about the AE thing… what can I do.

I’m prospecting, networking, doing everything from this fucking chair.  I can’t speak to people anymore.  I can call them, but no one wants a call right now, and no one’s in the office for the most part.

A beer will help.  I’ll help self to one in a moment, and the rest of last night’s Shannon Cab from Lake County I think after that.  Wine, the vineyards… taking myself there.  That novel I want to write, or started taking notes on the other day.

Jackie putting away vacuum.  Can tell he’s annoyed.  I am as well.  But then I’m encouraged.  At one minute thinking the whole ‘what do I write’ pit of thought then I’m into a full yell of self-knowledge and know in the Now.  Almost 5..

This new journal is from a new state, new sight, sense of everything around me and with all the updating, none of it ever good, I try to compose composition when my character’s assembly and composition is threatened.  So, I’m in a kamikaze state.  Write, write about wine… this new journal, the regular journal… letters, and the novel about Eric and him leaving real estate for wine.  Starting a wine community, a family of wine-loving people.. no more pressure to transact, to go to those stupid fucking conventions or galas, or whatever they are…..  Tonight writing on the legal sheets, what he sees, the wine he sips that first night, at the hotel on the tasting floor with over a hundred small producers from everywhere in California and a small circle of Oregon and Washington houses. With a beer finally open, 4:51, I celebrate the realization that this ‘stay in your fucking house’ stage that’s been set by a dystopian spell is giving me a book.  A couple, actually.  And a new end-aim, or sight.  Writing about wine as I don’t even know how many people have told me to do.  Still need to post the Desmond Pinot page.  Write about the Shannon from last night.


Still working.  Or not working, but noting.  Can’t remember what other aims for day were.  Working on wine operation, business or venture, or maybe it’s just still an idea.  Taking tonight to collect, introspect…  One last glass, and I wonder what this Zin has to say that the others haven’t.  May go to bed soon.  Wake early, go for run, the Lawndale run which I haven’t done in a while, and not sure I spelled it right.  Who cares.  I just want to write tonight, so I am.  Not liking how I look forward to Fridays now.  Why is that.  Probably because of this whole thing.  And it’s just a thing in my Now, that I can remove, surgically… I’ll be a surgeon in these freewrites for self and freedom and what I think I know and need do in this Now.

Tasting tomorrow at DuMol.  Finally.  Idiot that I am I missed the appointment today… pretty sure I made it for tomorrow at 10 but they called me today saying it was for today at ten and that they were worried about me… not sure why, but I appreciated it.  Wine.. plan on drinking a good amount tomorrow, and writing about it.. and the run up those Kenwood hills.  8:13… a bit early to go to bed, or maybe just perfect.  Wake at 4-something and write, go to Starbucks down the Road, or another one so someone doesn’t surprisingly find me.

Can’t find any paths out there, but I didn’t look that hard.  Might take Healdsburg, or Sonoma.  Park by Sister’s house, or something.  Either way, I’m running.  Maybe not eight miles like last Saturday, but I’m getting out.  Tasting at DuMol re-scheduled for 3pm.  Can’t forget that.

Noticing now the cell phone is death.  Death to writing.  Death to all this, any attempt at production.  So I set it down.  I actually slightly slammed it to this table at Mom and Dad’s house.  One more sip of this Zin…  And I sip it.  So there’s no more distraction.  Thinking again about the run tomorrow, up the hills and onto Kunde’s property.  Should I… fuck yes I should.  I need a run tomorrow that tests me, truly.  Pretty sure I can log around 9, or maybe ten.  Why do I number in some lines, then spell in others.  I blame the week, I blame this shit I’m going through, I blame the Now… no matter how much I know from it.

What is everyone doing tonight?  Want to record conversations, like I said to someone working at a wine bar tonight…  Conversations are not just interesting, or even amusing, just whole and bright… like momentary theatres that teach, and if not teach then just show… provide unexpected music.  I don’t know.  Freely writing, finally.  And maybe it’s from this current course and kerfuffle .

Not collected where I am.  Need move.  Need travel.. bring stories to babies when returned.  Restroom.. restrooms, in hotels, in other countries, and the bed in which I sleep, what I write after.  What’s there… what will I say to self?

Perception, in the kitchen.

Running in the morning.  Ahead on timeline.  IF you could call it that.  Great day in meetings, dinner with parents.  Still hungry but not eating anymore.  Writing novel on her… her… the one wanting more… the character changing jobs, going for creative and not the expected.  I should go to bed, she orders.  I resist knowing I shouldn’t.  In Kerouac beat mode, on beat time.  So what then… more story, more in this kitchen.  Cards for the babies, Valentine’s Day.  What is that.  I’ve never known.

Going to have capping of night, then to bed go… running in morning.  Have to write more on the run, the run is life, is love is reason, is the counter to the counter, the counterargument to anything pessimistic.

Sitting in this kitchen, at the parent’s house… some could judge, and that’s fine.  I’m so focused on my control and centeredness of things.  Some will argue, object and counter-cross-object and puff their legalistic language in so many climates and shapes, but I just don’t listen.  Right now, I’m righted in my Now.

More than simple perception or sight, I don’t know how to define it and I really don’t know how.  I don’t care to.  I think of the poets I study, and the diarists I admire, like Ms. Plath and Pac, Hem with his letters, and Mr. Sedaris, and I find so much funny.  I’m going to delight in life, knowing some will say something.

Distracted by messages.  Should go to bed.  And keep with my stance, keep with my keep, assert the sight and acknowledgement of everything around me.  The world is funny, Humans are funny and barely deserve that capital.  No one in this kitchen but me. Running when it’s dark. So.. go.  Light jazz in back, and me just going from thought to thought, possibility to new newness with this new movement.  Some would maintain a detriment in my narrative, but the peripatetic jabs are only a lucrative tell.  Somehow, they ought be.

Last day of year, and getting here later than I wanted to from waking early this morning with Jack.

Poor chap having difficulty sleeping.  Checked on him and Emmie before leaving, both not awake or interested in the world.  But just in their respective dreams.  And me eager to get to the office and tackle these labs, the hypothetical scenes and circumstances where I would offer services to clients with certain setups.  Meant to test me, somewhat, but as well meant to see how I’d react, see where my familiarity with the tech of this AE act is.  And I see it developing, getting stronger, becoming more fluid and fluent in my words and language.  Of course I’m not a Sales Engineer, and I’ve actually been told don’t get too hooked on the tech side of things, go up to the cliff but don’t jump off. But, what if I were to be a mock-SE?  An AE that’s as equal parts SE as he is AE?  My mind goes in a million different hurdles and poses, mold and directions with this story, the one I’m writing… the acronyms used to scare the shit out of me, but now…. No.  Not at all.  I’m excited and delighted and feel divinely and highly invited.

Two more labs to go.  With these last two I’m going to get a bit more creative, less focused on beating whatever price tag is on the current service of the hypothetical client and focusing on the value of what we do here at Sonic with our consultancy approach.  I remember Field Sales, all those days in the field walking up and down the Avenues and Streets of SF wit the team, and hearing all the conversations at the door.  This is still very much that face to face interaction… Field Sales and that tell as Supervisor outlined all this understanding of AE life and the overlap with SE practice.  All it is, really, at least in my application, is product familiarity.  And there’s a diversity to our menu that enlivens my steps.

New Year’s Eve, eve of what.  I’m already quite deep into my plan, into my principle motion and mode.  9:20 in the morning but I de-emphasize time, and what it does to me, how I see it.  The Mike Madigan character re-written, and put to page differently.  Thinking of going out, working offsite, mimicking the setup I’ll have when I leave the office.  With the other AAE leaving, there’s more focus on me.  Which I am only pleasurably and lovingly shoved by.  Write more like Kerouac I tell myself, bottomless from the bottom of my mind, my character and immediate form.

Get grades turned in, soon.  Maybe even tonight.  Start drawing next semester’s outline.  And rubric—or no, don’t use any rubric.  Why did I think I would?  Have everything be truly about READING and writing.  Expression and narrative, have that bleed into this AE role more, and wine as well.  This new year so much to happen and within the first half.  Like what I ask myself.  I know what.  I know precisely WHAT.

Logging every thought in the moment as it presents itself to me and not doing anymore doubletakes.  Everythought, one word as I disregard every grammatical and syntactic inhibition and rule.  Would get on the phone now, but I need to follow these ideas and thoughts, musings and notes, wherever they go…. The location, this office and what I do in it… Sonic, a character that’s like some character blend idealism.  I mean, here I am, being the most ME that I’ve ever been and….  Should get on phone, call at least ten businesses, just wish them a happy new year or something, just check in.  It’s not cold-calling if you don’t sound that way—but this is boring, writing about that.  What should I do… starting to get bored and tired and frustrated with my sentences.

Get out of the office, a voice says.  Go somewhere.


I have no idea.  Just keep writing, keep thinking… telecom, being a Sales Engineer, and learning more of the tech, what used to scare me to death’s door and table but now realizes me and convinces my character of more action, more pursuit of curiosity.  I was told recently to stop doubting myself when it comes to tech, and certain corners of my AE story.  So I see the unlock-er as movement itself.  That is what will make anything and everything happen.

You know what, I am going to go for a drive.  Work from a Starbucks or something.  Practice doing it now otherwise when I’m forced offsite it’ll be too much of a shock.  It’ll be like me working for my blog, for me, my company… finally.  The P-O-Z Agency.  Everything that’s embodied and entailed in its composition.  Produce On Zoom…. Or ‘Passion Only Zeal’.  Something like that, or maybe not make it an acronym.  Have enough of those in my life already, in this AE put.

Made a call, going to make another….  And, look for a certain type of company, find a way in… test my “networking” aptness and acuity, movement and versatility.  Found a lead, in a certain industry. Researching now… I should have research done by the time I get to office, but I won’t be having to ‘get to office’, before too long.  Going to go offsite in a bit, to coLAB.  Try and negotiate a rate, some deal, some something.  Use that as my base….  More ideas.  Maybe they need connectivity.  Getting ahead of myself, and distracted.  Get your office, and motion and speak from there.

Day, off the ground. The new year, already here.  I’m not waiting.  For anything.  Intensifying, Amplifying, and Diversifying my prospecting, business, principle approach in the AE life and everything.  No editing, only writing… only lines, only composition, only positive pulse and progression.  Looking for new projects, new approaches in every turn and every inquiry.  So now, more.  More of everything.  Need a break, but a break to produce, not stop in production.  EVER.  Engineering self to a new self maybe but one more with altitude and vocal, hunger, an utter absence of apprehension.



No deadline of any kind.  Any possibly that’s the problem, Mike thinks.  He digs through his notes, nothing hits him, strikes him, flirts with him tickles him or prompts him or anything in his functional writing being-shifts.  He types too much, too easily he thinks carrying his laptop everywhere and just opening and hitting keys with such ire and volume.

                Still nothing.  He thinks of what so many have told him about wine and how much he knows about wine—which he hates.  He can’t stand when people voice something to the lean of, “With how much you know wine, you should write reviews on your blog.” He hates that.  True detest.  He’d rather stop writing and wine in tandem.

                More notes.  Cabernet…. Singing storm of confusions and caresses.  He said this about a winery’s current released, somewhere he used to work, somewhat recently.  The man on his tour said that’s what he needs to do.  Mike asked what.  Man said this, this, the way you talk about wines… “You don’t sound like the others.  I don’t even know how they get paid what they do, or why people follow them so much.” Mike remembers himself nodding with synchrony of idea, sight, seeing that, writing wine.  But something happened.  Mike still doesn’t know what, but he didn’t follow that wave and ride of complimentary shove, and here he is.  Thinking of what to write on a winery day.

                7:18am.  To be at the winery in a little less than two hours.  He received a text yesterday asking when was the earliest he could be on property.  Mike responded curtly, “10.” His scheduled time.  He tires of the tasting room, much material as it provides.  He wants more from wine and the writing he does from it.  What, he doesn’t know.  Starting his blogging life if ’09, he now orders more from his self.  Maybe he should dismiss it, altogether.  And, stop even sipping wine for a bit to have it all in his pseudo and metaphysical internal illustrative.  Seeing wine made, sipped, tasted, the people swarming into the tasting room like yesterday when he dropped by Truett-Hurst to visit an old friend with whom he used to work.  Yes, at a winery.  She was a wine club manager and Mike thinks she does more or less the same thing now at Truett.  But she was helping a group, a pretty sizeable one.  Mike thinks she said something like 50 people.  Mike spied them for a bit, before walking around the property, through a tree awning of some kind, and onto a lawn, and over to a barn area where there were chickens seemingly talking to the people passing.

                What deadline should Mike rile.  Mike tells himself, “20 days”.  For what.  Something.  Something about wine, finished.  He doesn’t believe in “writer’s block”, in fact he completely dismisses the excuse.  And that’s how he sees it.  An excuse.  An excuse to not write, an excuse to talk about not writing, and just a frivolous scream of anti-compose.  Twenty days, starting today.  Should he?  A wine book?  About what?  Wine.  Just that.  That one word.  Wine… not what people should drink or even drinking wine, but the story of wine, the definition and anti-definition of her.  As Duke and Gonzo looked for some dream, American or otherwise.

                The dream is in the wine paragraphs, painting her with some syllabic rush and road.  How.  He’ll find out.  When.  Today.  And till the 28th.

                Just take notes, he himself tells.


Latte.  Again the only one in bullpen as phone trainers leave.  Technical Trainers, I think is their actual title.  Headed to San Rafael, in a little over an hour.  Notes, today.  Only aim.  And put each note on blog or into some something-spere.  Aujourd’hui, que du bonheur…. The only way I’ll move and perpetuate my story.  Last night offering writing prompts and instruction to a friend in another department, feeling a bit not so much hypocritical but flawed, or not aligned with what I was assigning, if that’s clear.

Committing self to a standalone piece before leaving for SRafael.  About what… about opening a shop, of some kind.  A stationary story.  Don’t want it to be about wine, I know that’s what everyone expects.  So I want to do something different.  Maybe a fishing shop…. Fishing equipment, like the stores my Uncle Stevie used to take me to in Summer, fishing north of Sisters, Oregon, or in Sunriver, or along whatever river that was where we took the guided tour, escorted by a guy who wrote a book about fishing, fly fishing I want to say.  I’ve never lost that visual, and remembering the boat ride down that river, stopping at certain banks and casting into the moving water.   The singular piece has to be about something like that, I feel.  Something where someone does something that does something for other people…. Like a teacher, or a fitness coach, or instructor.

Love this part of the morning, in the office, and when the morning is shaped this way, with little sound and little intrusion.  Ransacking my thoughts for anything that can be in the story…. Me teaching, that one semester where I taught seven classes across I want to say four campuses.  Of course, I know now, no way to live.  But I have done it.  That was in ’07, twelve years ago.  Like more than eternity, a endless galaxy and time, solar system of time.  Latte waking me, think my solitude is about to die, as my friend approaches bullpen.  No… someone else passing.  I’m in a condensed and confined area, here, and can’t see who passes.  All the more reason for me to be out, as I wrote yesterday.  Need a vehicle switch, I just remembered, so I can charge my phone but also listen to something other than what’s on the radio.

Now I think the story should be about wine, a wine shop that also stands as a tasting room.  One that locals flock to on weekends and make it a point to visit during the week, to make the week more tolerable.  You know what I mean.  The story is dialogue-supported and commanded, like a script.  But not.  Character has tasting room/shop in downtown Windsor.  The first year was a struggle but now in year two the matters are different.  There’s talk, there’s magnetism, there’s a place where people depend on what the place provides aside from the obvious wines and their taste patterns and easing effects.  He refuses to be a business manqué, the same way I will not let myself be that type of penner.



Mike turns around—the Mike I’m writing—goes to a book, one of Kerouac’s.  Thought he’d bring something different, like the Sea pages or the Dream Book.  But no.  Road.  Seeing himself as Sal, needing an inner Dean not so much, but a self-embracing quietude about character.  Regardless of age.

            My kids on couch starting their Sunday, talking to each other and watching one of the dozen or however many Harry Potter films.  And me here typing, Emma saying “Daddy are you working….?” I tell her I am and know I need stop, go over there and become part of their lazy Sunday way.

from wine pages


Starting day slow.  Can’t wake up truly or get into some loud creative stride as I want to.  Meeting at 9, then after that literary lunch around noon.  No run today.  Everyone around me talking distracting and disrupting what I’m trying to write but only ‘cause I’m allowing, I get that.  No word from possible department of transfer, and not holding my breath.  And I don’t write that with malice, at all.  I write it with praise, praise to self, and herald of this character I’ve arrived.  Computer keeps doing funny things, I act in defiance by simply writing through it.  Coffee taking a bit of a grip on my sitting and structure as character, but I’m still moving slow.  Has to be the sun exposure yesterday in Brentwood.  Has to be.

Keep self working and writing and working on writing efforts, the book, ‘thought’, till I clock out and even after.  Last night opening the Zin from Foley Sonoma, and I’m more or less convinced it was partially corked.  Not fully, or maybe not at all, but there was something TCA-y, if that’s it, about the wine’s flavor and communicating body.  Have no idea, but it said nothing to me.  Not many wines have been saying much, not much to write, no much to reflect upon.  Just not me, not for me, not for the page.  So what do I do then as a writer of wine, one who says he writes wine and is a wine writer.  I guess do just that—write ABOUT wine, itself.  About her, her SELF.  What wine is in my life, how every time I walk the vineyard, I’m more me and more alive than I am anywhere else, with anything else.  Everyone associates me with writing and the writing act, yes, but wine as well.  And it’s no surprise to me now that I’m waking, that wine IS writing.  The writing movement and sight, composing something to be read, to be studied or at least mildly considered.

Someone yesterday, or the day before I believe, said how much she enjoys my vineyard videos.  How she enjoys them yes but actually looks forward to them.  That my words wake her in the morning when she’s feeling slow or low or doesn’t know how to go about the day.  I thought again, that’s what I am… a wine writer, but still a teacher.  I’m here, I’m listening and present in the vineyard.  Even now, in the office, I’m in the vineyard.  And if I am awarded or granted this new position, I know how I’ll approach it.  Like wine. Sell everything and write everything, speak everything as I do wine. Now I’m awake, and what did it, like the co-worker from Monday who complimented my camera work, MY words and wined thoughts.  This.  Just writing.

Thinking I’ll go to that café down the street—oh shit, if it’s open.  Not sure it is on Wednesdays, now that I think closer.  So where can I…. OH, one of those thinking pods.  Those space age looking chairs or seats by the multi-purpose. Done.  Decided and decreed.  Should start prepping for meeting…. Looked over notes and I’m essentially ready, far as I can see.  40, and learning certain corners and angles, ROADS, all over.

Also at lunch, read more of Destiny Thief.  Book Mom and Dad gave for Father’s Day.  Love the title, and what I’ve read so far is not only very much ME but what I want to see, where I want to go as a writer, how I wish perceived by not just other writers, but anyone really.

The office gets quiet, and quickly.  What reason.  Don’t know.  Why.  Today and this morning, me here thinking of the vineyard and what I want to grow on my eventually vineyard.  Looked in my cash envelop this morning and thought it could start with just that, couldn’t it?  Journal the journey from that envelop to my first vineyard walk of my own blocks.  Cabernet or Chardonnay, or something else maybe I don’t know.

8:33 what the clock says and finally, finally, I’m falling into my writing form.  What I want from the day… to feel more like a writer. Lately just been noting notes in the Kerouac journal or elsewhere, and not collecting them. Just posting them.  And yes… I could return to later, but I haven’t been feeling how I want to feel as someone who shares he’s a WRITER.  Of wine or whatever else.  Write everything I tell myself.  Someone just walking by my desk and outside possibly to walk along the front of the building to get to breakroom, walk in and get coffee or something form the market.  Which reminds me I should put my sandwich in the fridge, there.  Now the latte’s 4 shots are speaking to me.  What are they commanding.  Focus on the vineyard, on that envelop. Don’t take ONE bill from it. Nothing.  See yourself pouring your wines, but more importantly telling and sharing the story of how you got to that table pouring the wines and telling the story of your vineyard.

10:38 and meeting having finished a but over 30 minutes ago I’m ready to go.  Ready for not so much an easy day but one of personal production and precise productivity.  Again I note on the Road to my own wine room, tasting my wines for and with people, the language and story around my wines and their story.  Everything for that Room…. Three wines to start.  Chard, Merlot, Cab.  Or a blend maybe, no Merlot.  Or maybe then my label, tentatively dubbed whoso cellars, or whoso wines.  MY life’s work and story, from that envelop to that Room.  My interest elevates and intensified and even though I’m done with the latte I type like I’m still hitting the caffeine quite fired.

Money.  More.  From writing, blogging… this.  Writing about wine and what wine tells us all to do, and only now at my old age am I listening. Quicker, more purpose and poise, passion and composition.  MY narrative is not just ABOUT wine, but actuated from and for and toward the wine, it vineyards, my Room.


Mike walks around his small barrel room.  He thinks of tasting, but just wants to walk around.  Look at them with no real intention other than to look, realize where he is, what he’s doing.  When he taught English at the community college he’d always talk about the “magic of the meta”. Not complicating, not overanalyzing, just knowing intimately where you are, what you do, why you’re there and the character you are as a result of being there.

He walks, can smell the wines but not as much as last week.  He hadn’t done a sulfur hit in a while, and that was intentional.  Didn’t want to scare the juice, or try to force it to do something or saying something, express voice it wasn’t meant to communicate.

Changing his mind, he grabs a thief from his workbench, the one his father built for him.  Picks a barrel, no method or plan, or foresight.  Just picks one.  Syrah, block 3, lot 4E.  In, out, seeing the color encourages Mike that he’s doing the right thing, that he needs to today taste.  Puts a bit in a glass, about two ounces, possibly a bit more.  Tasting, he didn’t feel anything he recognized since the last touch, which was…. Didn’t matter.  He spun the deep, night-like tide in his glass.  Put her closer to his senses, what was that.  He doesn’t know.  Mike dumps the rest back into the barrel, tastes from another.  Same.  What is she saying today, to him and only him.  Is she telling him to back off?  He doesn’t want to taste from anything else.  To gun shy, wine shy, now shy.

Mike forces himself to walk toward the other door, then outside to the block, “3-4E” as he wrote it in permanent on barrel head.  He looked at the vineyard, and only wants to walk.  The spell, in steps, around the block, blocks.




Slow, my pace, and character, inner-narration.  Can’t understand why and I’m not giving it too much more consideration or any contemplative effort.  Class tonight, and in no interest to go.  But I will, I’ll force myself, see what happens.  See what ideas and thoughts form.

I’m not lachrymose, or of low ebb, I’m just not fully in character.  Why.  What is this.  Guy plays pinball just to the left and front of me, and the noises disrupt my dimension even more.  Fuck, that thing is loud.  I ignore it as best I can and look further into what’s happening in my circuitry, today.  Got a small latte from the spot up the road which I shouldn’t have done.

Still slow, but with more framing and purpose in these types.  Didn’t think I’d get to writing today, honestly, with this mood.  Or whatever it is.  Not sure it’s a mood, either.

My next plan of attacking it is to attack self and self for having any kind of mood.  What the fuck do I have to be even minutely glum about?  Money?  Not hearing back from a wine country lead?  SO. WHAT.  I move on, dismissing and disregarding all of it.  Only present here, where I am and what I’m doing at Sonic.  Project now—JPR’s.  Never done them before and I know that’s part of my stress stack, but again I just vow to write reactions when I get back and see where they go.  Much of knowing your Now is to just walk into it and see what’s read to you.  I’m writing the story, but it’s also writing me.

I get a text message but ignore it.  I want to understand this, this Now, me in the Now, and what to do for remainder of day here in office.  Tonight in class, this entry very well may be part of the plan, this pinballing avoiding paragraph stream.  Am I fighting those shrieking ding and dong sounds, and the voice coming from the flat vertical portion of the machine.  Forcing self to write, forcing self to ignore it.

He leaves, but some corny battle-victory song keeps playing.  No one in this multipurpose room but a writer.  The machine silences, and all I hear are noises from outside—someone throwing something in one of the bins, some vehicle driving off the lot.  My mood shifts, into curious curvature.  Haven’t written in here in a while.  If I was at low ebb, it rose, even before the pinballer left.

Just going to see what happens this evening, with class, with the first discussion on the newest book.  Memoir, narrative, everything we’ve talked about so far this semester.  I forget about the wine country prospect, the JPR’s, this large room.  I fixate on me, my day, the quiet machine now.

Almost forget about my latte.

Tempted to try the machine.

No.  Stay here.  Look outside.  Listen.  I’m writing today, more honestly.

My own sort of game, I guess.