morning thousand

North Canvas

Mom’s birthday.  In a mood that is of grateful angle and decision.  Deciding something… just spoke it to self and not writing here.  Want it between Mike Madigan writing and Mike Madigan living after the declaration.

Already sent email to director regarding client who hasn’t paid a dime and now wants out of his contract with no ETF (Early Termination Fee).  Not my call, but if it were, I’d just let him go.  Like Mom told me once, you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.  An expression which sounds old fashioned and I’m sure has been around for a while, but I quite like.

8:01… gathering leads and calling today.  Two phone appointments later, running at 10.  Will try and last a whole hour this time, get to 10k or a touch more.  Watched the news for maybe five or seven minutes, then just felt bored and done with it.  Not sure why I even turned it on.  Writing for an hour, gathering self before gathering leads to call or email.

Melissa not feeling well yesterday and her head goes to covid.  I treasure her she’s fine and that she got her shots but what do I know.  So, another covid test just to be sure.  Funny but not funny how now, in this day, that’s where your head goes.  Annoying as well, that this thing just doesn’t seem to go away quick enough.

Taking off anything that’s not a lead from this desk.  That means Wine Spectator issues, this $1.50 left over from the overpriced sparkling water, the wallet the keys the phones the books… everything.  Calls… should take out all those business cards in that drawer in the flimsy cabinet with carpeted drawers to my left… feel like they’ve been in there since covid started and I haven’t done shit with them.

Some things removed from desk, WS issues, headphones, that scorecard from a few weeks ago when we all played miniature golf and Jack and I taunted each other and set ourselves in competitive minds.  I won, but not by much as I think I told you… Jack upset but I told him I suck at golf and was just having fun, not trying to win by any stretch.  Reminded me of Sunriver, when I was much younger and would play m-golf or go to the driving range with mom and dad or my cousin Nick or one of the locals or other vacationing kids I met.

Track:  Insomniac Olympics, by Blockhead.  Haven’t heard this in years.  Wait, have I heard this before?  Not sure.  Perfect beat for the morning though, and just what I need before making calls and emailing.  Feeling my age, and not just with this song and if I’ve heard it before – Wait, come on Mike, have I? – Anyway, carrying Henry out to the car this morning in his carseat and feeling the weight like I haven’t before, lighting a cramp in mid-upper back.  Cramp is gone now, but FUCK that hurt.  I swear getting old is more and more on my mind, seeing a video of a rapper much older than he was when I was a kid listening to one of his tracks, around 2000 or 2001, sick and slow, looking tired and surrendered.  Yes, I said to myself, I AM going to run more, invest more in my health, be around forever for the babies, and family, readers, whomever I can try and make smile. 

Life, fragile, but I write on.  Spending this first hour on the keys.  Making this as part of the daily outline and architecture.  8-9, settling in.  9-noon, prospecting…. The rest undetermined.  Fighting for the day where I no longer have to prospect, when all I do is meet and sign.  Then from there, my own office.  Life being as short as it is, there should be no hesitancy or shame in voicing your truest aim.  Me, the beach house where I mold manuscripts.  Don’t want the office anymore, I don’t think.  I don’t believe in offices anymore, and yes I think that’s a result of covid.

NOTE:  Building what you want to build is never contingent upon permission, internal or other….

Just build, I tell myself.  The bridge to the beach house, the manuscript hut.  Or maybe I just want to be by the ocean, Santa Cruz…. Saw a commercial for SC yesterday, one of those ‘come tourists and local visitors’ bits encouraging people to visit and stay, spend.  Born there… where did time go.  Why does it insist on moving so mercilessly?  Doesn’t it care what we think and feel?  Obviously not.

8:28, Goodness by Emancipator.  Zen… no pressure, to do anything.  Not even to write.  Feel a bit antsy, like I want to do something but don’t know what but know I need to move, transact, move forward, something.  Aren’t I though, by writing?  Writing to myself and talking to self as Mom has always urged I do to find solution or reason or some understanding of something.

NOTE:  Have more conversations with self for the sake of more self and understand of self and all its beats and notes and musical architecture.

Architecture… the structure.. the composition of self and the mind, thoughts, how you get to be something, somewhere.  Finding myself meditating over detachment, separation from certain sour syllables spoken inside self.  Listening to Lawson’s new book on the way to Marin yesterday, her mentioning the various voices of her character, the ‘Me’s’ as she said…. well, she’s mentioning such differently than I’m thinking of them now, my me’s, but still certain speaks need be put to sleep.  Like a sick pet.

It’s like, not giving a fuck, but prettier.

Taking the 50 cents and dollar, and stashing.  Putting it in its own envelope and world.  No idea what I want from it, or what I want it to do.  And that’s the love and pretty form of what I’m doing – not knowing.  Being About EVERYTHING as I always write.