Son tells me this morning that he wants to be an author— “I want to write books when I grow up, Daddy. Like my workbook [that he was yesterday working on], I love writing.” I smiled and thought more about writing and how I write, or try, blog it all and while last night sipping the last of that Napa blend, now dead, I thought off the meta of writing, of writing about writing. Why we write, why right now instead of taking a shower or doing budgetary shit, or driving up to Healdsburg early to do whatever, or doing anything around the house like most “real men” would on their day off, I write. Think in poetic pulses, or try. Listen to the dishwasher that I just put on, and think about notes, what I tell students about writing. Or not tell, but share.
Harvest starting, or in some spots well into its due, friends of mine waking at 0400, then I wonder if I did the same what I could get done. I can’t think about it or write it anymore, what I’d write and how I’d reach 3000 or more words if I just set my alarm and did it. It’s not setting the alarm that’s the issue. That’s more than easy, it’s effortless. What if I rolled out of, from sheets and pillow and dove into prose. This morning, a mocha. 4 shots which I haven’t in some time done, and saying to self, “Amplify, amplify… teaching, writing, the classroom, tech…” What do I want, what do you want, what do you want to amplify? It’s literally that simple, as I see it. Whatever you want, attainable. You choose to subscribe to antithetical mind, if you’re not moving. “Why don’t I have what I want?” or “…what I’m after?” Draw all thoughts. Be more than AT the drawing board. BE the drawing board. Be moving. Be in constant actuation and deliberation, forward and with your creative fire.
Since I started fiddling with writing, I’ve found it to be an exploration of my own thinking, how I generate thoughts and what I want from the act of writing. Again, I could be doing anything right now, anything. I chose to come here, to the island counter, sit, sip mocha, get to page. My son telling me he wants to write, I need to write faster. When he’s in middle school, or high school at the latest, I need be touring with these words. Officially clocked into Day 3 of this challenge, or sprint. A measure for when I’m forty. Jazz in the room with me, and my thoughts go everywhere while still contained in looking at my son and high bright eager motioned expression when telling me of his book-borne ambitions. Writing, seeing the association you have with words, and what they will do for you, to you, what story you want to tell. I think. Of this. Everyday. Me, writing father, adjunct for over 12 years, finally freed from wine’s industry to extend my written and poetic identity in tech. Can’t say that’s ever been done, has it? Just have to see, where all this will take me. What knowledge I’ll pocket. Quiet house, not used tot his so early on a Sunday. Not even 0845. Will be in 1 minute. I feel rush, a rush in me to get things done, to finish a book, to put it out there— about journaling, writing everything down, blogging, seeing everything as material. Even this plastic baggie of change that I’ve collected over the past couple months. What do I do with it?
Setting budget for day, week. For the first time in a while, since leaving the wine world, I’m quite comfortable. Thank the craft. Setting up the other blog so readers won’t see adds or other garbage to the sides. I’m revolving and cartwheeling in thought and thorough thoroughness of my Personhood. The Healdsburg Square will see me today. WILL. I’ll precipitate with my written will in whatever room I write. The bakery? The grocery? Can’t stand those flies, though, at Oakville’s patio zone. Every time I try to write through them, I am shoed away, like I were the fly in their annex. Where else in HB is there to write, I think. Flying Goat, I guess. Find a spot there, though, is time arduous. So I think somewhere else, possibly. SHED? Yes. It’s indoors. And their espresso is some sexy fuel-quake love I’ve never tasted, or haven’t since Paris. And, if feeling well into my Beatnik notes, the beers on tap are all those that speak to a Madigan, one like me who writes.
Back hurts from run yesterday, the 10 miles which was a war to do. So I stretch while sitting and writing, breath in this kitchen air, look left and see crumbs from the little breakfast treat I took for the baby Beats. So much around me, so much to tell me, tell me where to whim, where and how to write. This semester, possibly and more than likely my last conventional term, I invest every cell. All tables and chairs, with this poem I just started writing, new Newness and pages, streams of collection and meditation.
Yesterday I wrote, “Enjoy and use your scene.” Mine, now, in this kitchen next to the bag of coins and my depleting mocha, the poetry journal, my wallet and the cash I was counting to my left, reminds me I’m alive, so alive and into this year, summer ending, that amplification is the only remaining route. Winemaker friend of mine, yesterday, saying how he was at a wine tasting and the wines spoke to him newly, in some different or hip way, calling them hipster wines. Didn’t ask for elaboration, but was put in assertion, asseveration in my wined story. I always come back to wine and what she says to me, what my fictive figure, Kelly, does her first week in a tasting room. This scene, room, page, more than fanciful and enjoyable. Back to poem…