Peninsula Prose

Almost another slip with this technological reality.  This devil monster laptop wouldn’t wake up.  But here it is, after our tussle, working with me.  Rain, finally outside.  TV, now off, just listening to rain, thinking over day.  Shouldn’t have let my mood, my preoccupation with the night’s classes, which wound up progressing in stupendous paces, sour my day, Alice’s birthday.  Luckily, my wife has such a smile about her, our little boy as well, that I was pulled from my lull, stripped from my sharp state.  Enjoyed a beer while she sipped her crafty-situated mimosa, with what looked like sugar around the glass’ rim.  My beer, an IPA of some kind.  Also had a cheeseburger that wasn’t bad, either.

For some reason, though, that beer shoved me back in the moat.  But, I pulled Self out, while in that campus office.  Have to keep Self set on my sights.  Lecturing at Stanford, writing position papers, offering them to cadres.  It’s always the grading that holds me, injects the cynic’s stint in my step.  But no more.  Taking a stack with me to work, tomorrow.  So I’ll only write while behind bar, or in reserve room.  Wherever they have me.  Re-situating in my academic ideas.  Tonight, we broached some interesting topics, the 100 section and I, with Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises ms.

Sipping some 2011 Sauvignon Blanc.  Feeling much better, after that unexpected bug attack that kept me home-locked the past 2 days.  Know I said I wouldn’t have wine till Alice’s and my outing next Monday.  But I can’t.  Not with the writer I’ve grown to be.  The rain, sounds dialectic, so colloquial, momentary.  It stamps this session.  Sounds like some type of postmodern, romantic, autobiographical blend.  Noticing my glass emptying.  Don’t even feel like writing, right now.  Just want to listen to rain.. and like I’ve so many times before said: many times the most Literary act a writer can wield is not writing at all.

My city.  Paris.  Remember it raining most of the time we were there.  Gave it a gothically elegant edge, for some reason, to me.  Yes, I need another glass of this Blanc, take me back to my city.  Don’t want to be here, in this redundant valley.  All these wineries, with their “varietally correct” interpretations of French antecedence.  Too lazy to rise, right now.  What do I do?  Rise, for my glass.  Come on…  Back.  This glass may be a little too generous.  Definitely the night’s cap.  Reality, truth, for this moment: rain, surprisingly vocal wind.  Think I’m captivated as much by gust as I am by spating sheets.  They’re telling me to write faster.  Only have till 11p to throw my day’s thousand.

Corkscrews, the rubber floor mats behind the counter so we won’t slip, the random merchandise racks.. need more details for my tasting Room incarcerations.  Read a beautiful article today, written by a New York journalist, on a young woman author, also from Manhattan.  Just the way it was written, all the details from her description of the author’s sleek physique, to the yoga studio’s clientele, to the musty interior air.. had me thinking, of different ways to capture where I am.  ALL my moments.  Right now, black remote next to me on couch, SB glass to left, on end table, lamp over its bowl, pictures of Jackie, wine-themed coasters (all the same– two bottles on table.. one red, one white.. glass of each, house on hill in backdrop, vineyard view.. all painted, not photo’d), hand sanitizer, Alice’s workout water bottle.. two pens: one black, one highlighter.  Highlighter?  What’s that for?  Oh yeah, taxes, which I think are done, thanks to Dad.

Alice’s laptop, over there on the other couch.  Tomorrow, details only, only capturing characters that mesmerize, hook my hand to pen them.  Before sitting to type this, I was watching a show on the Discovery channel.. two guys traveling in harsh cold, in a specified nowhere.  Wonder if it’s still on.  Would love to do something like that.  Be completely away from comfort.  Imagine the material.  As Hemingway was at war, I’d be stressed by all surrounding me.  That’s where marketable manuscripts me ‘wait.

10:32pm.  My book, won’t touch it tonight.  And that’s fine, as I deserve a freewrite.  And this is as close to my city as I can now wander– wine, rain, writing, Art, Life, Love…  Read a passage tonight, to my class, in Sun Also Rises, when the narrator, Jake, describes a view of Notre Dame at night.  Such beautiful expression.  Have to go back.  Should I start saving?  Have to stack tender for family roost.  And I want our structure to be somewhere nice, quite removed.  For son’s safety, especially.  Taking precedence over my affairing city.

Time, pouring itself as far away from me as it can.  Why is it doing this?  Distracting Self with details just to right: Jackie’s teddybear, a panda bear book, his puzzles, pumpkin bucket which he often stuffs whatever he wishes, whatever he can find.  How is it, that this little Madigan is NOW nearly 13 months?  Time, using my own son to assault me.  Notes.. just thinking in note form.  All I have time for.

= This wine, pairing only with rain, for me.

= Memory: first day of college, late to class, as I couldn’t find a parking spot.. walked in with unexpected timeliness, as Professor Scott was passing out the syllabus just as I leaned against the left wall.


Love.  Paris.  Obviously synonymous.  I’m in love with a loving city, a city OF love.  Just looked at time, my enemy.  She reads 10:56pm.  Should rewake the TV, again.  Want to be somewhat informed.  How much would you like to bet, the first they address: weather, calling it a “storm.” Humorous shamelessness.  Yes, I have to watch.  I love being right.

If I were a police officer, I’d have some delicious material.  Raids, arrests, shootouts, shootings, cases, investigations…  I need NEWNESS.

= Want this book to stand arborescently.