always do at day’s end. Feel writing getting away from me, like it doesn’t want me, like I… I don’t know. Then the Cabernet, ’15, assures that I’m composed, that there’s compositions to be— wait. Stop for a second. Stop overthinking so much. Put on some jazz… go on… Coltrane…. No, Rollins. “What Is There To Say”. I know what he means. I myself interrogate with the like-plight and inquiry but I find self lost in this sitting, after two long days of appointments, event, more appointments, Brittany and I not leaving till, when. I collect with this glass, think about where I’m going, my old fucking age— me, Mike Madigan, about to turn… you know. How. Wine’s buds this morning, those tight little fingers or nobs, clusters or clods, saying to me to live, forget about what you want to focus on, what you want to over-obsess over. Just live. New life, in this new vintage, and this ’15 telling me from its year that ‘you don’t know what’s about to happen’. I get it, I get it… How I needed this, just red wine and jazz, babies and Ms. Alice upstairs done with day while this wild wine writing and typing and dizzied-musing book assembler does his does, did. DONE.
Look at my son’s shoes, one pair. What was I, then? At that age. Who was I? Not sure I wrote, but I know I…. I don’t know me, then. I forgot him. Maybe I should bring him back, again, again, here on these pages for these books and repeat his reads. Keep noting and writing, reading and revising my wine life, sip more of this Cabernet and see what’s wielded from its wheels. ME, age 6…. Now I’m …. No. Just here, this moment, the incubation of Nowness compiled with responsibility, worry, measure. A note, another sip.