Sparkling water, sleepy. Like theirs a weight or wave of lazy on my brain. Not sure I should, or will rather, cycle at lunch. Can do later, after 5. Smoke outside still revolting. Should I have an early lunch? I’m thinking too much…. Inventorying that so I can later if now now and entirely remove it from inventory.
Wine tonight will be something different, but I’m not sure what. May have to go to store. Well, I do… coffee for the office here. How I let myself run out, why I ever do, is comical. Just like what I’m doing now… sitting on couch, typing, hearing the bubbles of my water shoot sound from the can to the right of my right leg.
Thinking of self in third. Me as me isn’t as useful as it could be. So…. I see Mike Madigan, where he is and what he’s doing. Writing about himself. Father, working, teaching still as an adjunct but making it work for him. And wine… writing wine. He promises himself a book done soon but always gets pulled from it, always distracts by some other obligation or charge. He tells himself that he’ll only write about wine, wine people, wine curiosity, everything wine. That is his BEAT, he swears. Even when he’s not sipping wine like right now at 11:41am taking a break from his account executive life and collecting in paragraph-form, or something like it, paired with a sparkling water.
Arguably the most soundless he’s ever heard his own maison. Take everything it has to offer, no matter how massive or minuscule. Kids stuff all around him. A single shoe, his daughter’s, middle-floor. Something in this, all of this. Doesn’t know how to characterize or qualify any of it. Maybe that’s not what’s needed or to be realized. Maybe it’s HIM… maybe this all does that for his sitting and being, voice and types.