Alarm, and 4AM. The writer up.  

Eyes still adjusting, not ready for coffee, not yet.  But I’m up.  And not ready for a push-up, or sit-up, still have to wake UP.  Should I stay awake, or go back to sleep?  Why am I even thinking about it?  Today, a day off, well kind of.  Have to start grading papers, using it as material or “content” in wee adjunct story.  Starting to wake, but slowly.  Slowly…..  4AM pushing me out of its territory.  I know where I’m not wanted, and this hour wants me anywhere but here, thriving in the quiet it entails and provides.  4 wants it all to itself.  Part of me just wants to say ‘fine fuck it you can have it’.  But the other side of this writer, the fighter side, orders “Fuck you, it and you are MINE!’  Just one sip of that coffee and I win.  Why does sleep sound so sexy?  I know, cuz I need my 7 or 8 hours and Bla Bla Bla..  You’re right, but I’m only single digit days away from 37 and need to start doing shit differently if my life’s to be what I wish it be.

Someone came into the winery saying he was sent by a new coworker, and that she praised my writing.  Lifted my mood and attitude, but then I fell to the self-critical, thinking ‘I have to live up to that perception.’ You know what, I’m walking over to the coffee, right next to the over clock, and I’m gonna chug a shit-ton of that coffee–  “Come on, Mikey, GET UP!”

I’m almost there, I’m almost there– don’t look at the pillow, ignore the sheets…  Jackie kicking me out of bed again, putting me down here makes it harder.  If I were upstairs and woke by the alarm is hurry out of the room, not wanting to wake Emma or Alice, walking down the stairs which would raise my heart rate a bit, which would wake me further.  The coffee I would pass on the way to the couch, which would make it more instinctual to just grab, open, sip.

No noise down here, or anywhere in the studio.  Even that random ticking clock seems to mind it’s volume, how loud it is, not wanting to wake Alice or the babies.  Typing on phone, even though the laptop’s right in front of me atop the carpeted toychest.

Considerably into 4AM’s ground.  Starting to wake a bit, and then the allergies come.  Sonofabitch.  Ignore them, I say to myself, noticing my mood and senses increase and becoming more confident and comfortable in the hour I chose to wake.  Still not ready for any exercise, still fearing I’d make noise, wake my sweet little Madigans.

Can’t believe, a day off.  But not really–  the fridge starts to hum, vibrate a bit, but cautiously like the clock.  Everything in here, me notably, is terrified of making too much noise.  4AM wins with its fear-rallying, which infuriates me.  So I get up, walk over to the oven clock, take a picture, then a sip…  Take that, 4! …..  Okay, I took the picture, but no coffee.  Why am I so afraid to sip at this hour of morning?  Cuz of that voice in the writer telling him “Go back to sleep!” Which I try to ignore, and it do for the most part, but it’s persistent.

But I want to do something different, and out of character.  Win, for once.  This hour is in no way a weak writer’s court.  It demand not just discipline or action, but an anger.  With the hour, with yourself, with what angers you about life’s expected petternizations.  You have to get angry, like me now:  Asking myself why don’t I just fucking sip the coffee?  Like biting the apple, I guess.  Don’t know that story’s specifics so I’m sure it’s a horrible parallel to yield, but you know what I mean.

Shit, just sneezed twice… Hope no one heard me.  Have to use restroom again, all that water I had last night.  29 minutes into 4’s hour, and I’m sure it’s furious with the writer.  And I don’t care.

Back from restroom, still no sip of coffee.  Thinking actually the most advantageous act would be to fall back into sleep, with this rooms light dimmed to that atmospheric/ambient level I like.  Alice’s alarm I know is set for 6.  So I’d get up then, hit the coffee, may be write for a minute or two, plan out day, get dad “content”, and away into the day the writer plays.  Agreed. This 4AM SESSION is a my tally, not the hour’s.  I didn’t work out, but that’s not realistic.  Not risking noise down here, waking Jack or Alice, certainly not little princess Em.

Back to pillows, sheets…..

Could go back to sleep, and I hear someone on the street fire up their car.  Going to work, I deduce.  So again, think of starting on the coffee.  I know me, and if I go back to sleep, I’ll wake angry, hating myself for doing so.  Why not do something different, act out of character and against pattern, against what’s expected?  Isn’t that what makes the writers and business people that leave real impact?

Bathroom break again… Giddamn water/no-wine nights…