Finally find myself freewriting, writing freely, free in my morning writing, starting the types at 9:12– writing for clients later when in adjunct cell, and grading papers, meeting with students at 6; optional session for them but I hope several of them arrive. Didn’t make it to class last night, stuck in that traffic, and I hate feeling behind, but it motivates me so I should do well with the current current and the ebb of my electric written impulse. Have to leave this Yulupa base, the Starbucks of course, at 10 promptly to make the appointment where Ms. Alice and I have the engagement to see our little Ms. Austen on the screen, make sure all measurements are well, and that all is as anyone would want it. But I type faster and whirl in my written novelizing of Self and my career and the meeting I had yesterday at the Ad office, Napa, still very much in the writer’s brain. And I realize I’ve a break, one that will benefit me and my story greatly, expose me to more wines and wineries and the experience wine brings with it and all the characters, in the industry and out– forlorn never, and my gravity and brio intensify with each word. And the novel grows even more, more for me and my family– the day’s practice of three pages, a true write making a life for himself, one that will be read, rebelling against the adjunct ropes and bars, cells made to keep us complacent and now I speak up and tell them, the Them, those devils in their cozy little, or not so little if you’re a Chair (not sure why that should be capitalized), office. I just make it my own, knowing that no full-timer will ever write about or speak to me as that one did, at that one removed garage-sale-college. Ha.. look at my rattle, and me slither toward the aggressor rather than flee. Fangs.. here… look closer…..
Wine, and all its educational potential, and the Human approach to wine, antithetical to what sommeliers think you want to hear.. Wine should be appreciated as Art is. As it IS Art. And that I mean to capitalize. And in this day’s three, I only reflect and revel in wine, and not so much the “educational” facet or dimension, but the appreciative, as I told my new partners yesterday in the office, not wanting to leave, wanting to talk more about the wine, a Merlot, we opened and just appreciate the moment, share what we detected in the wine’s momentum and Beat. I have to do more than just “immerse” myself in this, this stream of rich wine chapters at this point in the novel stream, or memoir stride– but I’m here recording and about my jazzy reaction and reflection, thinking of those Roads, the pourings I’ll do in hotels, the travel and the trips, the overnights in hotels and the resulting writing. So what’s the end to this, this series of books? I haven’t a clue, frankly. And I don’t want one. One rile I embraced yesterday was a reminder to just enjoy, enjoy wine and the characters with whom you sip, and go from their, form your life and write it all. ALL. Don’t omit a thing! OH, and Mom reminds me just now by social media’s mount that I need business cards. Shit! How did I forget that? Also need to upload some photography and copy to the bottledaux blog. And.. officially put myself on the cards as a client of mmc, “Mike Madigan Author” I have it dubbed. So that brings me to three clients. And how do I market Mike Madigan? Uh.. blogger, prose writer, poet, performing poet.. think that’s it. What else does he write? What do I think he should write, as his agent? Arduous thinking of myself as a writer, objectively. I’ll have to brainstorm, not in this freewrite.
9:26. Time to write nearing an end already, but I won’t dismiss or let that free wind alone, not even for a second.. young lady in front of me going through her purse for something while she waits for her coffee. Looks like she may have come from the gym or a walk, maybe. But she looks tired and not wanting to start her day, flipping her hair and slightly rolling her eyes. I hope not at me, the peering writer. Now she gets her cup and leaves, about her day, looks at me again before putting some sugar in her, what I think is that passion iced tea my wife gets– rushes out, to the day, to errands and probably kids. But I’m free, here with these characters and words and diarist accouterment, my mea culpa, theatricality in my gaze, my typings. Looking and using what’s around me, so I’ll always be writing– this place, a place for people like that lady with her tea, me with this mocha and moment, then some that just come here to have a coffee and read the paper. That’s their peace. Just like wine, and in the vineyard, different intentions. I realize, I can’t with all I have going on make wine– and I don’t want to really as I want to cover it; film it and write about it and photograph every facet as I did in ’12 at K—-.
No more distractions from email. I know I always say that. Had a call from client 2 this morning, that he had a busy weekend with company and didn’t have a chance to read the email and draft I sent him. I know the feeling, I said, and didn’t mind at all. He, with his business, everywhere and so centralized and focused, and beyond successful. That’s mmc, soon, you’ll see, and my novels will capture everything, like a photograph but with the regimented discipline of writing and with the painted scene and plate– woman working here going around wiping off tables, the crumbs and coffee stains and used napkins. I envy her speed and devotion to a task that most wouldn’t want to do. That most are just too lazy to bring to any finished roundness.
Now in the morning I see what the day’s remainder looks like. Just me at work and working toward my office which I know is closer than it’s ever been. And wine education: I offer you don’t overthink it. And if you want to look further into the wine you’re sipping, then enjoy. But don’t steal the joy from the puddle in the bowl, what you sip and what contributes to the story and the occasion, the music created by conversation, like jazz in the moment and not reversed not edited and certainly not over-planned, or thought, or measured. Just leap into the wine and explore its character like a book and see what speaks to you. And I put an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence then deleted as the emphasis is obvious. Just go forward into the wine and how you want to know it and don’t stop and don’t be swayed by anyone. Certainly not some loppy-witted sommelier that recites book babble to sound versed. That’s a facade– not with all of them, but many, even most I’d say.
9:47– the jazz slows, the trumpet and the highhat, snare, then in comes a piano like a trotting tiger, but gentle, some unseen dance, and I just want to stay here and write the characters around me and imagine this is my café, my jazz/wine bar, that my children visit when off school, go upstairs to the office and do their homework. Something like that. Wine should be family-placed, or as I see it– not sure where that thought was headed, but I don’t think corporations when I think of wine, or the vineyard. I think of a house, a table, dinner, a bottle or two in the center, and people talking about what they choose, smiles and laughs and memories and new stories. Nothing sour or downing. Just an aloft mood and consistency…
