from this morning’s thousand

…speaking at other campuses…. Tell myself that all boxes need no longer exist, have any tangible credibility or immediacy.  That only is at my 12 what I wish be.  Today’s different.  Monday.. that day so many hate.  I won’t lie, this morning felt like a Monday, for me as it surely seemed one to the wee beats.  Emmie, utterly unappeasable, and Kerouac not happy with any turn of minute, moment, second.  Here be the writer, though, here at this desk like I am so often and the production crew on the other side of the wall readying for their day.  As they make wines and get each lot and block, vineyard and possible varietal intersection ready for its bottled life, I construct and compose my own onus.

Refusing to stop… it’s Monday.  I’m to be more ahead of the day than I’ve ever been ahead of a day.  Luckily there was coffee in the winemaking break room, so I refilled the hotel cup, sending me on this paginated mission for the morning— forgot camera in car, wanted to use some of the more recent pictures from the vineyards, from all my walks out there, collecting and dissecting, renewing myself with steps on those dried leaves and now cut canes, vines looking more bare than a barren desert flat.  Can’t be reluctant, no more… reluctance is a certain self-generated poison that wants me to be in the same place and keep wishing, wishing…

My first flight, I’m hoping, is to New York, where I can step where other Literary gods and goddesses, phantoms and one-person operas have stood, stepped, thought, had coffee.  The morning, speaks to me, tells me to put a book out.  The NaNo book— oh that’s right, I promised self a 5-page read, finalization.  Lunch, a fast. Only words.  No snacking on crackers and that sheep & goat’s milk cheese.  No time wasting or tossing into a frivolity that’s just as poisonous as any inaction I can conjure, now, with coffee cooling in this room— AC on?  Don’t care.  Working through it.  Should have worked through my exhaustion this morning when I woke just after 04:00.  Went back into weird dreams where I confronted an old supervisor.  Actually, two.  They communicated with each other and conspired to have me either fired or jailed, if I remember right.  And, I think all I did was call one business from another.  Why does my synaptic activity go there?  Why can’t it put me on that first flight, on the plane sipping coffee and scribbling in my notebook, writing lectures on Kerouac and his tireless habits, writing in his journal as I write in mine, looking down at Denver, then Indiana, Virginia, then NYC.  Not sure if that’s how we’d fly, the route I mean, but why can’t I see that when I sleep?  The dreams last night made me wake in a groggy uneasiness.  Now trying to land in some stable sentences…

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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