Sipping the last of my wine, and I need to take a minute to do something, but what, after this long day, and all this content gathering and taking pictures and video, can I just be a writer for a second? Want to run in the morning but you and I know that won’t happen with all this St. Francis Cab I’ve had. So… I just enjoy the quiet downstairs before going up to Alice’s and my bed with my slow self from day. Need to write more poetry. This morning was on pavement at 6:11 or :12, but tomorrow I will be up at 4AM to WRITE. No other goal. Tomorrow I focus and fixate on not visual but this— words, me, this poetry.— TV was on mute, music station, Jazz of course as Mike Madigan will forever be a beatnik, poetically thinking and speaking to and within and outside himself with verb’d meter— action and subtraction, in such scattered and saddened traction. Now I just want to read, have fun, recite to crowds. more wine? Why not? Not in the mood to edit so the capital I just forgot I didn’t so much forget as I just didn’t want to fucking edit.
Should go upstairs, go to bed, forego the night but I can’t cuz I’m this type of goddamn writer, so obsesses and unable to stop— oh, but what if I did what I convinced myself I Couldn’t do, or what I thought I couldn’t.. how would that change ‘things’. Have to wake early and writer, so go upstairs, Mikey! Go the fuck to bed! But what if I can’t, what if I’m stuck in this writer mode till I know that something will happen then it doesn’t then I keep bloody trying? Night just dragging me into it’s isthmus, and to what I again have no idea. Right now I have no ideas, just these wine-wrecked yawns. (8/13/16)