more. But she couldn’t. She had to finish her project. Or did she? For whom? That gallery? They couldn’t guarantee it’d be sold. So she stopped. Sipped. Went to the kitchen to make herself another. Looking out the window, she saw a little red car. She couldn’t tell what type, model, make or whatever, it was. She just saw it. Stopped. At red. She thought about what the person at its wheel was thinking, waiting for the “clover color,” she called it in her head. Pouring the slushed voice into her glass, she looked right, at her progress. It was dim, both in prospect and tint, shade, shape.

Mike saw no progress. He felt bad for her. So, DELETE. He wished he hadn’t done that. He selected SAVE, from the File drop-down, or whatever it was called. So he couldn’t “Undo Typing.” He hated his laptop, wanted to close it. Keep it closed. Only work on paper. It would pair better with the SB, he thought. He thought of the Cab barrel sample from work. He should just buy the fruit, that Sauvignon Blanc, with his seasoned winemaker buddy. He could only lose. He could only, maybe, wine, or WIN. Both could be bad, good. But how bad could it be, losing on his first completely Autonomous winemaking operation? And how good could it be? What would it really do for him? He needed another glass, one obnoxiously generous. So did she.

SAVE… PRINT.

autre

Pan Right

4/29 – Grape grips, in this early hour. 1 more glass after this. Then, done. Tomorrow morning, COFFEE, the French I stocked from Stacey. And, I need a 128 roadside session.

9:02am. Didn’t wake in time for 128 writing. BUT, I did just discover 96 PAGES (!!!) of writing about which I all but forgot. The doc is titled “BOOK1,” here on the desktop. Don’t have time to read through it, thoroughly. Just did a quick skim, and quite liked what I read, surprisingly. Can’t wait to see little Jack tonight, his mom, and then read through this forgotten book. Still warring with Self over what to do with biz stash. Do I want to make wine, or publish a book. Answer obvious, as writing wins over wine, every time. But I still want to meet with Kaz on Thursday, to see what possibilities exist for me as a winemaker. [Just cringed a bit, re-reading this paragraph, seeing mySelf referred to a winemaker, not solely “writer.” Funny…] Somebody asked me yesterday if I was the winemaker, on the tour with the man that tipped me $80. Actually, it WAS that man who asked. Huh…

10:23pm. Tomorrow morning, rising at 5:15am. “I’m up before the sunrise, first to hit the block,” as 2Pac said. Want 1000 words written, for BOOK, before I leave for AV. So glad little Jackie’s back, his mom. Or do I want to write for the blog? No, that’d be typing. Maybe I should have a straight Comp Book session. All poetry. Speaking of, need to buy some new songs I heard today in the AV tasting Room. “Smooth French Café,” I think the playlist, or Pandora station’s called. Has tracks that I hear in my envisaged Wine Bar. Tomorrow morning, early, I need to have a session that trumps all before it coming. Need to make more coffee than I probably need.

Tomorrow morning, it’s commissioned.. All verse; music; rhyme. The prose, anymore, tires even me. Yes, I love journaling, logging my day, recording Now’s. But, I need music, song in step. Still dream of crowds, no lie. My little notepad, after today’s AV hours, full. One note: “Flashing green light at 3rd & Brookwood”. Thought it could be a sign, of some kind. Now I’m sure. It was telling me I always have “green light” to write how I like, what I feel right.

10:44pm. Still not sure if I should go forward with the purchase of SB grapes. But, if I don’t do it now, I may lose my chance to make wine, indefinitely. And, as I wrote in the little book today, asking Self again, “What would I rather do, make wine or publish a book?” And, in terms of owning my own operation, I’m positive that writing will get me to what I see faster than any wine effort, anything in a bottle. That I know. And, around here, it seems like everyone makes wine. But not many write, or least write seriously. I don’t know many writers, to be honest. In fact, I can’t think of ONE right now. Certainly not one SERIOUS.

Random topic switch: watching a show where it took a lady two weeks to finish a song. Two weeks? More than too long, for me. In two weeks, actually less, TS had an album finished, in addition to some songs that would later be released as “unreleased’s”. And I don’t want to even guess what Lil Wayne could produce in 14 days. Me, in the same speed category. And that’s how I want to be remembered. And that’s one of the realities that keeps me from diving into winemaking. It’s an art form that simply takes too long.