3/16/19

Home from dinner at parents.  Last night to self in home.  Glass of last night’s red at left and I don’t know if I’ll open that other bottle, a Cab, I had my eye on.  Tonight, one of music.  Writing by hand, in Germany Journal.  Bed earlier than last night.  Alarm set for morning.  Can settle on a treadmill bit of speed work or a run later in morning from Bennett Valley and into Howarth Park, Annadel.  Writing business plan in head for remainder of night.  In bed by 11:30, latest.  Till then, write poetry in pages, listen to music.  I’ve realized this so many times more before, but all in my story must center around and stem from poetry.  Which is music, you know I believe and see.  Will let my pen talk, do the work not for me but with me. The quiet of this little family home, heater on, wine nearly gone.  Going over my life in head after talking to Mom and Dad about family friend that literally just passed, matter of days ago, finding I’m just a passer of ways to know.  Or so…. Night telling me to slow, more collect and deconstruct not be so abrupt.  I’m home.. not just in this structure, but in poetry, the lines and beats, rhymes and syllable play, but thoughts on a paper tray.

Waiting for an idea, something to shove me one way or another.  Maybe I’ll get it on my run in the morning, or later morning, early afternoon.  Life, just walking away from us like a like a royal not interested in the common glass.  Time just sees through us, not even ignoring us.  To ignore is to exert something, some energy or interest or effort.  Time doesn’t do that.  So, then, I need that Cabernet to write more in this life and clock fray.

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mikemadigan

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