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IMG_7127Now I get to freewrite–  Immerse myself in Creative irresponsibility, and log what I know as of today, the day after learning I’ll have a daughter by December.  And what to think, not sure how to state or log precisely but it’s hitting me differently now, differently than before we had little Kerouac.  My novel has to be done, my daughter has to have a writerfather… do I feel like I failed Jackie, a little, I don’t know, but this scene will much different be.  Sipping my night’ cap, the Racer, and seeing the commute to Westside Road differently, why I don’t know maybe I don’t want to do it anymore and maybe I know I can make this mmc project work–in fact I’m sure I can–there’s just something, something there for me and my story and what I want my daughter to have in a father.

I’m in the Autumn Walk study, looking out at the street, no kids and no supervising playing parents.  Nothing.  Just quiet.  And just a pervasive dormancy that has me stuck in my inner-narrative and the book I’m there with, here with, always with.  This is a different Madigan, and I don’t know if there’s a particular category that has or needs me but here I the writer be– constituted and rooted to my truest of imbued Newness.  The Road, me, seeing the intersections, Denver and New York, and California again, here in Santa Rosa’s west side, off San Miguel, before buying my family a farm off Shiloh as I the other day was– memorizing me steps and thoughts and meditations, so free in this study, and nothing else I need do or about think, no things, just the future and the prognostication of promise and paginated profitability– me, the prose or poetry, just the simplicity of my artistry.

So then I stop.  Think.  Inward look.

But I’m still left with visions and thoughts and the nights of the college years, like yesterday, or not, so far, not away just there in the past, so distant and pulled, from me, always of course.  Time is definitely more an issue with us writers, and of course so as we always need more hours for the novel, or the play, or the short story collection.  It’s always our fault.  And my daughter, and Jack, will read this and think either “My dad’s nuts.” Or, “I want to write, I want to read, I want to have my thoughts in the stream.” Of course I hope the latter but we don’t have control as parents, much as opposite we wish.

Still have a bit more of the Racer 5 to sip, look out at the street, the across-the-Drive neighbors, so still out there.  My angst in sets.  And what do I do, think of letters, to write, to my writer “friends”.  Only one, Lila, returned from my last blast.  Cords tangled to my right, on this desk.  Are those Alice’s?  Wait…..  Yes.  But I can’t blame her.  I’m just as scattered.  Worse, really.

I’m too free in this writing.