Does the writer have more to say?  Of course.  As I’ve reconnected with Cabernet.  Don’t expect this entry to be long, reader.  Just know I’m still writing, enjoying wine.. as that’s all wine is, something to be enjoyed.  So many OVERthink it.  And it’s funny to me.  But writing’s looked down upon.. too laborious, too academic, too much reading.  But wine, all you have to do is sip, pretend like you know what you’re talking about.

In fact, I’m done, after this glass.  ’09 AV Cab.  Would I describe mySelf as conflicted, like Poe?  Maybe.  Actually, yes.  Definitely.  My umbrella of pause, putting me in oven-like lull.

What could I do, if in Poe’s day?  Would I be this Mike Madigan that you read?  Was compelled to put a comma in there, somewhere.. but I want you to get a sense of my drunken pace.


Know.. the pulsations have taken shapes evolved– epistolary archetypes, lassoed Literarily, only for the student’s furtherance…  What Poe would want me to do.  Wish I had another bottle of Cab to sip, put prose to a page, with a certain curved passion.  And this is all for my students.  I don’t want them to think safe is safe.  Safe is censorship.  Why would anyone want to go one without identity?  Self, the only time cluster that colludes to any New.

Coffee, calling me.  And when back in the TR, come Friday, I’ll try to be normal– a laborer, loyal to their clock.  Till I cut it from my sense.

This day’s run, telling me that I’m alive, in a way that I’ve never been.  Absorbing my Self in my own possible toggle’s bull.  And what does that mean?  I’ll tell you when  I wake.

My son, quiet, asleep.  Peace, for my little Artist,  SO I, finally, tranquil, holistically haunted; admirably alone.