Random 1999 Merlot

Not in the mood to do anything, but be idle.  This ’99 wakes me, revives the scribe.  Deep notes.  A delectable dampness to the berry, spice, licorice.  Mint, scattered chocolate.  The finish, hovering about my spine.  Appreciating age.  And not just for fact my birthday was 2 day in rearview.  This stemless pour makes me remember what I was doing in 1999, this month, day.  I was finishing Foothill College, Los Altos.  Preparing for Sonoma State’s English Department, where I met Gillian, Bob (R.I.P.), Sherril.  Wine, capsuled time.  This bottle stops me.  Sits me down.  Conference.  Colludes with me, for composition.

Time, always taunting our pens.  That’s why I feel lazy in editing my manuscript 2nite, ‘cause I wonder, “What’s the point?  What if the editor doesn’t like my words?  Who is he to critique my speak?” Again, what I’m after with these vinoLit sorties: AUTONOMY, true SOVEREIGNTY.  In 1999, Fall, SSU, I met Bob Coleman.  He order Individualism of this author.  Now that he’s ethereally anchored, I’m solitary with these entries, this stance.  Shouldn’t say that, as Dad speaks just as piquantly.  He told me, long before SSU: “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you.” This 1999 Merlot brought about all this retrospect.  That’s what wine catalogues, rosters: sequence, details, appreciation, people, MOMENTS.

Now, a rich, sweet, provocative leather about the 12 year old bottle.  But in wine years, she’s 24.  She’s tenacious, having her own aims when colliding with particular palates.  With writers.  Not so still anymore.  This old bottle brought me to life.  Maybe she’s 36, in pour years.  Not sure what to think of her right now.  Time, 9:22p.  I remember looking at the clock earlier 2nite, holding onto the time I saw, 7:42p.  Time, a diligent devil.  I’ll give it that.  But this Bordeaux ghoul assures me, my sentences.

[5/31/11, Tuesday]

One-Legged Editing

After not getting much more than four hours of dream in night preceding, I’m not in much mood for editing an ignition chapter.  THE ignition chapter.  To my first novel.  Another jab that further exhausted the writer, all the uncovered blunders.  Some weren’t uncovered at all.  They were as obvious as the concrete crack on your daily walk.  I need a night to me.  To this log.  And if I do decide to edit, it’ll be when I open that ’99 Merlot.  That’s right, I’m dipping in the bottle catacomb.  Bought it months ago.  Hope it still projects posture, a particular palate presence, gravity.  Even if it fails, eventuates a flat fall, it’ll be an entry.  Relieved to be back in bunker.  SipNscribble ... 

[5/31/11, Tuesday]

Night Note, A Van Gogh Stroke

Bright, this pour.  Zinfandel, Napa.  How possible?  Not sure.  But I’m drinking the possibility.  Chapter One, done.  Editing tomorrow, while on lunch at NWG.  I’m right there, at the toll plaza, I know.  Nearing fruitful flux.  My implemented incantation, beckoning moment.  Sipping to what I know, and of which all momentarily be spectators, readers, viewers.  Locked.  Thanking the wine.  The Silver Oak from a few nights past.  That’s what truly told me.

Spoken work, on the page.  Wine, not at all poetic.  More, mesmerizingly scattered.  That’s the Aesthetic all need to at least see.  Such song, what makes the mind type, write.  May lose sleep over thoughts of how the morning’s photos’ll result.  What it’ll do to the page, these rhymes, my recital.  Mikey, a marvelous mess, 2nite.

[5/30/11, Monday]

1 Day Into 32nd

The ideas keep coming.  Lovely.  Must be these new pictures, with the new camera.  The vines, vibrant, as joyous as this writer on his day off, this Memorial Day.  Feeling peaceful in this new number.  And that’s all it is, truly.  The wine bar beats, more magnetic than yesterday, if that’s believable.  Tomorrow morning, leaving early, as to capture early rays on the vines.  MikeMadigaWineMedia, coming to life, and this new device, only accelerating idealized actuality, creative & vocational autonomy.  Not just the business, but the writing.  Responding to these photos, a bottomless crater of creativity.  Can’t believe how green the leaves are here in Sonoma Valley.  Hopefully this overcast will retreat, and soon sun the sky secretes.  Four days this week at NWG.  Learning so much, it’s almost frightening.  Why inject that word?  I’m becoming obsessed with every quality, intricacy, of the wine business’ beautiful body.  My first affair.  Sip, sip ...

[5/30/11, Monday]

5/29/79, Tuesday

I was born.  Writer.  Music lover.  Literature obsessed.  Life lover.  Emphatic about family.  Years later, seeing wine in a way contrasting, but predominantly syncopated with others’ perceptions.  In that, wine means occasion.  Family.  A smile bundle.  Today, 5/29/11’s Sunday, 32 years later, alive.  Not merely existing.  Today, continue to write life, love, wine.  For me, family.  No more birthday blues.  Just confidence.  An assertive Aesthetic.  Raising my glass, disengaged from past.  Can’t get too reflectively nostalgic on this anniversary.  Work ahead.  A book to finish.  Money to be made.  More happiness to sip.  Like my friend Sarah said, “another year of vinoLit, a year wiser...” 

I’ll be writing4ever.  Writing for my life, like Professor Gutierrez urged after graduate school.  And this music, my 2nd Reunion with its recipe, who knows where that’ll carry me in these sittings.  Keeping the pen moving, I’ll never die.  The weather outside, highlighting Sonoma County’s encompassing character, dynamic Nature.

Feeling lyrical.  A new Creatively collective fury about me.

No need for recovery, me.  Above water, then under like a

submarine.  Too many heaping notebooks, that’s another thing.

Like a breeze through palm trees, I respond free.

Momentarily gone, see?  Bottles, obscure vertical, I want three.

10:37p.  Back from dinner.  Birthday jubilee, at end.  This one, though, unforgettable.  Going forward, all2change.  You can bet.  The more vinoLit, the more independence, the better4Mike.  Tomorrow, pictures, with this new camera.  Respond, with scribbled leaps.  Books, books, books.  On wine, wine, wine.  Its world, stage, ways.  Back at the desk, now, listening to music, sipping what remains of last night’s ’07 Napa Cab.  Staring at the ’93 on my desk.  It’s angry, I know.  Why don’t I just open it.  It’s staring me down.  Or trying to.  This writer, not shoved by an 18 year old.  Thinking of today’s tasting, in Kenwood.  How do I sparkle like those pours, with these pages?  Bright analogous predicament.  Sip, sip ... 

Tannic Tumble

The weather, confusing me, us here in the wine world.  I love the rain, nestling overcast, yes.  But, I want to see rays highlight our beloved vines, especially now as they extend madly.  Will bring my camera with today, should we visit a winery.  Alice, more excited about my birthday weekend than I.  Need to follow her lead and not be so gray, cloudy mySelf.  I’m thinking somewhere in Russian River.  Feeling Pinot-y, the day before 32.  Wish I could connect with your input, reader.  Maybe I should post something on Facecrook, see what my “friends” offer.  Maybe social media can be helpful.  We’ll see.  Feeling especially anti-social media, for a while, now that I think about it.  Smile, writer.  Enriched times ahead.  The beats it affirm, assure.  Sip, sip ... 

[5/28/11, Saturday]

Finally freewriting with the wine.  Tonight, Malbec.  Just kidding.  A 2006 Silver Oak Cabernet.  It’s my birthday weekend, so it’s the perfect warrant for such cork removal.  But, just as I release the potent potion, I tire.  This was a long week like something all so unfamiliar.  Consolidating all writings.  That’s what my characters want from their author.  To bed.  Notebook by pillow.  Book beckoning ...

[5/27/11, Friday]