Je suis fatigué, mais maintenant je suis éveillé .  And I don’t know how it happened, but it did.  In a mood to write for Self after a little editing of the Tours article, and helping Jack with his toilet mastery a bit.  Saturday at the winery, assured business and a bit of frenzy, no doubt.  I’m trying to write faster and with more accuracy, showing you reader what it’s like to be a writing father.  Of course, no run this morning from me.  and I could scream at myself.  Didn’t even set my goddamn alarm… et pourquoi?!  Distractions, deciding to open one of my ’12 wines, not sure which one it was as they became jumbled in the move to this Autumn Walk stronghold.  Only had a glass, maybe a glass and a half, but still that’s enough to make waking at mother-in-law hour nearly impossible.  But no alarm so what does it matter?

6:56… no coffee in house, that too has to change, but I quite like this morning for some reason typing to no caffeine.  Depriving myself that heated palate eros.. somehow contributed to my Zen at the moment.  Oh if I could have the day to myself, have the time to run and finish these article edits and just write for hours into the Massamen novel.  That’s what it is, what it’s all about and around what it ever-revolves: bloody time! Maybe I should run after work– no!  Make yourself get up early.. come home, eat a bit, put on running gear, and go to bed.  Earlier than Alice, even.  That;s what a running/writing father has to do.  Jack in front of me in the little chair we bought him, his first xmas, and he’s content in a way I wish I could be at my decayed age.  When first downstairs, he shot directly to his seat, placed en face de his little toy chest with his cars atop, serving and looking like his desk or workbench.  He meant business, my little Beat, and he wanted to play and watch his fancied cartoons.

Now I wait for coffee, think about the other two articles, papers I already have to grade, running… not much wine, or wine industry.. but the short fiction café, I want to stay longer.. more short-shorts, sketches, vignettes.. just write all day.  Can you imagine?  Me in my office with coffee and sparkling lime or lemon water as I usually enjoy.  This morning I’m filled with unusually dinosauric confidence and sight.. see the blog expanding unexpectedly, writing later to pictures I posted prior (Earlier in day or couple days prior..).. and just writing, teaching through my writing and not in some box, some sterile institution bowl.  I’m Mike Madigan.  The writer.  And yes I have a blog.  But am I blogger, I guess.. off point a bit but I need to write something, show I’m alive and with my own beat, peripatetic in my prose pulse, and aims, what I want to do and how I want to be see– right now Ms. Alice goes for her run and my personage falls knowing I should have been up and running when it was dark.  I told her that I’m going out tomorrow morning, and I need her help.  She joined my cause and vowed to aid me in getting to bed early.  So.. I will run.  I will run.  In that early hour and see the sun take stage… so, so, tremendously musical, its lyric composition, for me to enjoy.

(6/20/15)