from a journal

My “every penny project” updated.  Got to work early and came to this nook in new break room where I stationed the other day but laptop refused to cooperate.  Today, it’s loving me.  Jazz in left ear.  Right ear free ‘case someone calls to me.  Coffee in tumbler.  Writing the Now with more ferocity after this morning’s 4am thousand.  Five dollars of quarters in pocket, for literary lunch, coffee somewhere.  Thought this morning while typing that frantic thousand, yes before going backing into a climate of odd dream portraits and dialogues, that if I want to get to my There I need fiercely adopt different practices.

Grades due January 4th.  Good.  As I haven’t touched grading, really at all.  Next semester on mind, for thought and shaping those thoughts and visions of me in class and what I want….. yesterday while on 2nd and 3rd the wine shop in my thinking, that I don’t think it’s for me.  I just want to write about the wines I sip, not have to take inventory and have it all fall on me.  Why would I do that to myself.  The idea is fun, and it’s enjoyable to think about, but the reality isn’t paralleling the vision, I know.  I’ve been at too many wineries and too many tasting rooms to know that.

Now, where I am.  What brought me here.  Enthusiasm in my key pushing, from this word to the next.  Singularity.  Not just the strength of it, but the sense and fluidity, the encouragement from singular ideas.  Hence, every penny.  Every penny contributes to a dollar and the dollars will fund what I need.  Which isn’t much as a writer.  Soon I’ll need a new laptop.  That much I know and knowing my Now confirms that.  Coffee right but I don’t want to stop in these thoughts…. This, me in this seat.  A couple people walking in but not at any overwhelming or districting dividend. 

Me.  Here.  At a tech company, I guess you could call it.  What brought me here was the wine industry, I guess.  The vineyards, the business models and all the mistakes I saw being made.  And now, in this Now, I’m distant from it all.  Not stopping.  Letting nothing enervate me, today.  Nothing.  Even the fact I have to use the restroom but I’m not getting up.  Today, just days before the new year.  1/1/19 just six days from this sitting and this coffee sip if you count today.  What I want—  A trip.  More focus on Sal and Dean, on Hemingway in that café, on Didion and what she felt after he died.  Sylvia…. Everything I’ve read and everything I’ve taught.  Singular thoughts, singular words… shocking self from this breath to next.  Benison in realization of what I have, where I am here at Sonic and being in the city, walking where Kerouac more than likely did.  OR at least blocks away, merely.

Need more coffee.  Need more to read.  More jazz.  I put the other phone in ear right.  Now one of my five senses is completely kept in jazz, in music, in the randomness of the notes.  08:33.  Plenty of time to write.  Not getting up from this seat till 8:52, I self decreed and ordered.  Order for the day is singularity, lone words and observations and notes, assuaging any self-doubt or stall.  Everything a writer and thinker needs is where they are, what they’ve lived.  Human Experience, experiences random and unexpected.  From one frame to next, one street in the Richmond where I’ll be to the other, those streets that connect the Avenues, the music of the cars that pass and the Muni busses, the smells of the restaurants, the voices of people talking as they step out of their homes saying hi to neighbors asking how their Christmas was.  Everything about it is like this Coltrane track.

A studio somewhere in the city, somewhere.  Where I can write, record, invite over other writers and poets, thinkers, people of words and thought, were we can sip wine and talk, not think about money or work or any obligations or schedules.  God’s hour still with me, like I’m on that couch laying down thumbing thoughts into my phone.  Wish I would have stayed awake, but no sense in grieving senselessly over what a poet didn’t do.  I’m in my nook, with if I wanted 15 minutes left to self.  This morning, confirming.  I’m confirmed in the singularity of vision, shedding complication like complications need be shed for preservation of health’s sake.

Just remembered, need new vehicle for drive to SF.  Yesterday in Marin, Novato specifically, my van wouldn’t start.  Had to be jumped.  So I have new ship this day, hopefully.  Today in SF needs to be more than fruitful, for what I do here for Sonic but as well for me as a person trying to touch their There.  The travel, tasting wines in Austrian castles.  The philosophy or thought shape of Now compiles while remember the van yesterday not starting, thinking of this morning at 4am how I actually composed myself enough to compose.  I’m seeing the day in front of me but don’t want to look too long as I want to preserve the surprise of it all.  The drive and the stop at the Novato gas station, the five dollars of quarters I have in pocket that I tell self need be spent on coffee, find a spot for composition, for writing San Francisco….  I’m there for work, but there for work.  I’m in a postmodern and reconstructive and deconstructive dilemma.  One I love.  One I don’t want halted.  One I wish forever and in every day wrapped around me.

Everything I need, already held.  We wish for so much but don’t take the less than minute to inventory and celebrate what we already see daily.  Fascinating and frustrating.  The house I walked up in Berkeley to meet a Philosophy professor, how I never in several years would have seen that happening, especially years ago.  Time nets itself around my cognitive code, garnishing morality and ethical etching.

12/27/18

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

2 thoughts on “from a journal

  1. A studio somewhere in the city, somewhere.  Where I can write, record, invite over other writers and poets, thinkers, people of words and thought, were we can sip wine and talk, not think about money or work or any obligations or schedules. 

    Love how you put it 🙂

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