Ramen Reasoning

Saturday.  Tasting with Chris later in Sonoma Valley.  Feel a stranger in front of the keys this morning, 8:19, and can’t figure out why.  Dinner last night with Mom and Dad at Red Grape in Sonoma, had takeout pizza there a few weeks ago at my sister’s place.  Keep going over yesterday – lunch with friend, moving things from old house in A.M., delivering beer to Sales engineer in afternoon late then dinner.  The day didn’t beat me I’d say, my brain assesses a draw, or push like in a poker or blackjack hand.  Not sure if there’s a push in poker, but let’s say there is.

The Ramen place in Sebastopol, back patio talking about theory and literature, writing papers…. Had me in this mode, the classroom affinity I’ve had forever.  Bowl loaded with broth and noodles, vegetables and a little meat bringing to memory the thing one of my writing professors said about writing needing to be like pea soup.  You know, thick and chunky, rich… then I thought, why not ramen?  Or at least the ramen I was having there.  “Kind of a messing thing to have…. But no judgement.” I had to laugh, as I was thinking the same thing.  “Don’t think less of me if I don’t last long with the chopsticks and use the fork..” I said.  No judgement, I was assured.  Not only was the intersection of intentions and thoughts and scenic precautions hilarious, but the fact that was my address I found percussively comical.  Why was I thinking about that?

Ramen…. Then all my thoughts I as to be as loaded as the bowl that was in front of me.  Listening to everything from Hip-Hop to Thievery Corporation, to The Doors, Tycho, Mr. Coltrane, and I can’t remember what else.  Espresso on the table with me of course, papers I want to write.  ESSAYS…. mine.  About the Now, the magic of the meta and how no matter how seemingly bland or obtuse.  There’s a flickering invitation and beatific beaming luminosity to everything.  The Kerouac metaphor of the blank page….

Wine not seen as it was by me, so I make it something else as I told my friend yesterday.  The Malbec at dinner last night, the Rosé at the new very Paris-reminding restaurant and bar down the street where the manager behind the bar talking to me about the wine and where it’s from, the family and the small amount they produce and sell to them.  That’s what wine is… to talk about it like a column of overused adjectives is chicken splash, transparent and one-dimensional.  This new ramen reasoning I’m on since yesterday and speaking about dams in China and papers, research, thought, community…. That’s where I am, that’s where I’m finding myself.

Out window, the low clouds and fog over hills or mountains, the Mayavamas whatevers.  The quiet in this room… the fog and the way it stretches toward me in this house on another hill paints what I can call back from the San Juan Islands, all those harbors especially Roche.  Hour on clock, and how perceived. It’ll win eventually, I know, but I need to have something to show.  To the kids, to myself, to everyone.  Found two old journals yesterday moving out stuff, one loaded with notes from when I was at Kunde in ’12-’15.  Didn’t re-read much of it but all those days immediately wrapped around my synapses and circulation.  Could feel my heart beat quicker like it needed to tell me something or warn me – “Don’t you dare go back to the fucking industry!” Understood, I said to myself in the garage.  No way, never.  This ramen reasoning or thought-measure though a bit inchoate is needed and applicable to this morning, the rest of the day… these new conversation especially the one yesterday.  Walking around the bookstore, essays and memoirs from musicians and singers, what they experiences on the Road.

Friend telling me of growing up in Alaska, said I’d always wanted to go but of course never have—  Shit, need to text Chris, tell him I did NONE of what I said I’d do in terms of research and learning if reservations are needed.  SHIT…..  Okay, did a little.  One of these wineries I haven’t visited in over ten years, before Melissa and I even thought about kids.  We’d bring sandwiches there and have a bottle of Syrah.  Forever ago, and it doesn’t just ‘seem’ that way, that is forever ago.  A completely different language I spoke then, moved differently, saw the world and work, and relationships from a lens and translating lens I wouldn’t understand now even if I studied and researched as my friend at lunch yesterday spoke.

Feel like I’ve been trying to understand Mike Madigan and how he arrived here, RIGHT HERE, at this table in the morning and living in Skyhawk during this shift, sipping espresso, trying to re-shape in a more sharp loyal texture for running and doing races again.  Relationships, with Self, and just relationships principally, denotatively and connotatively.  Fascinated by them at my age.  Arrive, depart… my intrigue disrupts my concentration, remember a girlfriend I had in college and why the bloody hell was I with her so long?  Was I afraid to be alone?  Then later in life only wanting to be alone….  Characters are not consistent I’m finding, complexities overwhelming, so many tastes and ingredients, parts and measures… recipe yes, but, I don’t know.. more.

This little espresso cup, Melissa getting me a set this past xmas.  Our association of course changing, and that re-writes me and my character, the Mike Madigan I’ve been used to for however many years.  The hour keeps charging at me, at all of us.  Tragedy in a regard, but voluminous love and opportunity, a positive like I just messaged my other friend Kelli possibly going through a breakup with her boyfriend.  Why… what in his and her character shifted?  Seeing the Ramen in everything around me and all from yesterday and today and whatever day.