And I finish this beer, in the nook, my last, as I’m hoping to get out for an hour run in the early morrow and then come home to write, or maybe write before then run. No coffee in house, which worries the writer but I’ll just furry to the store from some.
Uncle Ross, my father’s brother, my my little cousins’ father, now rested. And I don’t know what or how to feel. Sadness, yes, but is that what I’m meant to express? When I think of Ross, I think of laughing and stories and him helping me play baseball on Bayview, and, again, joking with me.
Alice, asleep on couch. I’m sure she’s depleted, having to meet all the Madigans. I am, and I’m one of them! But the day’s over, and I can’t help but want to live and write and be there for my little Kerouac. My lecture on Tuesday.. oh….. You have no ideas how lively I’m to be.. and those that have the glazed mask, I’ll address them, not to make them feel foolish, but invite them to discussion, to immerse themselves in the pages. I’m a new Mike Madigan today, after being in that church and having coffee in the Carlmont Starbuck, my old neighborhood.. seeing all my cousins (to which, ALL, I just sent a letter). Chapters new about my bow, and I’m inviting.
Time for sleep soon I know but I just want to live and stay awake and away from rest and that’s death’s relative, now I find myself thinking of how Jack sees me, how he’d remember me if I were to early leave.. what do I do, what do I choose and what do I select next? I’m now motivated by death, which I’m not sure is a boon, but it’s a reality after today. My uncle would see so this way, I’m positive, seeing as how so many spoke of his passion and loyalty and labor ethic.
Namaste, Uncle Ross…..