Cold. Ice everywhere. Now with a 4-shot mocha, doing all differently today. Shrieking as I always say that— So, the people around me in this Starbucks, some reading the paper and others just talking. I’m at a corner sofa seat with a low table, leaning over to type with forearms on laps. Listening to beats and thinking about today.. Go way outside of character, I tell myself. Yesterday, two people I took around the winery and vineyards, telling me they loved the way I speak of the vineyard rows and wines that were in front of them. Funny, I thought, as I’m rather tired of the language I use, much the reason I throw in French every so often, or find some obscure and technically dead word. Bespoke, today. For me. For this Mike Madigan that woke up and can only think of the scenes in verses. I turn up volume, see self bobbing head then stop, focus on the paper I’m writing, what I’m doing today. Don’t stop writing, I tell myself as I do the student but I’ll stop to sip the mocha or look around, pat nose with the folded paper towel I brought from home…. The outlet to my right which I don’t need use, charing the laptop yesterday… the mocha… this chair, me, saying something but what. In a deconstructive dive, hearing one voice say “I don’t know what to write about or how to get self closer to travel, this morning.” Then the other which orders me to write about everything, everything around you no matter how seemingly bland or without-gravity.
Why do I write about wine. Wine is Writing. It’s Literature. Every bottle is a letter, a note, poems storming to your senses and thoughts, making you think of things from the past and what you want from the current installation and splash of sight. Nothing today me trammels. Not with wine here with me, the vineyards and all the dimensional activity and delightful visual distraction…. Like randomness of thesis, rhetoric and ravishing beats everywhere… The business plan for the day becomes clear. But I won’t write it. Won’t hex it, or put some unwanted block at my 12 or the day’s. In the eight hours ahead, I write a collection of poems. Put all on blog… wined poetry, wine in poems and poems in wine and the people visiting from everywhere to taste wines and take pictures, spend time with the other. I spend time with the day. The day’s my date. I rush further into my sitting here, at this coffee spot I barely knew was, till recent.
The Romance of the day is the day itself. What’s in front of us. US. This is not a me-piece but a paper addressing and heralding what’s already present. Can never grasp why so many grieve over absence rather than celebrate the already-present. I probably will never understand it so I can only do what I can do. Wine… more than wine. Last night sitting not he floor and sipping what of the Chardonnay I with me home brought, deconstructing and internally reviewing the day… thinking of the day next, today, NOW, what I do. How do I get myself closer to the world, seeing more of it. Contextualization. ME, here, thinking on song, combination between wolverine and fawn and philistine acid dream— Unseen lean, atmospheric in her frenetic furnishing. Wine… doing things to writers like me. Every morning. Day. And especially when I’m not sipping. She’ll take me to travels, I know. I’m almost there. Feel the plane seat and the landing and what I’ll think, first steps off the vessel.
Two prophetic shots of the 4-shot, sipping deeply and intended. What we want. This is turning into another me-piece. I realize. So, more of US. WE… living and able to have whatever we want. The panacea is tirelessness. In whatever effort you boast and, or envision. Hopefully both. Then, soon, hold. This sitting, showing that we have time and time has more of us than we of it. Love… love your moments and everyone in them. These people around me that I don’t know, haven’t said a word to, probably won’t in this coffee shop visit… adored by me. They are the moment, part of it, part of this sitting and sight, even though I only partially see them from the eye’s corner.
Business plan for day… don’t plan too much. Educating myself as the morning educates me, us all, everyone around me if they’re open to being instructed. I have 29 minutes till a writer has to rise and get in car, drive to the winery, set up for day, open wines and start with poems effort. Funny, had that feeling again that I’m sick of what I’m writing and deplore my word select, topic election— Then I tell self to tais-toi! Shut. Up. That will do nothing for you. The truth is in the moment and the moment is musical, more than me or you, or even us. It’s an intangible collective. Poetry…. I’ll die for it, I’m realizing. Or, I would. Wine is poetry, music, rime and something for-pined and metaphysically timed. More than impacting… not bottled. I swear, if I see one more winery use that ‘wine is bottled poetry’ utterance by RLS, I’m lid-flip. Wine is free. It is NOT bottled. Yes, it’s in a bottle, but it’s activity and composition and intrinsic philosophies and didactic makeup is not in a bottled state. The wine is in a bottle, but not bottled…. How I see her. The sense is blurred and clear, concurrently. That’s why I write so urgently, and I pray purposefully.
No breaks, no time for pauses or lulls, anything that begets the dull. Keep self in motion, and reciting… the goal for the day, a salable MS… poetry… odd prose.. wine-honed and no. But everything in my life revolves around her. So…. This chair, now too comfortable. I could just hide out here all day. No… have seen people from sister property here. I’ll be found. So, I charge into the day, saying “L’amener sur!” Student, me, being taught… more French, all poetry, more wine, more people, soon travel. Morning thoughts, rhythmic and relaying delightful divots.