2/28/19

Wrote 1111 words to start day.  Relaxed in my nook at Sonic.  My Sonic jots, becoming more energetic and consistent, more enlivened and electric.  Sonic is not a platform but a page set for me to fill…. New identity for me to explore. Why Sonic works, from such encouragement.  The wine industry and all the tasting rooms with which I collaborated never did this, or anything encroaching on such.  MY wine business, approaching.  I’m not giving up on wine business, and certainly not wine or my vineyards, my vineyard walks.  This morning’s writing, telling me to have a conversation with wine, with self on the relationship with wine, wines story and the words that play from wined thoughts.  The Robert Hall Cab from last night and night before, telling me to relax and be more eased in my wined chimes and lines, when I sip and to stay away from analysis but throw more height and color, more energy and effort into reaction, speaking wine. Not for the wine, but with her.

 

New blog started, soon.  The u-sentence.  No quote marks needed. More and more I hate punctuation.  Anyway, this new blog is so closely associate with this blog, bottledaux, where the intention is to know your Now better, so I can know MINE more closely and intimately.  Be FREED.  You need start the day with YOU…. A proclamation, or thesis, or assurance, or provocation.  So many words to choose but the intention is the same.

 

Face feeling itchy and uncomfortable.  Now I wish I did leave time to shave, or somehow budget twenty or twenty-five minutes for such.  But if I would’ve done that then I wouldn’t be seeing the word count of this morning.  And yes, I’m giving word count attention.  Why not.

 

Where am I driving today, with team?  Hoping for SF.  Berkeley’s fine, but anyone knowing me knows SF holds my heart.

Lady over by far window, in front of me and a bit to left, plays the guitar,

or at least tries to work on her finger placement and tablature, I think.  Music in everything, I always say and have said.  Me knowing it mandatory to write to Mr. Coltrane, in my ears now with a soft, slower track—poetic and containing, atmosphere-apt and just kind.  Coltrane’s work has consistency and beauty, then there’s no consistency or predictability in some track but the beauty is augmented.  Plan on incorporating him in my talk on the 9th, about Freedom, and Madness, the Beauty of being Mad, Free, of being your SELF.

“Everytime We Say Goodbye”, the current play.  Piano keys with brushes on snare, nonintrusive bass, John greets us again with notes that don’t overwhelm the other contributions.  His music is jazz but more, it’s life and love, freedom and this madness with which I am more or less obsessed with.

“Moment’s Notice”, next.  Now more wild characteristics and motions, more intensity and urgency, electricity and collection.  Sped and eager as the session is, there’s no loss of comfort or chord coherence.  I listen and type faster, feel more of my morning and any evidence of the run slowing me or having my being’s function turn to debility, vanishes.  Composed and in head skipping with each letter button pushed.

Lady works on her music and I mine, with my pieces and sheets, tracks and tells, a one-character jam session, here in this café I’ve never utilized for such.  Water nearly done, I pretend I’m on stage reciting in the moment with John and his partners, letting words fly and out and multiple become their own principles and exponents as they may and stray, deciding their own and my day.  Syncopating play, clef-sleigh, in any wild and wandering way.

9:47, should think about leaving soon.  I’ll continue this momentum and creative flight through day by using what’s right in front of me, the magic of the meta, where I am and what I’m doing, even if it’s swiping my badge to get into the building or notes for the day of canvassing ahead of us, the drive down, the music I plan on playing for self (good idea… will plan music), or whatever.  Today decides a direction new and revived, more liberated and sans-chains in Mike’s story, narrative and prose plain.

2/14/19

Work early.  8am now, clocking in at 8:50 or so.  Forgot headphones adaptor in car.  Tempted to run out and get but why I then think, just take in the breakroom voices you hear from the nook.  Work with what you have, with what you have, Mikey…. If I’m to know the Now and be freed from it, this is what I’m utilizing and implementing into the morning’s prose.

Out in the Field, today.  In office all day yesterday and in knowing where I am and what I’m doing, I ignore time.  The ten post-it notes to self I brought to class last night and shared, hours after lecturing on Kerouac and Madness here at Sonic, I’m in a different place.  And in this different place wondering how I place the beaming benefit of the contrast, and finish my two essays.  Didn’t make the deadlines I put before self.  I know.  Month over in two weeks, the time I have to finish my book. Different movements will manifest different Me’s.  So, one different act—didn’t get the headphone piece.  Usually I would have, as you might know, especially with music become more and more a demand and decided direction in my story.

Rain, light.  Room now completely quiet.  I’m not at work but in an office of my own, for more pulses in this page set than I can tally.  The breakroom, now, has intermittent landers.  People coming in for coffee, or some breakfast they pull from the fridge and pay for with that self-checkout box standing to the left of the refrigerating storage.  What do I want from the day—or more immediately and tangibly what do I demand from now.  The, Now.  We all need to have this discussion.  So I’m having it.  Again.  In Santa Rosa, Ca.  Just 15 or so minutes from my house.  Narrating to self, SELF, for sakes of more Self, more understanding and questioning where I am, what I’m doing, why I’m doing it.  No qualms or quibbles, none at all, but I maintain the conversation.

Yesterday I spoke on Madness and how madness is love and creative, how it’s its own form of freedom, accentuation, its own manuscript.  Vowing to live more madly, right now in this nook.  What I want is what I have, and what’s before me will supply and sequence more proliferation of ideas, get me to my travels.  Why travel.  Why not.  Why not see the world and have sittings like this in cities like Prague, or Lisbon, Cairo, New York…. Montreal, and of course my love-city, Paris.  I need it. I need more.  To understand self, narrator of and to self, share my findings with other so they can see what I see, in themselves and what’s around them.

Someone walks in, laughing, obviously content where he is, “Good morning, guys.” Followed by a few more warm ha-ha’s.  Today a day of the Valentines, where you’re to love everything, everyone.  My babies this morning, excited to be allowed to eat a little candy their mother bought them, and have some party in class.  I step back, did this morning earlier and do know, to see what’s evolving in this day of love, or cards, candy, smiles, balloons and parties.  The Now, estimating it, appraising it, deconstructing it and the Now you want to have.  The reality that you have that reality is a reality to love and celebrate.  I start laughing to myself.

I look out the window to parking lot see a delivery truck.  Think they deliver linens or supplies, or something health-oriented for businesses.  Abraham, my good buddy, my workout buddy whom I astronomically admire for his early wakes and workout routine walks in.  I ask him if he went this morning and he offers “Hell yeah, e’ryday!”I again smile and see a new possibility in waking early.  If not to workout then to write, finally finish my essays, and if not that then make a dent, one substantial and meaningful in the book.  Writing I did in field day before yesterday on tablet emailed to self, one page, possibly the first page in book, tonight edited.  Or, tomorrow.  We need difference, we need contrast if we’re to pass the envisioned and land at the actual.

Just saw someone peek their head in.  They were gone before I could see any face or eyes or right ear.  Could only see a collar and shoulder.  My breakfast sandwich, gone.  Will fast for day’s remainder.  Write for book in lunch’s hour, wherever in the city I’ll be.  Possibly the Castro, or Noe Valley.  Not sure yet.  And, observe.  Yesterday talking to Tasha for our mid-month check-in we talked about the power of observation and how not always one needs to be directly involved, interacting, present and talking, but watching.  Cataloguing observations and reacting from there, an idea I echoed and argued last night in class with the 100 group.

People see me writing, say hello, walk out class door after scanning their badge, her badge,  nice young girl from Inside Sales.  I observe them, they me possibly, then time persists in its insistence.  Amplifying from where I am, observing the little contained mess I made on this table with the sandwich bag, napkins from Starbucks, my phone and keys.  I arrange, re-arrange, make my writing space more spacious.  Done.  Now with the time I have left, set aims and visions for day—Writing at lunch, at desk more post-it notes to self like yester’, and notes for field today.  Set an observation template, if you would.  For the Sales Leads that I observe daily but as well for the day itself.  Everything from words I hear, people seen in streets, street lights and stores, cars and crosswalks, what bags people carry, what sounds steps make, everything.

I’m at work early writing because that’s what I do.  That’s what I have to do.  That’s my story.  That’s what keeps me healthy, you could say.  Alive and mentally alive and living and exploring my character and the story the character’s given.  Passing the visions, and about to land in rooms actual.  The travel, the hotels, lobbies, airplanes, tickets, engine sounds, taxis….  The story sows a new narrative.  And in that, I better know the current Now, and soon step pervasively and definitively free, freed.

1/6/19

Been writing in more than one place for the ’19 story.  Oh well I say to myself with another glass of sparkling, Jackie over there playing on the tablet my mom and dad bought him this past xmas.  Nothing I’m writing lately I’m liking.  Certainly not loving.  So what’s the bandage for that?  One part of me says just write free, with less shackle and inner-hassle.  What’s that mean I don’t know so I re-focus on Jack.  The day he and I have had, his sister too.  She now off with wife and wife’s friend and wife’s friend’s daughter to Target to get who knows what.  Kerouac has some inner dialogue with himself regarding the game, if it’s a game or some scholastic, learning program…. “Jack, what are you doing?  What are you playing with?” He gives a bit of a mumble but I’m not convinced that was directed at me.  He goes back to doing that, whatever that is.  He rests the right side of his face in his right palm, right elbow on right inner-thigh as he sits on floor, legs crossed and lightly locked.  We just spent the past couple hours watching football.  Playoffs.  Or postseason.  Chicago versus Eagles, in Chicago.  Eagles pulled it by a point.  Just one.  I of course was on CHI’s side for various reasons—none of which I’ve told you so I guess I shouldn’t write “of course”—and so was Jack.  Both us disappointed in the result.  But we move on.  He with his game, or learning program, me with words and this morning before our together time, and time with his sister, a 7-mile run which I now feel.

Hoping to get some reading in, tonight.  Hemingway, Coelho, Plath, Hughes….  Not sure I’ll touch all four books, but one of them I’m rather confident.  Need to write more poetry, read Hughes more, and other poets like Cummings, Plath of course, Yeats, and from that collection of several poets I was gifted years ago.  Today teaches me to not work against existing momentum, ever.  What you want to do with the day is one matter, what you’re able to do and what you can do with what is present is quite another write.

Writing everything down….  Jack, quite poised and careful how he touches that screen. Face Ibn right palm, again.  He says nothing to me on his own, and I don’t want to break his connection to his current action so I just push these buttons while I look at him.  My little boy who daily loses his littleness to time— Time, that fucking animal, devouring all of us as a matter of duty and functionality, normalcy.  Why I deplore normalcy, the patterns.  The expected.  The unavoidable tumult of the clock.  I look at reflection, mine, and can see changes in my face, around the mouth and eyes.  Forty this year— fuck.  Have I lost some of my awareness and writing ability?  Am I starting to fade?  Looking over at little Kerouac, my little beat.  He’ll keep me young.  His sister, too.

from a journal

12/25/18

Kids with opened presents.  Wife and Kerouac left to retrieve cousins.  Preparing for more chaos and sounds loud.  Now, Emma and I play with her new toys and enjoy our Now.  The Now of today, more than yesterday and the same, augmented and magnified.  Me on the floor typing away with daughter behind me, remind me me of life, who this character Mike Madigan is.  What he wants where he is.  Simple.  Toys surround me like mountain ranges that overlap and intersect and criss-cross unconditionally and erratically.

Knowing Now, last days of ’18.  What can I do, what can I fit in in these—how many days?—7 days counting today.  And why not count today.  For just thoughts to new books.  Gifting myself something…. TODAY.  No mood and no stress, nothing but celebration of the Now.  More music, last night listening to atmospheric beats of Thievery Corporation and like-groups and artists, setting mood around the wine sipped and putting me in more sights and belief in the office, pairing wine and music, words poetry voice visual, all.

Music.  Only song I hear now is a kids track, not much I can harness self to.  Or can I… the play of it all, imagination, free liberating qualities and facets, universes transfixed and morphed into something else.  Educating key strokes with Now’s effulgence and expanse.  Daughter tells me to stop working, to sit not he couch with her and cuddle.  I turn the laptop off, and do what she tells me.  Mike can only do what she says, every time.  No exceptions, no variables.  It’s a consistency that not only dominates his day, but makes me more beneficially beat.

Coffee cold, music louder, playing with ideas and interpreting my Now in new ways— the ideology of this current stage and current brings me to new understanding and questions that shed any understanding of understanding.  The aim is to explore, not settle on definition.

“Dada…. I need you…”

Done.

Ideas for next track…

12/24/18

Counting and inventorying everything I do today.  The new year already started in my head and I’m starting my missions not as trite resolution efforts but consideration of my Now, what it wants from me, what I can gain from it.  Everything teaching me.  Doing my budget, seeing how much money I spend in the field on lunch.  Want to count it all, tally it, see what I would have saved but that’d only aggravate me, I’m sure.  So I won’t.  Forward, no lunches in field.  Coffee is fine, and a small bite, but only funded by coins.  Change.  So, carry a bag of with you when going out.  

Thinking about a shop, after and during my run.  I try to get away from wine, but I can’t.  I can sell and narrate wine like no one I know, honestly.  In inventorying everything today, knowing everything in the Now counts, I fixate on me, what I love and what I’ve done for work.  Mostly teaching, wine, blogging, writing.  Why not consolidate.  Would mean I have to start another blog, or restart the ‘vinovinevin’ project.  Going to not think about it, not excessively deliberate.  Just sit on the idea.  Tonight’s wines, writing about each.  The SB, white blend from Imagery I bought yesterday, the Pinot and red blend.  Or should I bring the Malbec….  Just a bit after noon now, and feeling exhaustion from the run.  6.3 miles, where I thought about a wine business and a marketing story, the connection to the Now, how all of this is not necessarily connected by contributing to the momentum of the next frame, place.

Now, everything I need.  More.  The understanding of your reality should always entail celebration.  With each morning and sip, each sight and breath.  The poetry of the Now rises from already-present music.  My music, now, vino scribbles and travel.

Your story

self-emboldened and chosen,

note only your own onus and token–

Ode hardly frozen, dose

Posted, over into a dragon shoulder–

Know it’s only your own aims that

need immediate explain, and solely to you

move true..

…will run from this street, this Autumn Walk horseshoe Drive.  Head up San Miguel, left on Coffey, then back.  Short run, today.  Then more words, then jazz, the new couch, what’s the first thing I’ll write while on it sitting.  What thought will materialize and actualize from those new and unfamiliar seats, cushions.  When I first moved into this house, I saw it with a concerned and cornered eye.  Not sure how to write in the walls— a new house, thinking Do I write differently? And how do I interpret what’s around me.  Not sure where I’m going in this thought walk, but there I am, here I am, again… where I am and what I’m doing.  Running from one sentence to the next, encouraged by Coltrane, his track right now, the fact that I’m writing in this house, still, even past whatever thoughts I had on writing in the house and the spinning spell of that meta….  Present in this identity, seat, roll in thoughts and repeat.

“All Mornin’ Long”, which features Coltrane, is freeing and like an audible freewrite.  If you listen, you’ll sense the liberation and noted pleasure escalation within the music itself.  Coltrane, speaking then letting the other speak.  Not sure who’s on trumpet, but I miss the sax…

No nap, today, fought against pull and push to do so. Thanksgiving over, wife out shopping at one of those shopping special eve whatever’s. Me, home. Wine. Just finished glass of Claret. The night passed with such cruel progression. Indifference. Babies asleep upstairs. What movie do I watch, my dilemma. My life’s trouble. Think of how fortunate I am with my family and to have such family, to be sitting where I am, here on this we seek to shed, new one one the way… Day of giving thanks, I need to show more giving of thanks, being thankful.

Tonight, I do intend exploring more wine. No aim to wake at 4am or 4:10 like this day. No. I may actually just sleep in. I will. What do I mean, “may”? May have to punch out. Take the night as it approaches me, describe and translate it, or in such order reversed… then wake tomorrow with more thought. More story. More ME. Tired now, forgetting I’ve been up since 4-something. Think 4:10. Has it been that long? Yes. It has. Me, that writer. Now. Time to Self and I sip wine and be here, writing. A writer.

Does the writer want apple pie or Chardonnay? Both sound like they sound, their own precise appeal and connection. I’m not torn between both but urge to be curved by both, somehow. 9:08. Feel like bed but I won’t. I can’t. But more, I refuse. Why can’t I be a human, just have dessert or drink wine. Is it that complicated? Are my thoughts the hinderance, the block and or impediment? I think it may be just that. Not in any kind of a writing swoop, and I can’t figure anything of it out. How does pine figure. What type a figure be me, I, this writer.

I feel like I’m not doing a thing, while doing too much. A mess. Should have taken a nap.