manuscript tilt, after storm & still [draft]

6:58am.  Not exactly Barleycorn time, but I’ll take it.  Outside, not as overcast, but just as cool.  As I remember, I’m in the main tasting Room all day today.  Perfect, just where all the characters are.  Again, I have to acknowledge how amazing it feels to be a healthy, ALIVE, writer.  I know life isn’t forever, and I don’t have that young person’s invincibility complex, not anymore.  Not sure I ever did.  Anyway, need to stop at CVS to get ANOTHER new little notebook.  Can’t believe I filled this one already.  No visit to the coffee coffin this morning.  Brewing in-house.  Before I leave, spoken word.  Poetry.  Verse.  Song.  Starting to think this “blog” sits as a collection affirmation well for the writer.  How is that a negative?  Aren’t all diaries that way, composed for such Self-composure?

Need caffeine.  Now, thinking about wine, my wine with Katie.  She may be in France by now.  I asked her to take pictures with the camera that I her leant, so I can further feed my travel-longing ailment.  Would love to research wine there [and so many other regions], pushing mySelf into knowledge-garnished excursion.  I know it’s coming soon.  IT has to be, my travels.  How could a writer who writes as much as I do, putting it ALL out there, just be confined to one locale?  It’s not possible.  And even if it was, is.. I won’t allow it.  My writing needs other scenes, other seas.  Saw some pictures last night, while doing small research stomps before sleep, of Greece, some small villages by the water.  I can’t imagine what I’d write there, in such a spot, over looking flirtatious waves, people pass in their humble boats.

Need coffee, now.  Taking Comp [book, in case you forgot] downstairs, to pair with the coffee.  Alice was kind enough yesterday to replenish my mocha mix.  I know it seems trite, but I thrive when that scolding cup is bent to my preference.  My writing enjoys it, equally.  Believe me.

Reality shows.  Can’t tell you how repugnant I find nearly all of them.  The opposite of anything redeeming.  Not even thinking of putting shows‘ names in this log, as I don’t want my paragraphs infected.  Just makes me think of the discussions I had with my students on works like Martin Eden, 1984, Their Eyes Were Watching God.  No exchange would ever arise after exposure to such televised trash.  I’m not saying we censor any of it.  Let it all fly, live aloft; Let the Mentally Alive Humans cite them for what they really are, in their glorification of materialism, excess, judgment, encompassing numbness.  Not sure what made board this flight, but I just felt I had to note it.  This is my log…

8:29am.  Jack, not happy being put down for a little nap.  Can’t blame him.  What does sleep accomplish?  I know, the rest element.  I get it.  But other than that?  I know what he’s thinking: “I could be learning, figuring out how all this around me works.  Playing!” Sipping my mocha-blended cup, I realize the 8 hours ahead of me promise pages, for some reason.  Just have a feeling about today.  Not sure why.  May be the realization that something HAS to happen for this writer, his writing.  Sooner than soon.  Pretty sure I’ve considered that deductive logic before, entertained it with illuminative immediacy.. but either way, it’s again in my vision.  Off to “commute.” scribble, scribble …

Published by mikemadigan

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