Bird outside singing to something. Me, I imagine, just make it so. Hat on desk, the Sonic hat. I look at it and wonder if I’d never talked to Tasha that day in the Sauvignon Blanc lot. Then I think about wine and where I’m going with it, the winemaking idea…. How soon, how distant. This happens every morning, thinking about everything and too much at once I feel then find some harmony only to be disrupted by something else. How do you find autopilot at high elevation?
Whatever flavor this is, it’s strong. What I need this morning. My head keeps telling me today is Wednesday. No idiot it’s Tuesday, I answer back. Then I say to myself, What fucking difference does it make? Feel Mike Madigan becoming more conscious and concerned for what day it is – looking forward to Friday, dreading Monday. And I absolutely hate that about myself. Or this new self. So, stopping that. I don’t know what day it is and I don’t give a shit. I’m writing.
One of the kids yawns, then an alarm, that cheesy iPhone alarm. Don’t know how to write …