Stacks on Desk


One more glass of wine.  Why not.  Been a long day.  I work hard (or I tell myself I do, but if you saw the winery I work at you’d laugh at me, say something like “What the fuck, this isn’t work, this isn’t hard, this stresses you?), and deserve time to self.  All this paperwork, papers to grade and bills and other shit.  Life just catches me, and I mean really catches the writer, here at the desk and in the morning when I drink that coffee I made the night before, cold in the container, or tumbler.  All I can hear are the neighbors’ wind chimes, donging and donging, I get annoyed, look at time, 10:39, and I have to go to bed soon… shit, I should be under the covers NOW.  But I need just a couple more minutes to Self, another glass of that Dutcher Zin.  Allergies bugging me, I blame this goddamn wind, and I’m not sure the Zin’s helping or hindering, but I know I need rest if I’m to wake at 4-something as I always hope to.  These papers to grade, stacks to go through as I promised to the other day, bragging on my blog about how efficient I’ll be.  Nonsense.  This has to stop before 37.  Ten days to change.. all writings for sale, even this one, where I staple and somewhat solidify my self-changing and improvement intentions.

In my living room with the ambient light I prefer, listening to my wine beats, as I used to in those writing sessions while on lunch from ‘the box’, that “direct-to-consumer marketing firm” on 1st & Main.  Nothing more than a glorified telemarketing toilet, but I blame myself for finding myself in such a spot, with the headset and cubicle— Bloody fucking hell!  Stop thinking about it, I tell myself, focus on now, your children, wife, the Autumn Walk Studio, mikemadigancrEATive…  The towers of papers disappear, as does every item on the desk’s top.  Even this laptop, only my thoughts and subtextual narrative present any present.  37…  I can hardly believe I’m here, or almost there, which is more here than there as it’s only ten days away.  What can the writer do in the next 10 days?  What I wrote out earlier.. inventory, sell everything I write.. everything!  Keep inventory, treat each piece as its own SKU, as the managers at wineries say, so obsessed with how many SKUs they have and have “on the floor”, and “in the back, or “in stock”.  I satirize them but I need mimic!  Their mentality is beneficial, and something from which I can very much learn.

Quiet and music, wind, dark, lightly lit, my perfect one-person lounge or bar, here in the writer’s hut, or grotto, cove or cave.  Perfect end to day, where I didn’t take any kind of lunch, arrived early to work on a writing project with winery’s owner, and further enjoy wined story.  Funny what people wish for.  When you have kids, you wish for this, this becomes your fetish: time alone, quiet, music and a glass of wine, and if you’re a writer then this with an exponent; an hour of you, wine and a page or three, typing with courageous craze and feeling a freedom you haven’t heard since before you had kids.  The clamors and bellows on the other side of the windows at my right, ‘cause it agrees.

Don’t want to end the session but I have to.  Have to be up in just under 5 hours.  If I don’t go back into dreams, back to the pillow and those cursed sheets…