As someone who obsesses over work,

and what work he has to do, what I have planned the next day and the remaining hours of this day, I am honestly with nothing.  But I make myself write.  One student tonight saying one of her goals is, was, is to wake at 2am to get ahead in her studies and I assume write a little as she does write poetry and write in short lines, short stanzas, pieces that span only a page.  And I say ‘only’ out of awe, that she does so much to a page in only a page’s pulse.

Was nearly too lazy to write anything tonight.  Told self, “Just a hundred words, per blog.” But I can’t hold self to that.  Should I do what this student plans on doing?  Should I set alarm for 2?  Isn’t that the time of the artist, the writer and poet?  Didn’t I read that somewhere?  On my lunch today grading papers and writing in the Sonic journal as this goddamn laptop didn’t want to let me use it.  Of course, now, I do push the buttons and have a note in my writing normalcy.

Finish the fucking book, I tell myself.  Like my son said tonight as I poised to make his bed with new sheets, “GET TO WORK.” I am.  I say the same to self.  

Sip the Barbera I popped last night. It, she, more calm.  Me the opposite of anything tranquil at the moment.  Working in the home office which isn’t as common as I’d love to tell you it is.  But, WORK.  Work.  What I write about.  Force self to write when I don’t want to.  I do write about wine, but that’s not my only onus and thought light.

Now, I’m like a train with this, these writing thoughts.  I, not failed.  Not failing in my aims.  I won’t allow that.  No one should.  Why would you.  You are here, once.  And I’m not addressing the fact one only lives once…. I’m speaking to myself and you, that where you are, right now, the opportunity and life invitation to bring a project to completion is singular.  You see it once.

You are a train, if you wish be.  Some unknown animal of fruition, bringing works to an offering stage.  There are only stops that persist acknowledged.  So acknowledge none of them.  I see so many of these speakers and motivational-who-be’s profess all this counsel but don’t consider the most apparent reality… the audience member has to decide.  They only elect to act if they bring themselves to movement.  Tonight I could have just as easily poured this red from El Dorado, sat on the floor of this home study, went on phone and scrolled through some photo pour.  No.  We decide to draw, paint new plausible for our Personhood.  Decide to move, be alive, mentally, alive, wildly alive in all movements of your steps and actuating saunter. 

What work does for and to the character is animated in divinely lucrative chant.  Dodge the task, never.  Distractions and suitable sanctions to project-dodge are terminal.  The panacea, always, is preemptive production.  Never, labor deduction. 



Opened one of my favorite bottles from Roth, guess I had one more, had no idea.  The ’15 single-vineyard Cabernet, Alexander Valley.  So then of course I think of the wine industry and all the years I spent in it, all the people I met and the wines fro Roth.  Where I am now in my relationship with wine, now in tech, sipping wine just to sip it and occasionally write about it.  The bottle tonight speaking to me in a way it never has.  Tell me to find my freedom, shed any anxiety or suppression, oppression, any muffle or mute.  I’ll have another glass in a minute, but first I’m set on starting this sitting… getting my thoughts in some revolution, some momentum.  Technology, the internet, where I am.  With this bottle and the last glass celebrating my first couple days of this second week.  A wine guy in tech, teaching his last semest—  Different approach.  I need quiet, after today.  First day teaching after a long weekend.  I need stillness, peace, no sound.  Need me, these keys, an early rise if I can but more than likely won’t.  Today though, waking at 06:00 on the dot, after hearing son upstairs walking around, to and from our room, saying how he’s going to get dressed so the writer accepted the challenge and shot from under the sheets, got in the shower and made the day start itself.  I thought of what I’m to do right when I walk through the doors after scanning my badge.  What I’ll say, what I want accomplished, what I want from coworkers, what I want to say to them. This office new has me riled and antagonized in a way the wine industry was definitely unable to do.  So I don’t know if it’s irony or paradox that I’m celebrating with the Roth bottle, but I am.  I’m sipping to sip.  Not overanalyzing, seeing more in how I interact and intersect with wine, what she wants to say to me in this occasion and what I’m to do with the next glass poured when wife goes upstairs, finally.

Sorry.  Just need time to self.  No one around me.  The day took a toll.  Not one terminal, or damaging by any means, but I certainly seek solitude this nuit.  No one around me.  May put on some Coltrane.  Or not.  Maybe just write to the sound of the dryer upstairs.  Breathing, thinking about tomorrow in the office, already ideas quake and bubble like eager thought lava. I calm it.  Mediate and meditate in everything in my reality, 39, now.  What will I think in a few years.  What should I care.  I’m here now.  And I need to put more into this project, this blog, this story, the wine/literary/techie.  I’m a techie?  OR, a literary wine guy in the tech world.  Why do I need a title?  Why do I need anything but a page?  I don’t….  Wie upstairs, finally, time for another glass of the Meola.  She waits, that red, for my reaction and my reasoning in response to her tide and vibe.

Coltrane on.  Couldn’t resist.  As I wrote earlier the bottle shows more aggression than the last time I saw her.  Less restraint, a principle-driven grace to her setting and postmodern dialogue.  I let her sit a while, next to me in the stemless bowl.  I look at the color, more than depth-void, like an opaque rhythm and beat which I only associate with the unknowns in human consistencies. When you don’t know something, you should feel encouragement and intrigues. Push to explore and wander.  That’s what she does, tonight.  She has in past, but the Now contrasts.  With intensity and new rhythm.  Her voice is familiar but with a new bewitching beat.  I’m the one in the corner listening to her sing, wanting to write down some reaction, some emotion from what I see and taste, experience, but she’s away orbited. And I collapse in my speak-lapse.  I can’t write a thing, but only experience and not react or live or to page anything give. What I am is a sheet with only lines unoccupied, ashes, but then in next sip I’m new tint, new chromatic habit, sporadic, a her-fanatic.

Before getting too fustian in my sentences, of her, this wine, I think of the Roth tasting room.  Sitting there at that table, the long polished wood surface either intentionally or by-chance in California’s shape.  Never got an answer on that.  But how I’d show early, on weekends, to write, in the quiet of that room, the tasting room, doing more for me and my writing than the others did, for sure.  I wait for my next sip, think of literature, tech, wine, me, Sonoma County.  Not sure why, but here I am. There I am.  I’m everywhere in this ride of thinking, this paragraph to paragraph jab and meditative lab, here on the floor of my living room with wife and babies upstairs.  I’m closer to 40, when I’m to write a thorough, loud and ostensible self-assessment of where I am in this story, my story.  Where do I want to be?  Well, There.  My, THERE.  I know what that is, but anymore I’m fearful of paginating it. I wont.  I see it. You’ll see it, my There.  Readers all, will.  The wine, she massages the worry and any self-doubt from my cloud, my Now.

One shoe on the wood part of this floor, feet from where I situate. My daughter’s, the left.  I think about the last step she took in that shoe, what she thought while taking it, where I was when she stepped that step.  Don’t think she wore that pari today, so it must have been yesterday.  The Cabernet reminds, time, it doesn’t care.  I have to keep writing, wherever I am and whatever I’m doing, like when in the field the other day and sneaking a couple minutes to write some short poetic impressions.  One foot, literarily, in front of the other.  Situate, meditate, on the words and my Now fixate.  Wth wine’s loving shove.


img_693211:18.  Been a day so far but finally I can sit, go through the few pictures I was able to pocket and store earlier from a vineyard off Guerneville Road.  Sometimes you need to take yourself out of the picture to understand it better.  That’s where my head is, presently.  Could have woke just before 5 this morning but didn’t.  No dwelling, just staring.  At my pictures… the one of the leaf, the one of that wheel or jagged pulley.  Wish I could have stayed out there all day.  Wish the whole day could have been out there then it wouldn’t have been as it was.

Can’t upload one of my photos, or any of them with the reception here on campus so I img_6942just write.  Refusing to be pinned and penned in that shared adjunct office I come here to the conference room.  Have thirty minutes to write, and I have no idea about what.  Today has shown me a harsh side to days, principally.  But I’ll write through it.  Out of it.  What if I gave the best lectures of my career over the next few hours?  I could do that, right?  I will.  Just talking to them.  Will be in Room in 27 minutes.  Which means logically I have 17 to write.  But write about what.  I’m an adjunct instructor of English here in the conference room of the English department fulfilling no part of my contractual duties.  Should be grading, but no.  Why.  Want to feel free.  Free from the day.  Just for a minute.  I know… this isn’t very wine writer-y of me.  Not sure I care or even want to talk about that dimension of my direction, if it’s a direction.

All this change in my pocket.  Every time I move it jingles and annoys to infinite annoyance.  Write on.  Write past.  Or better, write further into.  Ignore the annoyances not, but rather take them head-on.  Defy them.  Challenge them.

img_6946-1I’ll slightly edit and post shots later.  Right now I need a meditation.  A separation.  Not so much a release, but reason, reasoning.  Getting distracted by life and bills, obligations, appointments, and all compounded by certain ingredients since the fires.  Nothing I can do now, and why get annoyed with what you see on the drive up ‘SM’, then on Coffey?  Just drive, keep going.  Focus on the vineyards as you did this morning.  Look through my old photos for something of focus.  And I find something… leaf during fall transformation.  Need a walk, now… well, you’re going to get one.  Across campus.  To class.  My mood falls, tailspins, just want the day to walk vineyards in France, Spain, Portugal, anywhere but here—  Not right what I’m feeling but it’s what I’m ping-ponging, tirelessly back and forth in my total totality.

Reminding self that all I need is what I have in front of me— watered-down cold press coffee, which is still working and this typing speed is evidence of. My fire, my untitled syllabic tidal wave over and from, through and past my own thoughts.  Since yesterday at the Windsor coffee spot, I don’t want to write around others.  At all.  May type a bit in Maggini Hall once I get there.  I can tell the day is infecting my decisions, actions, perceptions of what’s around me.  Take more pictures… even this plastic cup has an artful value and voice, presence and code.  Just took a picture.. not sure if it’s worth anything but— of course it is.  It’s my moment, now, here, me in this restless rile and tussle with my own ideation.

Know I should leave now, but don’t want to.  Want to take time for me, ME.  Why not.  This whole day has been attacking me and insisting I do this, that, not get to my pages or work on book, this writing father, part-time teacher and winery person, wanna-be photog’… but maybe I don’t have to wanna-wanna.  No… why should I?  Going to note in Composition Book what’s to be done in class.. first.  Conversation, Creativity… solving everything.

Maybe this is a talk with self that I needed to have.  Feels that way.  Mom always said that would work, has been for years.  Need some sparkling water to dilute this caffeine impact, even me a bit.  Print role sheets… shit, should probably do that now.  But I don’t want to stop.  Want to go through more of these vineyard pics, visit and revisit them as tasting room guests say.

Many times I feel I’m writing about nothing but then I see I’m writing me and I estimate this author as a bit more than a ‘nothing’.  Oui?  Time to go, I know.  But don’t want to.  Here, all’s clear.  No— go give the lecture of your life.  Print role sheets first.  Do it now, before you forget.  You always forget to do that or mismanage your time to a point where you just fucking can’t.  Yeah… this isn’t a wine blog.  Well, maybe it could be, like … wine is life.  Doesn’t everyone think and say and suggest that?  Too m any people around me now.  So leave… leave!  I will.


Much later in the day, evening, I sip a glass of some Pinot, think from ’12, and look at more pictures.  Photog’ is now me, coinciding with my written vivacity…. Another shot, another, one from today along G-ville Rd.  Want to take pictures of everything, write about them.  If a picture’s worth a thousand words, what are the thousand words worth, if compiled?  A book.  BOOKS.  A career.  Took three pictures of my glass, Pinot with its light red/magenta/floral brown sugar shade.  Only thoughts and thought going through my veins and circuitry, a distilling of poise and dereliction, commingled in fruition fission.  A book.  A career.  Then, I’m fearless.  Tireless.  Today’s lectures and my pen-to-paper pulses, cardiac and synaptic in voice.

A day.  Now, ending.  But I want it to keep going.  More images.  Lower level, emptier, me calm, in visually chameleonic Equilibrium.  Pinot knocking on my inhibitions, then merely opening the door— no resistance.  No more ruin, only rebuild, only color, greens and blues and bright cinnamon browns.  I sit on the knoll, writing, corner of Coffey and Hopper.

At the end of the day, my mood is sewage. 

img_2952Hard to even compose myself to compose, frankly.  The mood attacked at work, toward, the end.  But so what.  I’m fucking human so what do you want me to do—  Sipping the night’s cap, sitting on floor with legs crossed, back against the couch sipping a Lagunitas while I type.  I don’t care, has to be my continuant disposition, it has to be.  I know I’ll be interrupted any minute, knowing my luck, and how the day’s gone.  BUT, one thing I did right, or pragmatic action, I made coffee for the next day.  Just had an idea— write the students.  They ALWAYS listen, or most of them do.  The still, now, however long it lasts, calms me, but then I hear Jackie cough, of course.  My luck, and his, and this house’s— the Madigan disquietude.  Again, my current posture and view.  Don’t listen to me.  I won’t, wouldn’t, won’t.

Light above me set to the atmospheric setting, as I like, but it helps little.  Goddamn my mood.  Take a deep delivery of the ale…  Don’t feel anything, but I may in a minute.  Time to increase elevation, so here I go, the writer to more fruitful folds and forms, forwards and frolics.  Adjuncting, getting me nowhere.  The wine world, lovely as it is, won’t provide the revenue or ataraxia I need or deserve or have envisioned.  So, I need to not care, write like I don’t, write in the stream of an HST—  watch me.

No chaos, yet.  But that could change.  I’m a Dad, I realize, I get it.  And I’m fucking old, nearly 37, 24 days.  Fuck my age.  Did Jackie just cough again?  Am I hearing things?  See?  My age…  and the character’s cue, even more iniquitous.  Sip again…  Go away!

Look left, right, left, right again, this is my floor.  But I’m Dad now, that could change—

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.


NaNoWriMo so

…a family.  ‘ME’ is me but not.  At the end of a torturous eight hours at the winery, pinned behind the tasting room, I sit in the condo’s study and relax, ignoring the copywriting work I have on my plate, I’m just far too fractionalized for such attention.  I merely have to let mind wander and wonder about this portrait.. the me in this frame, the me now at 36 at my age and what it’ll all be like when.. when.. why say ‘when’.

…goddamnit I think of my poems and verses, the two I wrote this morning on my phone while waiting for my 3-shot mocha.. taking an inventory, both for sale.  I have to subscribe myself to my own subscription.. everything I write is inventoried and on the shelf for vend.

…on vacation in Montana of all places, a cabin removed but not too much so, and surrounded by wildlife and trails for us to traverse, and for me to run early in the morning.  I guess the conflict is no where in my mind as I can only write how wondrous the country is and what we do there, the theatrical peace about its facets.  and I’ve never been to Montana, just did tidal waves of research–  I challenge myself to get to 500 words, then 1000, then 1500.  Then I stop, open another bottle, red, this one a Cab, and have only a little glass

…no reason not to laugh, not to smile and know where I am and what I’m doing in this wined story.  I look down at my lap, the part of my leg barely showing to the left of the laptop, covered by pajama leg, the black and white and grey checker pattern.  I should go to bed, I should, especially if I’m to write that newsletter for client, but I’m too into this story, the Montana cabin, walking with my family, my children, and wishes wishes, doors opening and closing, this inventory of poems and how those poems and verses worthy of voice could do something for me, for this, this story–  I think of that Kerouac poem where he recites about where I grew up, San Francisco down to San Carlos and all the people walking around, the sounds of the train and the restaurant at the station, people eating breakfast and the scents of English muffins lightly doused in butter.  I go to my lunch breaks when working at the box, typing like a thinning fiend at one of those tables to another 3-shot mocha–

Done. Back.

From my run. 8:44 and I have to be in shower in 16 minutes so not much time to type.. coffee machine ready for my biding, and go….. 6.2 miles and I wasn’t going to go, and I wouldn’t have if Ms. Alice didn’t urge I go now, saying I’ll feel much better once I’m out there, in my intervals, in the fog which there was plenty of.. and I ran to music this jaunt, to the Bonobo station, not that simplistic and deathly repetitive ‘Dance Cardio’ station, or airborne frequency. Heartrate up I’m having a bit of trouble hitting the keys accurately. But I stay in the chair.. on the run I thought of designing my own course, online, getting away from the dependence on community colleges, so I can stop begging SSU for a section, sections. Was starting to overheat or what felt like overheating, so I removed my shirt, now I have chills, but the coffee helps that. All elements in order. Today’s Day 3 at Arista, and I again look forward to being there, of course, but the drive, and the fields and that passage that’s canopied with what I think are redwoods.. a different AVA, a different Story and characters, what people are after– mostly Pinot. Some are on a Chardonnay charge, but not many. They’ll just pick up a bottle or two with the six or more Pinots they’ve ordered. But back to this online course… About Kerouac, the before an after.. before and after what, though? The Road? Maybe that’s the wrong approach.. or maybe explore the Road with Kerouac and his friends… More reading to do.. more research, and I welcome it! Tomorrow, working again, but it should be slow.. so maybe I’ll bring work, papers and my notes with me. I did wake early this morning, earlier enough to write but I didn’t. Went back to sleep, but here I am and I’m writing and thinking.. this tired adjunct after his 6.2. I have to make more writings in the little notebook, somehow.. again, like when I was at K—-, just singular words, thoughts, even if I have Pinot written eight times on the same page, that suffices.. the jazz know in the nook of this kitchen has me going in my many ways, unable to concentrate, but I know me by now, nearly 36, with my typings and pennings and sittings. 8:55, the jazz tells me not to stop just dream and daydream and be immature, cause trouble; write about it, name names if you want, but I don’t that would only bring them, places like K—- and other spots attention they don’t deserve.. and I won’t let them attach to my writings, that’s why I scalp their name down to one bloody letter. I WIN. As always. Traversing in my trots across inner lessons and lectures, will need another cup of coffee– just thought, should write someone a letter, maybe Amber, or Dav.. or just keep journaling, and what am I writing about? That I’m writing? That’s how I feel.. so maybe it’s time to stop.. sip my coffee and think again about starting a wine “label”– NO! Stop that! Just write about it! The winemaker finds her way by ignoring her bosses, telling them to trust her and they do but they don’t listen to her. They want to be listened to. And what could a woman know? Want to keep writing but I have to get in the shower and go get my morning mocha, which I’ve very much again resigned myself to. Today, a 4-shot.. and stay writing.. observing.. taste through the wines, write down words, ones people don’t often use, like ‘circumvolve’.. “The Russian River Pinot, in its 3-vineyard blending very much circumvolves in its suggestion, and on your palate.” Example, evidence of my echoing entertainment, currently. 9:03.. to shower….. Beginning the chapter, chapter 3, Day 3 on this new estate, the new hills and colors, rocks and stories, how the clouds pass and look down at me to paint the terrestrial surrounding to my benefit, for the writing and the moment’s glimmer.