Three days in pages. For Self. Weekend, extended. For words, rhymes. More remarkable wine. In glass, remainder of last night’s Syrah. Tonight, at palace of particular palates, wading in varying conversation coliseums. Mom and Dad continue to push me to lucrative escapism. This Log, would have place, if they their resonant endorsement didn’t ripple this penman’s pond. Tonight’s entertainments, over ’07 Napa Merlot, and St. Francis Red, ’06: Journalism vs. Literature. I agree, both persist as their own entrenchments. However, an author doesn’t have to accept classification from critics. Others will remark, “Well, you are going to be categorized, whether it’s wished or not.” True. But, if the penman doesn’t acknowledge the assignment, what plangency does it courier? Exchanging ideas with family, ones you love more than any terrestrial presence, follows what wine has ever intended.
I sip this Syrah, reflectively. How winemakers and authors chant in their creative corners, not like journalists moving pens to simply “inform.” What Wine and Literature embody: Human Expression, Life. Is that marketable? I can’t speak for others, but I don’t care. I write. I sip, scribble. If it sells, wonderful. I’m humbled past written response if readers pay for a MikeMadigan passage. Me, never muffled. That’s for the journalists. Not poets. Or is it? As I could be quite mistaken. Have been a collection of occurrences, late.
Need new bottles to write about, for tomorrow’s entry. This year, as a coworker [hyphenation?] said, “has been stupid, flying by so fast.” Time cruel to writers. Especially those pairing their ink with wine. Nothing I can do, but be my own journalist, dripped in sips. So many cubeNotes today. A gold mine, that’s all I’ll state in this entry, my “employment” place. Guess I am a journalist. Just a Creative one. Rules, restrictions, just motivate me out of molds. Peace, Mike, peace ... RWE said, “Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist.” So, tralatitious journalism could never be4Me. This Syrah, its subsequent scribbles, my sequence to separatism. vinoLit ...