Bobbing my head to this beat, my beat, the beat of this music and the writing itself with all these people around me, wondering what I’m writing, I’m sure, or not. Doesn’t matter to me as I’m doing it, my IT. As I lecture on essays and structure, I see today as a new thesis, a new experimentation with form and paragraph balance, punctuation and words. The morning, a bacciferous manifest. I keep bobbing my head to my new song, track after tack in under ten minutes here at the coffee shop.
I know Mike Madigan better than I ever have, today. Just with this morning. Some feeling or mood, some inward jot and elevation that consumed my life, every inch and parcel to it. I have a drive ahead of me, and I know I’ll be with thirsty ache for pen, paper. Let the ideas cook, simmer and set, settle. ‘Cause I will settle for NOTHING with this brief time I have alive. Nothing. My oeuvre oscillates, giving me more momentum.
This is addictive, I can tell. When I feel like this first thing in the morning and attains new way and wave to page. Imagine… everything is yours. All of it.
Wait, you don’t have to paint any visions in head. It is. It already is. Right in front of you. Right now.