11/27/18

Home from class.  Dinner had.  Now wine having.  My thoughts are still, and mobile and motile when they wish be.  Xmas tree, lit to right.  2 days and 6 months till I’m 40.  Today busy, back and forth from city.  Not sure exactly what neighborhood or district I was in.  Doesn’t matter as SF always does something to me.  Makes me think of owning a house there, driving kids to new house and showing them what all the work I do did.  Whenever I come home late, it’s for this.  But, a wish.  At this point.  Paired a Syrah, St. Francis of course, with a microwave burrito.  Funny but perfect in framing and station. 

On the drive back from the city I thought about driving, speaking, how I began the day with my notes and speaking to a co-worker about what I want from the day, the first day out in “the field” in over two weeks.  Driving, travel, seeing all the houses and the remodels, that one porta-potty by that remodeled house that I thought of using after all that coffee and not using the bathroom in Marin, Novato, at the gas station.  So much movement, so much said, activity and effort, again not to forget the 90-minute lecture I just gave.  And now, still.  Stop.  Pause.  Wine and its composition laws. 

Honestly, the wine isn’t saying much to me.  Again.  Again this happens.  Want to be back in class.  And I could.  Tonight we discussed narrative and the practice of narrative.  What is would entail, the perception of narrative… each of our narratives.  Telling a story from our own life.  Of course, some close to me want me to talk about something when I’d rather write about something else.  Right now.  This tree my son helped decorate, Syrah at day’s close.

My concentration wains and feigns, is strained by hours behind me.  Coughing a bit.  Do I have something?  A cold?  Shit.  Hoping the Syrah helps when I know it won’t.  I sit on the couch and look at the tree longer.  Lights.  Hanging pictures.  Decorations kids made at school, with pictures, glitter, meant to catch eye, eyes, and my eyes are certainly caught by anything these Madigan babies do.  Again the image of them reading this class, like a class I had in Stevenson Hall, 1999, with Bob Coleman.  Their professor trying not to call them out but he may let a remark slip.  “Mike Madigan was always knowing of his kids and what they would think… what does this suggest about his identity and consciousness and the conscious reality of his character, his identity, at the time?”

How did that, that time, me at SSU, pass so passively and swiftly as it did?  I become annoyed with time.  With me.  With me being here.  With the Syrah for not teaching me more.  This wine isn’t saying a thing.  I dump it out.  Into sink, down the drain.  Just kidding, she’s still here.  Sip… and still not much said.  That’s what she wants.  That’s what the story wants.  Have to deconstruct and decode, work harder, find something in the mindful myriad of the wine.  So, again I go…

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mikemadigan

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