… through love of wine, the vineyards, walking in vineyards as I do.  I opened the blend, red blend, from Inspiration last night when home from Mom and Dad’s, and she forwarded in random beats, spoke with curiosity and certainty, helixed in amorous shape and tone. I know I’m home on this page, with her, I knew I was last night.  The red fruit syllables sang in tandem with terrestrial chords and peppered curvature.  Again music, again poetic.  What is was was time and me in that time, right there with her.  That’s all I knew, know. That’s all there need be.  When wine is overthought it’s forgotten.  You’re at that point not into the wine anymore but whatever thought stream you’re on for whatever reason…

Tonight Pinot was

seen and felt differently. There was more. I don’t know how else to say it. There wasn’t simplicity, but something like it. Honesty, approachability, something. It wasn’t Pinot, it was more. Not some fashionable name you just say to say it, telling people you drink it. There was love there tonight, at Mom and Dad’s. Love.

Hot outside, here in Brentwood. Thinking about my kids, Jack reading aloud to himself in the morning and Emma pretending to be a teacher like her mama. Me a father and 40, where I’m going and where I am, the whole way down here on my thoughts. Not looking forward to walking around in this heat, but I will. Plan laid for day. Just need to follow, follow through.

Write when back in office. Read book Mom got me for Father’s Day, tonight. Bed early, wake early, make coffee for morning…. stop saying and just set yourself in such scene.


Coffee, I mean latte.  Feel something with today, and that’s the decision to re-write ALL negative presence, sentiment, tell, pulse, anything in my story.  First sip confirming.  The book, my book, from wined thought and wined possibility, my eventual bottles, telling my story and having my babies and family help with everything from the wine itself to how it’s told, narrated, not sold.  Part of my message, as wine teaches me, is to be about dispelling naysay.  Or, re-writing it.  Using the existing momentum to reach what you see for self.  To be free, as I am with this write.  I’ve definitely assumed such an act and walk more so getting older, with writing and everything.  To just create, act and move.  Be free in flight and when on ground.  And those bringing that scowl and lowering tone to your standing, accept it and love it, wildly embrace it.  Then, you RE-WRITE IT.

Kids eating

breakfast, starting their Sunday with admirable intention and discussion.

Jack makes himself a checklist, writes a story on legal sheets.

Keep forgetting I’m at a winery, today. What does that mean?

Made self a list, after reading Jack’s.


Last hour about to start.  Have to write final essay/submission sheet.  Promised to have it ready for students last week, I believe.  And I felt stupid, quite stupid not having it ready last meeting.

Wrote assignment.  And now, 51 minutes remaining.  Love the feeling of having all my work done, but still get a bit antsy or shaky when I’m this, like this… too productive.  All wonderful, especially now with this new movement this month, the month I turn 40, of scribbling everything.  Or like now typing everything.  And this will not be a valetudinarian effort.  I can’t incur the results of such.  Placed, present, me.  Now and onward.  40.. fuck.  Can’t believe.  But it’s here.  This month.  28 days from this Mike Madigan you read now.

Need a glass of something.  SB.  Or a beer like Monday.  What… I can’t decide.  ‘Cause I think obsessively, excessively.

1492 words for day, before this sentence.  Columbus, explorer.  I feel like an explorer, to tell you truth.  Now I’m just getting silly in thought.  Sipping the cold coffee in cup on desk.  When did I make this cup.  So long ago I can’t remember.  Who cares.  Sip.  Helps to wake me. Feeling the run, still.

Think I may have one sip left.  Wine on brain, wine and where it is, is always to me and in my view… the rows. Those forming clusters.  In this last hour, I write wine and about wine, for and from wine.  What about it.  What else can I say about wine in this last hour, now 36 minutes, after writing essay assignment for my last teaching term for the foreseeable anything.  Don’t care.  Wine is there for me.  Wine is always there for me.  When I’m running, when I’m not.  She urges me to run—NO, tells me to so I can alive be longer, taste more of her geography and shapely ideology.