And just like that I’m 36.

And downstairs in the dark, or semi-dark, typing. Like I did in the condo, and I look outside at the house behind me and see a single light on, small window, translucent, one of those blurring window (obviously as it’s a bathroom and I think that one may be just to the side of the shower). Posted the MS article to blog, checked my account, and the winery paid me, but the goddamn college didn’t. They’re making me wait till the 10th, but they paid the full-time rumpbags today. Not going there with thought, not ruining my day. I’m new as I said in yesterday’s entries and pieces and I wait for wine to tell me something, and what .. I hope something that will further jolt me, like yesterday morning–only time I had to write–and the night before.

Going to sell my personal pages and sell them wildly like the woman in that video yesterday on the Paris Review site, and just keep going.. she said “And this is how I pay my rent and it’s hard”, something leaning from that swivel of thought, mixed with ambition and anxiety; true artistry and expression and TRUTH. And I’m addressing the Hemingway caliber of Truth.

Keeping myself to less than 300 words this sitting, on the couch like the condo with the day rising before my sight and me trying to catch up. Looking at my account I start to anger but not today, not on MY day– but every day from here out will be MINE– the see-through nature of my life as a writer, not blocked or blurred like the window of this other house– Dad here yesterday teaching me to fix, all around the house, tricks like leaving a new hose in the sun so it stretches out and is easier to curl; then the toilet upstairs with the new handle and how to cut it, the looking at the water level and how it’s low which means we’re not getting a full flush. Dad reminded me that I need to build, BUILD goddamnit, both character and manuscript pages and sell! No more depending on the college, the system that strips enjoyment from learning and has everything so masterfully measured in semester length and fucking word counts. Give me a break.. going to somehow get my grades in tonight, don’t ask me how, but I will. And that’s another thing: they gave us, all faculty, only a week to do final grades. Which sounds like we’re all in the same boat which insinuates fairness, but adjuncts have other jobs. THEY don’t. THEY have offices and now THEY enjoy vacation.

I’m over 300 and I don’t care, I can’t stop and I haven’t even had coffee, not a drop. Thinking of the wine last night, a little of my Merlot, what remained, and the Rougue bottle from Sanglier.. which had more magnetic traits? I don’t know, again I’m not a somm but I’d have to affirm my Merlot, and I opened it not last night, or even the night before, but before that! And it was still composed, with visible sequence and soundness in all palate syncopation.

And I need coffee, and to stretch my legs. Both hanging over this couch cushion hurts my knees, both, especially the left.. no, right.. no both. Went upstairs to check on Alice and little Kerouac and both are resting in the new bed, our room.. Jackie already shows he’s not interested much in leaving the house, and neither am I frankly. I want to stay here and write– Looking right and that light is still on, showing fuzzily through that window. Wonder what their story is, when they moved there, how many kids they have and all. Feel like I’ve learned so much in 36 years then the second next I feel remedial myself, completely, like I haven’t been paying attention or I have ADD or ADHD or something.

Mother in law, Cathy, emailed me a gift card for Starbucks, so I don’t have to worry about that budget score. Relieved. And I’m thinking that I want to– doesn’t matter.. budget ideas but I’ll have more money coming in vending these personal pages, which I tentatively have tagged ‘foryrownjoy’. Yes, inspired by Kerouac’s Spontaneous Prose Rules. So quiet in the house now. No fridge hum. No Jackie upstairs talking. Just the morning, me, that light from the house at our 6, and me typing, plastic key sounds and me thinking where the pages go– well they go out there, into the world and at the judgmental types, and how they only wish they could write but just sit in their puddle of inner-bickery and wish, wish they were me, that they could just sit down like this and write like Miles plays, like Bobby, like Sonny and Monk.

Coffee… Now I need it. And I need to note everything today, and not just say I’m going to. Observe and record and scribble while walking, don’t wish you were at the laptop– if you have ink and a little sheet then you’re fine. You’re 36– how. 30. 6 more. Zen.. peace….. I’m fine, I’m writing and I’m in the Autumn Walk of things, ideas and states of Personhood day to day which will benefit me and I’ll grow through this new maturity, if I’m mature. But that too’s not a focus this morning. May be busy today, hard to tell but I won’t let it get to me. The quiet of this neighborhood is both relieving and terrifying, a dualistic principle that you can feel walking down the block to San Miguel, then up to the busier Coffey.

Should clean up a bit before leaving as I don’t know how much time we’ll have to do that after the workday, before Mom and Dad, Tim and Denise, get here. Huh.. our first family dinner and gathering in this new base. Time flashing in its passing and I can only write as fast as I can, try to catch up. But I’m starting to feel Beat…..

(5/29/15)

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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