Ma Chance

In 48 hours, I’ll have very much met her.  Little Emma.  And I’m doing everything I can to get my character as prepared and primed as I can, to be the most perfect Me, feasibly.. no editing, just writing and releasing– every piece has to make money, I’m realizing.. balanced account, cash below desk and I think I may want to invest that, seriously, in my business.  The money is in the wine and all the content I’ve been gathering, like the tasting at Bergamot after Sanglier pouring.  And the tasting at.. where was it.. it escapes me…..  Either way, the story with wine grows and expands, and I know where I’m going.  And I credit Emma, whom I’ll personally express gratitude to in a matter of hours.

Nearly finished with the night’s cap, and I’m thinking how to market this piece, and the others I’ve written today.  To whom, for how much, and when, how frequently, and so so so.  Tomorrow, Day 1 of Week 18.  Finally, the death of the term.  Was looking through the Comp Book, reading the first page, first scribble of the semester, the heat and the wind and Solano, the hassle with everything there, from the dean to HR to payroll, to the writing lab or center or whatever they call that useless pit of hair-brained writing coaches that do more battling with student immaturity and apathy than actual instruction; every time I looked through those windows, going to the adjunct hole after parking, students on their phones, glaring at those screens.  Not writing.

Started writing lectures for my online wine writing class.  Hope I get some registrants.  Have to start promoting it.. doing so now…..  Done.  Let’s see how many “students” I get.  My lectures will be provocative but not in some quasi-polemic way, but rather my usual presence in classroom encouraging students to just writing from their cores and not care about reaction, but to just write.. write!

Bought two wines at Bergamot.  Can’t remember exactly what they are, were, at the moment as they’re both imports, but one red and one white.  On Tuesday night I’m set to be here in home by Self, as my superhuman mother-in-law has insisted on staying the night with Alice and Ms. Emma, in hospital.  Odd that will feel, here, lone, in home, but I’ll open something, have one glass to celebrate Emma’s awaited landing then go to bed as the next day I have to collect final submissions from students at 10AM.  After that, I’ll speed straight to the little beat-ette, see how she enjoys her new world.  Another baby.. I know it’ll be different in here, but I’ll write the whole thing, the whole story–  I see my writing now being more character study of Jack, and now his sister.  That’s the writing approach and life that will keep me leveled and with my rich waves of Zen.  What character type will she be?  I don’t want to know, not till I meet her.  And not even then.  I want her to develop at her speed, no rushing this little love.  No interference, just kind observation.


Thrall Depth

IMG_9018Finally at the desk to write freely.  Met with winemaker friend Jesse earlier, and before so met with Gary, former K—- friend for some tasting, the Stonestreet set.  Not a “bad” wine there, not in any respect or ramble.  In fact, I just finished my second glass from the Chardonnay I bought today.. nice oak ebb with syllabic fruit form and arrangement, placement.  Just another brilliant Chardonnay in this recent white wine rile I’ve been on.  Thinking what else I have to do tonight.. more house-keeping keeps; officialize website, order business cards…  I now see that this content marketing shop will interfere with certain or all writing urgencies– but “Mike Madigan, Author” is an mmc client, so not too much can off the ledge leap.  OH– want a night’s capping.  But what?  More Chard, or one of the Lagunitas?

Smelled the fermentation again today, just on the “Walk” patio, this morning, so now I’m promise a future in wine, making wine for my own label like my friend Jesse and touring the country for pourings and explanations as to why I made the wine I did and whatIMG_9024 food I’d pair it with– actually, I want to have food in mind while making my wines, as my sister explained at Dad’s 70th, while introducing the Chardonnay and telling a story of how Mom would not just cook to and with it but sip it as well.  Everything I do now is WINE, and all stories are wine-sewn, as so many people talk about terroir I seek to be one truly living it, like Glenn, like Jesse, like my sister– in the vineyard and seeing what the vines want us as winemakers to say.. now, we may not always agree, but there can be a certain syllabic synergy, most luminously.

Tomorrow I’m in the Sanglier tasting room, learning from Chelsea and learning more about their model and wines and how the wines are spoken, what they orate in the TR context–

IMG_9026Just checked on my little Beat, qualmless in his sleep, dreaming of things I;m sur eI have no idea how to interpret, jaded as I am with my age and advance life lording.  Night’s cap, at left, a Lagunitas.. should go in other room to watch what I want, something for next week’s lectures.. secured classes for next semester, today; a 5 and a 1A.  Remembering when I first started teaching and how eager I was and how I’d go anywhere and teach anywhere, any class and at any place– so eager and they know that they feed on it and us, our optimism and open bags, notebooks and car doors; we’re on the fucking freeway more than at that class’ helm.

But that stops for me.


This semester.

And next.

And after next, if I get to next, I’ll be a winemaker, writing fulltime and only having priority and universal impetus in my own layered notes and whimsical musings, all wine-riled and ruled.

Such kalological code.

So whole writing in my parents’ house,

late, 11:37 with nightcap, listening to Delilah by Hutcherson.  Relaxing, and something that Mom said to me tonight ripples in my character, about removing self, and if not removing completely then taking a break as I mentioned earlier, and what Dad said about not always answering to impulse, to monitor my reactive behavior, not always jump when you feel the urge.  After this entry I’m for the day done, going to relax, sip the remainder of this Racer and think about the day, me on the back bar with the couple I met at K—-, when he proposed to her on the mountain, and me holding the camera/phone IMG_7048like a fool, just observing.  But today we sipped a bit together, celebrating our reunion and talking again and remembering that time, on the mountain– and the others, the reactions to the Pinots, and the Zin, what they all said with me outside at that back bar, by the lawn, with the view of Mount St. Helena–  Relieved I decided to stay here at the Mountain Hawk base, just thinking about the wines and how people reacted to them, how they swirled it in their glasses and just watched the wine do its revolution, they look at each other, the day, the wine, that group of 4, their kids and the wind over those little infant scalps, them quixotic in and out of micro-naps.

Tired but I have to reach 500 words, make it to or near 3,000 words for day.  Tomorrow, wake early, don’t forget leftovers from Mom in fridge (which I’m sure I will.. watch.. I’ll wake tomorrow and speed out the door and to Starbucks so quickly that I’ll just forget, not cuz I want to, but because that’s me, the sped writer always with something, something in cue and something to do–)

I’ll set the alarm for 5:30, rise and then to the Road.  And tomorrow, meticulous with everything, like Dad, showing me much about how I provide quotes for mmc clients… sent another tonight, and I hope for the best but who knows I’m just trying to do something I never have and have it pay and learn something new about my presence as a writer and how I.. how I…..

I keep writing, and look at pictures from day.. not much new, only the Zin I tried here, with Mom and Dad, from Columbia Valley, 2012.  There just wasn’t much there, not much impression or impact; texture lacked as did the overall rhetoric of the wine–

But I don’t slow, I run the trails in Sunriver, then come back to write, talk to myself about writing aims and projects, open a bottle of some Cab from AV or Howell.. I enjoy the quiet, and the jazz, and the snow outside.  Have to fly back in a couple days, but in the time now between I’m entrenched to ebb about ten short stories, written over 24-36 hours or maybe less depending on how much coffee I collude–  A crepuscular code of sorts, seeing new days and new Beats and new jazz syncopations– reborn, you might say.


Edit Suggestion

Back from dinner with Mom and Dad, Alice & Kerouac, and like that.. the house is ours. Autumn Walk. Now, I’m at the Yulupa base, on couch, typing to a Racer 5 cap, and thinking about all on my page, or plate, or stage, or slate. Trying to start a copyediting/writing service, and some ad copy.. posted to some social media plain and I’ll see what happens.. dinner at Rosso’s, had a ’12 Turley Zin and again was surprised by what greeted me. And I thought more, about the day and where I am in Life and what we’re doing as a family with this new house and how I’m about to turn 36. 30-fucking-6.

IMG_5975Kosta Browne reaction posted tomorrow morning, before heading to Arista.. and more thinking. I’m overthinking, thinking about the meetings with students this morning and again where I am in Life and re-reading Big Sur to see if there’s anything I can learn, looking through my Comp Book, what lectures I wrote and reactions to student presentations. Next week, the last of reg’ instruction. How is that possible? I shouldn’t be writing right now, but just enjoying the day, the notice of what’s ahead.. and no matter what’s before the writer, he’ll keep writing. He’ll take notes at the very least, jot feelings and reactions and moments– all in the book and all noted, notes, he’d learning and he’s forever a student of Life and the students and what he does in the classroom. Yes, maybe overthinking, but like Michael Browne I’ll stay on the river..
Quiet, this night, and I only think of the Autumn Walk base, where I’ll build this writing life, my “business” if you would, and sell ideas, visions, visuals..
And my thoughts break but I keep typing. One thing I notice about myself when I have wine or IPA of this seismic significance is that my attention roams and I disconnect from aim, but not now– no, I have what I want in scope and fold and determined with dire discourse to it acquire.


orchestra blend — 4/8/12

For the first time in weeks, I was back in the Kaz Kastle.  New wines being poured, behind bar and from barrel.  One of my preferred’s today, that ’09 Petite Sirah.  “Bullseye,” Kazzy calls it.  Also found out that he arranged a little blind flight, within which a guest could negotiate bottle price.  Before our shift officially started, Kaz and I walked through the vineyard, inspecting the buds, their progress in breaking and how the spurs and cordons were responding to the recent conditions.  Easter Sunday, surprising typhoon of consumers.  From everywhere–  Los Angeles, to Denver, Massachusetts to Florida, to just down the freeway, San Jose.  Another Kaz varietal interpretation today, that wouldn’t release my attention for even a short time, the 2010 “Stomp” Merlot.  Thought he sold out of this bottle.  “No, we found another barrel of it,” he said, still seeming surprised with the elevating find.  Tasted, around 2:45pm, found greatly vocal nose, followed by deep delivery in mouthfeel, taste summation.

The entire day was tireless, like my son’s speeded motions, surroundings deconstructions.  Kaz and I stayed behind the bar, pouring, discussing wine with people from each corner on the planet, it seemed.  For most of the day, we had Wine Bar beats playing.  And of course, I thought of my eventual tasting Room.  It’s closer than I think, I think.  Talked to Kaz a little about how he started his business, “from scratch,” as he said.  I’m also thinking, in the interest of collective time, that I may have my label revolve around 2 varietals, encompassingly.  Cab, Syrah.  [But I also want my own Sauvignon Blanc…  UGH!]  I also thought about how others interpret varietals, what they want to say vs. what terroir intends to send.

Now, home.  Sipping some ’07 Sonoma County Cab Franc.  This wine, spectral, turning my mentality into a spell bell.  Before this sitting, this nightcap, had pizza from Rosso Pizzeria & Wine Bar.  Ordered there, and while waiting enjoyed that 2010 Malbec that I always order.  A full day of wine, I remember thinking there at the bar, while talking to Rich, Rosso’s vino capo.  Returning to this CFranc, I’m rationally leveled.  Sipping slow, to make this last stemless pour last, stretch into my prose, if it hasn’t already.  Just realized I’m behind on the word log.  Find I’m stressed in this discovery.  Why do I continue with it?  What’s it doing for me?  Either I write, or I don’t.  The sovereign pieces themselves make their own log.  Not some list–with dates, numbers, parenthetical modifiers, subsections.  Closing that document, now…

Today’s played station in Kaz’s tasting Room, telling me that Autonomy in “the industry” is so easily attainable.  And with Kaz’s divulgence of his “starting from scratch,” I thought to mySelf: “Why do I let any of these people in ‘the industry’ get to me, ever?  It’s all too trifling.  These moments with such script-dependent bots, like jester squads, for my pages; Free material.  Looking out at those buds, those first signs of vintage Life, I thought of little Jack, his morning smiles, his unexpected coos, analytical gazes.  Today needed to happen, another day on Kaz grounds.  The industry needs more of such Humanness, especially if it hoped to stay afloat in jagged economic currents.

Taking my last sips, wrapping up night.  Jack, asleep, while my thoughts rush to some topic consistency dealing with wine, writing, writing about wine, characters (Kelly, Me), Self-excavation.  But to find what, in THIS vintage?  And, the 33RD VINTAGE, beginning May 29th?  Turning all devices off, for more lined sheets, ink.  Tonight’s vine, all rimed; A signed find.  Meditation now; Spoken Word, poetry, to Self.  Music, verse, my REAL Me.











Messaging, Weather Invoicing

Rain, holding to streets, lightly.  With a nightcap, an IPA from Oregon.  About to print tonight’s 3 pages for book.  Can’t get the first 3 from my head.  I see this book getting published.  Yes, it bothers me that I need someone to publish it, that I need permission to be a writer.  But, like Pac said, “…You have to work from one point to go to another…” I can be a sovereign scribe and still be subsidized.  How?  I won’t agree to anything that compromises the intended voice of my work.  If an editor makes adjustments, and I don’t agree, they don’t go to press.  And, I would never sign a contract surrendering a say in my work’s finalization, or the processes beforehand.

Watching Mr. Shakur right now, in “Resurrection.” He didn’t flinch, ever.  My character needs such.  That’s what these late PM drops order.  Tomorrow, no mocha.  If it’s caffeine I’m after when cubed, scribbling notes, I need the most furious of cups.  Blacker than black.  “My girlfriend, blacker than the darkest night…”

Managed to finish a verse at the end of my Lit Lunch.  No upload to 1Stop tonight.  Not in the mood, frankly.  It’s my wine business, as you may be aware, and if I’m not in the mood, and I’m not getting paid, I don’t have to touch a single key on this monster.  No writing for free; such thought, intensifying.  I have bills, obligations, as much as I’d love to disregard them at times.  They’re there, and life is more than sententious.  Not one simply writing; I’m writing to make a living.  One comfortable, relaxed.  See so many artists that know they should be getting paid for their Craft, who would never offer a single stroke gratis.  So now walketh I.  Those wanting me to freewrite for free: ungodly, devilishly wicked.  He would agree.  If he were here, he’d holler, ‘cause he’d hear me.  Sip, sip …

[1/19/12 – Th]