inward jot

9/21/18

Coffee.  Didn’t think I would have any but a nice bloke named Art helped fix the machine.  Something with the paper inside he said.  Not sure what that meant and I had trouble finding his repairing ability and magic powers but am cosmically grateful for the cup I now enjoy.  He had his dog with him, Murphy, a mix of pit and rot and German Shepherd or something.  Cute little guy that I though a puppy but really 8 years old.  Want a bigger property to have a dog for kids.  Working on it.

Out in field today, again.  Meant to wake early as I always do but needed more sleep, waking at 630-something then ironing some pants, into shower, getting coffee and wee treat for wife as she has day off, recovering.  Me in break room.  Saw co-worker who also enjoys Kerouac’s work, walking her dog as I approached front door.  Asking her how her morning was and she told me great, woke at 4:45 to go to gym, workout, and here she is.  The mornings, I need something from them.  More hours, more time, and I have only self to cite for not waking when I want.  Prophesying the next 8+ hours.  Selling with team, walking around the East Bay today, I believe.  Want today to be wild, more wild than any day this week.  Written, written madly.  Bag on table, person behind me getting napkin from some odd and stray little stack.  Writer at a tech company.  Love it.  Love this place.  What it does and what it stands for but I try to find more.  Not letting self get breakfast as I did the other day, and yesterday.  Yesterday having some croissant sandwich with egg, cheese, meat… felt disgusting afterward.  So none of that.  And none of the doughnut array a guy who next to me sits brought in this morning.  Was tempted.  Told him, “Maybe later.” But no.  Going for a bit of a literary fasting, ration, penury for sakes of prose today.

An office, versus a tasting room.  Then thinking of every job I’ve had, reflecting only now at 39, and where I’m going as I seem to in every entry… Do I want a snack?  NO.  Fast.. deprivation, a sort of literary and page torture training.  What will it do to the psychology of this writer, how he touches the keys, how he writes… what will it do to the book, book?  08:30.  20 minutes about, to collect.  People come in here for morning fixes, one man just now grabbing some dry cereal and some cold caffeine or coffee drink to pair.  This place fascinates me.  The video games, stacked chairs, a jungle of deliberation and fascination, like Duke and Gonzo in the casino, at the bar surrounded by lizard monsters.  I look around and see business, me building my story and “brand” if that’s what you want to call it.  I just want more, like everyone else.  The coffee to me speaks in radiant and radically riled voice and unspoken syllable sets.  Going to write everything down today.  From today’s poem, poems, to notes on team, the field, sakes ideas, me-ideas, everything around me secures the affirmation of dream-actuality transformation and actualization.

In ten years, I’ll be…. Don’t want to say.  By the end of the semester, well, I do want to say.  Teaching on writing.  Teaching independently.  Independent and NEVER dependent on the JC for classes and teaching opportunities.  This break room teaches me to write faster, write more, about the coffee and the coffee machine, Art and his dog Murphy, the people getting their breakfast bites, and me here writing like a beatnik having finally found his his IT, moving with supersonic insistence toward a storm of ideological adorned page-forms.  Seeing something, then writing it.  Living it.  Odd embodiment of passion and presence, passion for what’s in front of me and present.

Feeling a but of a famine rumble.  Ignoring it.  Writing rethought it.  If I had something to eat what would I have.  Certainly nothing in the fridge.  Then what.  What do I want.  What will I do if this ravenous inner-stomp heightens in any way.  Not sure.  Just keep with the words, the—  TODAY.  Today is the IT, the IT of it all.  The coup de foudre, for me and this book.  Not failed, in any pour, in any sound, in any movement or issue.  Today is all any writer should be focused on.  I’m here, at work, about to share ideas, about to speak to people, about to learn, about to be more me than the bloody wine industry could ever echo or hasten or hurry.  I’m finding not only work here, and nuggets of knowledge, but visuals that confirm the reasoning for why I’m here now.. to work over or about an hour early and diving into pages, a book project.

So many of us fear work.  I see that as a decision.  I see that as a surrender.  What do you want to do for the rest of your life?  The answer should always be “Everything.” Try everything, experience everything, WRITE everything. That’s what succeeds in solution, answers, happiness with I think everyone quests.  Everything…. “Try EVERYTHING” I started the semester with.  And now I the like enact.

More coming in for snack, something to eat.  The writer tempted, but I find gems in this starvation and deprivation, a re-allocation of self and functionality.

08:47.  Want to be back at desk, soon.  Start day.  Initial tasks.  Notes for field, for me in field, observations from yesterday.  Coffee already going cold.  I think of last night’s wine.  Which one.  The Rosé, of which I only had one glass, and the Barbera of which I think I had maybe 1.5.  OR two.  I deserved it, I reasoned, keeping the 1A class over 90 minutes which made for a 12-hour day, give or take.

Again quiet.  Sip again.

9/20/18

Could it be the last time I say down to type was three days ago?  Yes that makes sense, with all the trips I’ve been making to the city for work, no longer having that hour to type in the Sonic break room.  Me, now, in the conference room in the English Department and I feel funny writing. Probably ‘cause I just had dinner again even after I said I wouldn’t, at La Texanita.  Something about that place, I swear.  I feel like I’m distant, away, vacation or just on some Road travel.  Speaking of, ‘bout to give my last talk on Kerouac’s Road.  I have more or less a plan, but not really.  Not at all.  More in the mood to teach than I was on Thursday, definitively.  Already wine thoughts find my head and me in this chair where I’m supposed to be planning.  How will I feel next semester, when I have no sections to teach?  Not sure… I can see there being a bit of sullen bend, but it’s for the better, for me, family, advancing in my writings on tech and life, work, business.  The office new’s given me more than I thought I’d receive in this timed life.  And now, staring at my notes, trying to shed this oddity in the writing act like some old skin.  Skin and sense, through consistency for which I hold no interest.  What else can I “teach”, tonight. Go word by word.  Be in the room with the author, Kerouac.  Need to underline more… have more prepped thoughts.  But then I think I’m so good in the moment I don’t need to plan or write anything out.  That’s the problem!  I say to myself…. Any chance you have to write you should, just as the people in the office are of the habit and forward, entrenched decision to write EVERYTHING down.  Every conversation, every idea, every question, every in-the-moment musing or anything.

Bought an iced coffee in the snack shop, at the office, but left on desk.  Shit, I think.. should I go get some now, in the caf’?  Might keep me up a bit, tonight.  So what, I think. Then I write, till 3 or something then take a nap.  Yes… soon’s I’m done with this entry or revival post or whatever it’s called then I’ll go there, across the street to where I know there’s coffee.  I want to approach the room with energy, the same energy I had this morning in the meeting with T, which we yesterday planned just upon my return from SF.  I gently coerced her to title the meeting the “Beatnik Meeting”.  Exchanging ideas wildly over coffee.  We had that meeting this morning and I was all fire, all storm and storm surge, deluge and decisions, while as well learning from her words.  Again, what happens when no classes at JC?  Then I have all classes on blog.  Easy.  There.  DONE. 

18:30, now.  Coffee, coffee.  Only thing I can think of, see self sipping.  Other than the eventual wine, tonight.

Leftovers and red…

Wine never needs to frame complicated. Wine should never direct prolix. She’s inviting, approachable, narrative and affectionate. What’s surrounded by curved glass reads a presence, a prophetic face and storm of versifying lines.

After a day, working, wine waits, debates her approach to me, my life and day and immediate room. The room, now, connotative in resonance, assurance, a perceptive seat. I’m at a table with her, being instructed, listening,eating leftovers and coaching me on Now, this doesn’t have to be layered or codified, and sort of sophisticated set.

Haven’t touched this glass. But the visual and nearness has me. Inward recite, and known night, thrown toward a lone vinified light.

9/19/18

9/9/18—

Photo on 9-9-18 at 9.08 AM #2.jpg

Son tells me this morning that he wants to be an author—  “I want to write books when I grow up, Daddy.  Like my workbook [that he was yesterday working on], I love writing.” I smiled and thought more about writing and how I write, or try, blog it all and while last night sipping the last of that Napa blend, now dead, I thought off the meta of writing, of writing about writing.  Why we write, why right now instead of taking a shower or doing budgetary shit, or driving up to Healdsburg early to do whatever, or doing anything around the house like most “real men” would on their day off, I write.  Think in poetic pulses, or try.  Listen to the dishwasher that I just put on, and think about notes, what I tell students about writing.  Or not tell, but share.

Harvest starting, or in some spots well into its due, friends of mine waking at 0400, then I wonder if I did the same what I could get done.  I can’t think about it or write it anymore, what I’d write and how I’d reach 3000 or more words if I just set my alarm and did it.  It’s not setting the alarm that’s the issue.  That’s more than easy, it’s effortless.  What if I rolled out of, from sheets and pillow and dove into prose.  This morning, a mocha.  4 shots which I haven’t in some time done, and saying to self, “Amplify, amplify… teaching, writing, the classroom, tech…” What do I want, what do you want, what do you want to amplify?  It’s literally that simple, as I see it.  Whatever you want, attainable.  You choose to subscribe to antithetical mind, if you’re not moving.  “Why don’t I have what I want?” or “…what I’m after?” Draw all thoughts.  Be more than AT the drawing board.  BE the drawing board.  Be moving.  Be in constant actuation and deliberation, forward and with your creative fire.

Since I started fiddling with writing, I’ve found it to be an exploration of my own thinking, how I generate thoughts and what I want from the act of writing.  Again, I could be doing anything right now, anything.  I chose to come here, to the island counter, sit, sip mocha, get to page.  My son telling me he wants to write, I need to write faster.  When he’s in middle school, or high school at the latest, I need be touring with these words.  Officially clocked into Day 3 of this challenge, or sprint.  A measure for when I’m forty.  Jazz in the room with me, and my thoughts go everywhere while still contained in looking at my son and high bright eager motioned expression when telling me of his book-borne ambitions.  Writing, seeing the association you have with words, and what they will do for you, to you, what story you want to tell.  I think.  Of this.  Everyday.  Me, writing father, adjunct for over 12 years, finally freed from wine’s industry to extend my written and poetic identity in tech.  Can’t say that’s ever been done, has it?  Just have to see, where all this will take me.  What knowledge I’ll pocket.  Quiet house, not used tot his so early on a Sunday.  Not even 0845.  Will be in 1 minute.  I feel rush, a rush in me to get things done, to finish a book, to put it out there— about journaling, writing everything down, blogging, seeing everything as material.  Even this plastic baggie of change that I’ve collected over the past couple months.  What do I do with it?

Setting budget for day, week.  For the first time in a while, since leaving the wine world, I’m quite comfortable.  Thank the craft.  Setting up the other blog so readers won’t see adds or other garbage to the sides.  I’m revolving and cartwheeling in thought and thorough thoroughness of my Personhood.  The Healdsburg Square will see me today.  WILL.  I’ll precipitate with my written will in whatever room I write.  The bakery?  The grocery?  Can’t stand those flies, though, at Oakville’s patio zone.  Every time I try to write through them, I am shoed away, like I were the fly in their annex.  Where else in HB is there to write, I think.  Flying Goat, I guess.  Find a spot there, though, is time arduous.  So I think somewhere else, possibly.  SHED?  Yes.  It’s indoors.  And their espresso is some sexy fuel-quake love I’ve never tasted, or haven’t since Paris.  And, if feeling well into my Beatnik notes, the beers on tap are all those that speak to a Madigan, one like me who writes.

Back hurts from run yesterday, the 10 miles which was a war to do.  So I stretch while sitting and writing, breath in this kitchen air, look left and see crumbs from the little breakfast treat I took for the baby Beats.  So much around me, so much to tell me, tell me where to whim, where and how to write.  This semester, possibly and more than likely my last conventional term, I invest every cell.  All tables and chairs, with this poem I just started writing, new Newness and pages, streams of collection and meditation.

Yesterday I wrote, “Enjoy and use your scene.” Mine, now, in this kitchen next to the bag of coins and my depleting mocha, the poetry journal, my wallet and the cash I was counting to my left, reminds me I’m alive, so alive and into this year, summer ending, that amplification is the only remaining route.  Winemaker friend of mine, yesterday, saying how he was at a wine tasting and the wines spoke to him newly, in some different or hip way, calling them hipster wines.  Didn’t ask for elaboration, but was put in assertion, asseveration in my wined story.  I always come back to wine and what she says to me, what my fictive figure, Kelly, does her first week in a tasting room.  This scene, room, page, more than fanciful and enjoyable.  Back to poem…

note

Internet down.  So I can’t post to blog.  And that’s my thing with blogging, the love and the hate. If I can’t blog it, is it significant?  Of fucking course it is.  But there’s something in me that feels void and shortage, not sure why.

Since I started blogging, in ’09, I’ve always wanted to do it.  But now, I will, have to, AMPLIFY.  One time someone told me that I don’t know what amplification is in the tech and blogging, general sense.  She was, and still is, just a chattering blank space of a person.  Hoping our paths cross again when I elevate, when what I know what’s to happen, happens.

15:51—  Another glass of water.  Too early for beer.

Thought—  Where you are and what you’re doing should ALWAYS serve as inspiration.  Stop looking for it from some speaker, or on some bumpersticker, or in some show.  You have enough.  Open your eyes.  Enjoy and use your scene.

9/8/18

On the eve of me leaving wine’s industry, I sip a Merlot.

img_6931The varietal that brought me into wine, that invited me into the collective compositions and narrative, luminous elucidation of it all.  After tomorrow, I’ll only write about wine.  Not be int he tasting room.  Not have to look at schedules and calendars, first thing in morning when the coffee’s barely taken its place in my pulse.  I’m sitting on the floor thinking about the past 12 years, in wine, the industry, the stories and people, everything.  Merlot, from Dutcher Crossing, inarguably the winery that made me the sales and marketing and wine storytelling expanse I am. Or that I think I am.  I’m nearly 40.  It’s time to leave. And more demanded, time to enjoy wine as a true consumer, not one saying they’re the consummate consumer, which yes I have from time to time to generate sales, which makes me feel like a slimy industry gargoyle.  But you do what you have to do.. to get that sale, oui?  Integrity.  I’m finding less and less of it, valley to valley, county to county.  I’m a consumer, now.  I write about wine.  I’m finally a wine writer.  Wow… I had to leave the business, or industry, the tasting room, whatever, to be what I’ve always wanted to… writer of wine.. translator of.

Haven’t taken my first sip yet.  I’m just staring at that Dutcher puddle, fruit from Napa, Atals Peak somewhere.  See it.. when I first arrived there, interviewing with two people now dearer than dear friends of mine.  Time, whatever it wants it just takes, and that’s my time, my life, this Now, that Now, every breath and second in a tasting room. Now, I fight back.  Tomorrow, my only plan is to thank everyone at Roth, at Foley, then start traveling.  Now I enjoy wine as a writer, a traveling wine writer who looks for any vineyard and cottage, any hut or terrace he can.  Why am I just being this, now?  I’m a wine writer, ‘cause I left the industry. There’s more than forecasted knowledge in that. I’m learning of my control, the nature of my dominance in my story.  Wine is part of it, but not everything.  So now, I sip to sip.  Imagine going to a tasting room and not identifying myself as ‘industry’.  Look at stemless plastic glass, cup, again, and breath, lean my head and neck back into the couches cushion.

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First sip of the entity, and I’m in a tasting room.  I’m thinking of how I’d speak it, how I’d “describe it” if that’s what you want to say, to a guest.  I can’t tell, anymore.  I’m just into the wine.  Staring at her shade and shape, sense and poetic form, radiant rile and speak from dimensions theorized.  I’m lost, found, loving the delicious duality and dichotomy of not just this wine but my wine story, the past, since ’06….  No miss.  Only a cherishing tryst.  I think.  Again, I’m lost in this, not sure if celebration’s the word, but something to the tune and tilt, tone of.

8/22/18