9:29PM.

Quiet in the house, and I’m still exhausted from the early Jack introduction.  The Chardonnay I’m sipping, just the right tone for the evening.  Please can something wake me earlier than early tomorrow morning, but as well can I get a strong night’s sleep this evening.  The novel now, isolated on this laptop.  Want to write the rest on paper.  Can I?  On a legal pad, one hundred sheets?  But when would I have time to transfer?

The air conditioning comes on again.  Must be hot outside.  High tomorrow projected: 91.  Not so bad but still higher than I definitively prefer.  I wish for cold weather that keeps me inside and I’m forced to overdose on coffee and watch snow fall imagining that some collective shape is being constructed on the ground outside; I want to be isolated for a week somewhere in North Dakota or in Central Oregon, come home and tell Ms. Alice and little Jack about it.  I want them to be my only editors, honestly.  I hope Jack enjoys reading my work later in life, in some college class and the professor’s careful what he says ‘cause Mike Madigan’s son’s in the class.  What would Jack write in such a class, responding to his own father’s work?  I’ve never given this so much thought, I mean it has crossed me and my visions before but never like this, tonight, under the vent, being cooled, safe from this estival spite.

Still no word since my last email to SSU’s department chair.  Not worried.  I will be there soon.  And they will have no choice but to embrace the maddened read.  Should revisit the Alice works, honestly, and I think this after that one student approached me last night after class, the 6PM sec, asking me about my master’s thesis on Carroll’s works.  Told him I didn’t have a spare MS, which I don’t, but I walked down the stairs and over to the Doyle Library thinking about a re-examination of my paper, my standalone piece on the Alice journey.  Funny: Carroll and Kerouac built their names on journeys.  Just seeing that now.

The narrative I heard this morning, myself speaking to myself with paragraphed sequence and nonstopedness, hoping to come back, I hope it comes back.  I need to see everything as part of the novel– this novel or the next one: the Mike Massamen notes, or stories, or legend, or journey.  Something.  Now, people will read this and ask “what the hell’s he talkin’ about there?” Don’t worry, I lament, this is for me, notes to me.  A certain elegy, thankfully, just in time for Time’s pine.

Baseball, the average, the stats, I need to keep more stats on myself– hell, “more”?  I need to keep them, period.  I need to start keeping them.  I want a card, a writer’s card the same that Mickey Mantle had a card– I remember looking at his rookie card at my Mom’s friend’s house, her husband collecting old sets, and me the little nine year old or whatever, just gawking at them.  I need my own card.