Blazing through tasks like there’s nothing in front of me.

11:18.  Just finished delivering pieces of candy throughout the office. Felt good to spread love and poz vibez.  Today has been a loving one, one educating and freeing.  Going to class tonight eager and ready to make it everything I want.  Something for me.  Something to know more about my Now and to be FREED.


11:55.  Feel like I get it.  All of it.  Never felt this before, ever.  More than simple empowerment, or some freedom sentiment or sense.  But… like… I understand.  I see Self, in the Now, I am Freed and freeing more of my character and story.

12:07.  Brought lunch, the pieces of quesadilla but somehow tempted to eat out. No, I tell myself.  Go to the café and write, then heat quesa’ when back.  Eat at desk while working.  Budget still not done, but did pay off credit card a bit more.  No word from any of the wineries I contacted.  I’m done.  I’m officially retiring from wine.  Don’t even think I want the wine shop, anymore.  Maybe have my own label like Calluna, maybe, but even that I don’t know.

So full of thought, in this breath.  Again, like I get it all.  I understand where I am and why I’m doing what I’m doing.  Madness… Freedom… Individualism.  I should get out of the office.  Will.  No caffeine, no soft drinks.  Water.  Hopefully they have bubbly water.  Pretty sure they do, Pellegrino or some similar type.

12:54.  Resolving to stay here, go to breakroom, nook if I can, and write.  For tonight’s class, loving shoves for self to run tomorrow morning, early.

No more thinking.  About money or spending a couple bucks to get a sparkling water with the ques’.  Who cares.  Next week will be tight, but only from making progress.  Last night, last dinner out in some time, do note.  Next thought… to work, how to spend day’s remainder.  How….  See?  There I am, thinking again.


1:42.  At desk.  19 minutes left on lunch.  Snacking on trailmix.  Bought cherry sparkling.  Almost finished.  May get another.  Everything today for tomorrow’s early run.  Running on treadmill, hoping for 7-9 miles.  I’d be happy with that.  Pretending like I’m getting back into running all over again.  Revisiting and reassessing my reality as a runner.

Phone screening at 2:30.  May want to get in a walk.  Should I do that now?  Overthinking, goddamn you.  Water, notes, snacks, voices, voicemails, phones, discussions on what to do next.  The office is exceptionally alive today.  I mimic, I study, I love it all.  Each ingredient and inclination, ebb and view.  This place is beyond study-worthy, past useful.  This is IT.  The IT of it all.  My IT.  IT provides insight and understanding that nothing else could, or would ever hope that I had from being there.  The other places simply didn’t invest in me or those around me.

14 minutes left.  Water.  Gum.  On the menu.  Not that I’m trying to diet or necessarily eat less, but just control what’s contacted.

Two people walk into the zen den.  I feel defensive, like it’s my space and room and terrain being invaded.  Silly, but just what I feel alive as I am today.


In car. Lunch.

Ate what I bought at Sonic’s in-house market. Sandwich, Cliff Bar, sparkling water, with the peanuts I had in desk drawer as a little side something. About 30 minutes left. In car, hear wind and people talking on 26th Street or behind me somewhere on Shotwell. Not sure what part of the city this is but it’s interesting. Rained as soon as I exited vehicle right when I arrived and now skies, blue with thin and depleted clouds.

Will leave Field around 4:30. May get out in a bit and walk. More steps. 14 hour fast turned into a 16 hour one— Actually 16 hours, 9 minutes, 23 seconds. Stopped timer on phone after first bunch of peanuts were bit. Only inconsistencies are this morning’s latte which I excuse and an almond I accidentally ate shortly after while grabbing the small pack of almonds from desk. Ate one to see if it was stale or odd. While chewing, I realized what I was doing, kept going in jaw interval, and continued with fast. These fasts are teaching me not only about discipline and self, vision and singularity, but thought itself. Having a thought be actual and not just conceptual, hypothetical, imagined.

Man behind me a bit and to the side, speaking loudly in Spanish to someone over phone. Part of me wants to get out and see him while the writer-Me orders holding position. And I do. Driver’s seat of this company car. Dried skins from peanuts, sandwich container on floor. Will clean when I get back.

Different musics on the drive down. Thinking of everything from the previous day, and how much of it I can write, or could write from memory. Learning I can do so much more aptly and genuinely better than I thought. Learning I don’t always need be writing. That walking on these SF streets and living is writing. Have always known that and been aware of such approach to writing life, but now I feel and self-active I’m thought in ways I never have.

How much time left now. Don’t care. See the man on his phone, after he walked to the corner of 26th and Shot’. Can see his face. Back to me, and wearing hood.



Thoughts.  The composition of thoughts, then deconstructing and exploring the composition, each contributing stand in what assembles to comprise that thought.  What I thought about on the way here, to the office.  Coffee finally at my right, after the cup I made earlier was watered down and not at all at hoped-for/needed temp.  Thinking of a publishing house, one small and independent, memoir and poetry.  Never having to seek a publisher.  Did some arm workouts this morning, and now at the end of a 14-hour fast.  Feeling quite together, character-driven. Feel the hunger and am a bit tempted to break fast, but won’t.  Refuse.

8:51.  Here tomorrow.  Running tomorrow, first run since race last Saturday.  Legs are nearly completely back together, run-ready.  Want to diversify workouts, not be so cardio-heavy.  Today, I wrote in the Germany Journal, is Day 1.  Day 1 of what, don’t know yet.  Of how many days, don’t know that either.  Starting to see the grand consolidation of everything Sonic and all matters Mike Madigan.

Sip coffee, hearing co-workers talk.  I’m in character, right where I should be. Last night’s Grenache, making me realize the importance of travel and adventure, music, speaking, ideas, the composition of thought, thoughts.

9:04.  Hunger speaks to me but I thoroughly ignore.  Breaking in a bit, around 9:15.  Going to the new Zen Cove that was finished the other day, seemingly for me—what I have in my head, that is for me, for writing poetry, for building my publishing house.  Was paid today, but not as much as I thought. Nice paycheck, but my math was wrong no surprise.

Nearly done with a poem.  Part of book.  Part of something.  Sip coffee hoping it not just suppresses appetite but immediately puts it to immediate death.  What to have for lunch in field.  Don’t think about it.  Words, if anything.


Getting started.  Ready for my talk on Madness.  Form, Accentuation, Manuscript.  The order of disorder, but who’s to say it’s disorder…

8:23.  Taking a little breather.  The aim for day is to get so far ahead of schedule, for monthly efforts with the book.  No more thinking.  Thinking is done, I say to myself sitting here drinking my coffee, writing notes for one of the Leads.

Poetry, entries, essays, madness in everything.  Wrote the sentence in one journal, now to write one in another.  Rain outside, more than I thought would fall. Overheard someone in neighboring department say that it’s likely we’ll see an average of .5 inches every hour today, and that there will be flooding, and that she saw a firetruck pulling a boat behind it.

Little less than 2 hours left in 12 hour fast.  Sip more coffee, I tell self.


Santa Rosa, Ca.

Forgot to stamp my geog’ to the entry.  Need to do so as a reminder and motivator to get me to the Road.

10:13.  Just under 7 minutes left in 12 hour fast.  Contemplating getting lunch for self today.  In fact I’m considering making such one of my daily aims.  Treating self, important.  We forget to do that, too many times, I feel.

Now what do I do.  Keep giving self projects, till speech at 12:30, or shortly thereafter.  Madness—Freedom, Accentuation, Manuscript.  We’re all writers.  OH I can’t wait to present.  This place, Sonic, allows me to build the story of me.

11:05.  Good position for and in day.  May go to in-house market, get some little treats for self rather than go to Texanita or the other Mexican place I love, up the street.  Would mean I’d be in-house all day.  So what.  Fine with that.  Need use the zen cove, the new room just a few steps from where now I sit.  Write notes to self, notes for tonight—antithetical, what I’m thinking, just as Sonic is antithetical workplace.

Texted Reps and Leads, cancelling work, or notifying them work for day is cancelled.  Now, I work further… Madness.  Being mad, embodying madness in all steps and turns of head, blinks and breaths.

11:21.  Back from Market.  $2.51.  Sparkling water, gum.  And now back at desk wondering what I should next do.  Reading through others’ observations and progresses.  Coffee still on desk but I’m done with coffee for a bit.  Time to just madly jot, write whatever comes to me, head…. Beach, travel, Monterey and Pacific Grove, more poetry, more music.. me, music.

11:26.  Notes to self, on post-it’s.  Still raining outside, saw while walking to market through glass doors.  Do I want to leave office, for lunch?  Why am I thinking about this, so much.


2:19.  Taking remainder of lunch at desk.  Didn’t go out as the speakers meeting went longer than forecast.  And, to my benefit.  Bought another sparkling water for meeting with Tasha.  Writing down more ideas for class tonight and for me principally, for the story, my story—Madness consumers and endorses me for more pages, more of my book that I will finish by month’s end.



Up from nap.  Tasting earlier at J, then KIN lunch.  Cancelled class for night.  Angry no sections in Fall for me but utterly elated.  So why in this mood.  Don’t know.  Now hot coffee.  Needed.  What to do for night, spend time with babies.  Trying to add paying projects, from wine to teaching…  Going to work late, tonight.  Committed to.

Thoughts go in one direction, then another.  Need to train them to be on singular path, singular straight, in singular yet compounding and varying effort.  Luckily Sonic encourages someone like me.  Tomorrow, heading into day like a bull, a hungry and tireless bull.  Wake early with wife as she will for her morning workout class.  The coffee pulls me from this cloud – Interrupted.  Man knocks on door I go to door somewhat agitated and defensive.  He sells cleaning services of rugs, carpets, interiors, something.  I take his car but by my disposition make it clear I’m not interested in services nor conversation.  He points out there’s a Hello Fresh on our stoop or patio I say thank you and hollowly thank him for coming by, pick up the Fresh box then return inside.  Put everything in fridge then back to types, coffee.

Wife leaves to get babies and I stay behind to plot, plot something.  What I don’t know.  Just keep thoughts in tow.  Like I wrote this morning being taught by the day and all decisions, everything around me.  Put on a beat, start writing, more, not hearing from certain contacts has me feeling nothing.  I need look and converse inwardly for more flight, more wholeness, completed character and beat.  MY beat now, NOW, is of harmonizes garrulousness. Each figment and frame around me begging to be written, put to page and sown to prose.  I feel stalled, not so much confused.  I solve the stall by just moving, just typing, inhaling the rest of the medium roast, or most of it.  Travel, right there, waiting for me.  The classes I’m to teach and the vehicles I’ll be in—planes, rented cars, buses, boats, ferries.  Everything is right there, here ahead of me.  Like Sal, Dean, Plath and all her aims and dreams poem’d and prose’d.  We think too much, far too much, rather than just rolling and being redolent in what’s already present, creating from there.

No new cup.  I pull a copy of Road from my home office, an office which has decided to form itself more as a landing for the babies and their toys, drawings and raincoats rather than a writer’s corner, the initial intention.  I start reading from a random spot, where Mary has an idea about hitchhiking.  I see Mike Madigan as one now hitchhiking, destiny’s the driver, or maybe Mike is the driver.  Either way, I’m going where the going’s going.  Writing everything, everything… tomorrow in the office, even before I get there, write the entire day.  What I want, what I want it to contribute to.. each thought scribbled then later spoken.  Known to self and the world I’m in, each character around me.  I’m Dean’s whim and Sal’s written method.

The man who knocked on the door in sales mode, much older than me.  I pity him then with anxiety and an overtaking eagerness seek to mimic him.  Selling, unafraid, just getting out there like the Field Sales Team I work with, doing what you have to for realities of building business.  Maintaining that business.  You ask yourself, at some point, some point—“What do I want to do?” I find myself there, again.  I’m not leaving Sonic, no way.  But there is more I want, as you know.  Work, what work should do, and Sonic has taught me that it should be an invitation to know Self more intimately, to understand what drives and decides your character.

5:07 and I write freely, refusing to be webbed in meditation and excess contemplation of character essence and my narrative.  Just write to this current beat, and see what self sees.  I know where I’m going, I see the hotel rooms, the views, me waking early and writing in the lobbies—what I want for work.  So I go get it.  My wine business….  Little of the blush I opened last night.  Decide on that rather than more coffee.  Want to again narrate wine as it’s a literary and beatific centricity essential to my functionality.  It’s natural for me, it’s ME—rhythmic and redolent, ready with song and eagerness.  Thoughts over more thoughts, the thought of me doing something for the rest of my life—one singular thing, act, practice and maintained habit.  Wine poured, and I see my shop, store, whatever you want it called.  I play with ideas of me showing earlier and writing from a desk before having to take inventory and do what’s not entirely the most enjoyable or fun facets of being a business owner.  New experiences, new characters, voices, sights, sight as imperative determiner.

First sip and my memory tussles with me.  The race on Saturday.  Registering for marathon and only completing half.  The rain that fell in the last mile ordered me to accept the narrative shift.  To not dismay or despair, but to more joyously blare and what I did run.  Up the rocks and steps, the inclines that were more than inclines but more geographic intentionality to challenge me.  When across the finish line, or not-so-finished line, I was given a medal of fake metal and went to tent for shelter and otherwise unappealing snacks.  Then had a beer.  Then just looked around me, thinking of what other shored there are on the planet.  What else I haven’t seen.  Where else can I write–  Interrupted again, now by former student seeking essay advice.  The Now of me orders more order.  To work.  Work more for ME, for my family. To speak and speak with fearless vessel and flight.  Rhythm, beat, beats, music.  I remove myself from my stall.  I’m on my Road, arguing from each thought.  Today, while tasting through those wines in the J Lounge with wife, I saw everything.  Felt everything.  This is more than Philosophy, and more than academics, more than life.  But, thought.  All thoughts.  Living in and from each.


Self Note:  Be appreciative of the Now—It gifts you with reason and questions, more Road and sequence than most estimate.  Love it all, write it all, see more Self in all beats.


Morning following morning of marathon that was only a half for my, my thoughts are on and in literature, writing, teaching self and being taught from experience.  I don’t see yesterday as a victory or a defeat, but a prime lesson.  Instruction on everything.

Morning with family.  Kids on couch with their mama, my over here at kitchen island, writing, in Kerouac’s novel, wanting more of what Sal did, what Dean did and thought he did.  In travel, in wine, in music.  The wine I had last night, bought with son at store.  Jack telling me we need to buy some wine so can “do some business” as he put it.  Everything I need for my Road, for my travels, here.


Mike thinks about his day off, what he wants from it, how to approach it.  Thoughts, everything in thought, what’s in his thinking and the ideas that pass that he won’t remember, that he won’t write down.  Mike Madigan, analyzing himself and what he does.  Wanting to feel what Sal and Dean did in the car, at the jazz clubs, at all the unexpected locations with new people they’ve only known for so long.  The reason and reasoning, thought and philosophy to everything from people at a house to beer and tacos, to the sound of cars being parked in a lot, crazily.

Mike forgot about Sausalito, about the marathon, about running altogether.  He thought about wine, again about self-publishing and wine, what to do from there.  New ways of approaching wine and teaching, books… Sedaris’ essays, Plath’s poems, Kerouac’s novel, Hughes and all his pieces.  Mike would re-read Road, note every sentence, including the first where the narrator lets readers know this is about him, Dean, how he felt right when he met Dean then onward into his life.  Mike has a son, daughter, since knowing them he sees the world with more reverence and hesitation—How does he live every moment as deeply as he can?  Why does he spend so much time thinking and overthinking rather than writing, living?  He didn’t have an answer.  Not this morning.  He wouldn’t.  He didn’t need one.  All he needs is them.  Those two.  Their mother.  The house.  Writing father seeking more reason and reasoning in everything, all that he does and what’s around him in his current scene and current.

Thought—everything in the appreciation of Now.

Living is literature, he finds.  He’s always know this and Mike has always seen wine as more a literary presence than some chemical or agro result.  Mike returns to wine, for this thought.  Sitting at the kitchen counter and looking over at the bottle of Grgich Merlot, ’14, that last night he explored and let speak to him.  He refused to let wine leave him, or him leave wine.  He’d write each sip, even if twelve essays or pieces or sketches came from the same bottle.  Wasn’t that the point?  Each sip, different.  Each second there is more in the jazz of what you poured.  Maybe this is the business little Kerouac was talking about, yesterday in the Oliver’s wine isle.

Wine speaks to Mike in a way it hasn’t, ever.  She tells him to move, move quicker.  Edit nothing.  Just express.  Self and the Now, thought and reasoning in what you sip, the appreciation of the Now… no going back, now.  The story is set.  Now he writes.. Several books.  With wine.  A marathon of book output, then another, then a marathon of written treks in the vineyard rows.  He sees it.  All.  All sips and steps.

Woke with morning

with definite and defined mood. Like I’m bored or something– no, like he scene needs changing. That I should write a novel, write something to get me on the road. Guess I shouldn’t be writing when in a mood or funk or what.

In line at Starbucks, long line which only antagonizes it. I breathe, order my latter… some loud blender noise, lady asking me if I’m waiting to order or for order, something she could have figured out on her own. I need to sit. I need music. Need the caffeine and quiet, my own seat. No more crowd.

Will more than likely be a long wait. Adding to it. I don’t allow the addition. Writing through and past it… people around me corralling themselves to their orders, mobile and in-house.


In my writing nook in the office.  So much more me with this room, contrasted to the loud and crowded, shove den of Starbucks up the street.  Feel like I can’t write this morning.  Nothing.  Not a note, not a paragraph or even my daily you-sentence.  What now, what now… book due at Month’s end.  Quiet in here, jazz in ears.  Just what I need, but I need travel, more than the coffee, more than any wine.  Travel.  Seeing.  Living.  I’m panicking, panicked.  How do I write. I literally just asked myself that.  Just write.  Do what you tell the students to.  The students, more writers than I am this morning but I can change that and this mood and the plainness and repetition of days.  Plan.  Won’t write it.  At least not immediately.  Soon.  Don’t stall.  Not at all.  Not a squandered second.  Write everything.  I’m coming out of it.  Don’t overthink and don’t think, as Mom advised use what’s around you.  What you’re doing.  Driving to Berkeley again today.  Yesterday with the Richmond-San Rafael bridge out having to go through Vallejo then down 80 and my navigation taking me on some not-so-scenic way.

Need to call about Fall class, if they have one for me.  Rather hoping they don’t, if you must note and record what you can.  The classes at the JC now begin to run together, blend like dumped paint down a parking lot drain.  Nothing hits me, anymore.  And when students offer attitude, I get bored with it whereas before I was I guess you could say a bit amused, but ended it with one sentence with not only put me in confident posture, but assured me I was deserving somewhat of what I’m doing.  Now, I’m passionate, and that’s it.  No interest in grading, no interest in classroom management, only in the lectures I offer.  The ideas.  The thoughts on writing and what we’re reading, now Sedaris, and journal keeping and contribution.

8:28.  No class available, Fall.  Can’t say I’m sad or even lowered by the reality.  In fact, this mood, IT, is damaged.  It shifts in its advance, away from me. It sees me getting more vocal, more entrenched and trenchant in my day, what I’m doing in this office, with this blog and the book I’ll have finished by 2/28.  Short month.  Short life.  The marathon, already here.  How do I feel, honestly.  A little nervous but FOUR HOURS to myself, to run, be by myself, write in head, see the ocean, be in the immediacy of other runners, only glazes me in affirmation and a creative functionality I’ve not known, ever.  So tomorrow, waking at 5, sleeping in running gear hoping such will put this writer in more character to finish with a time I’m not ashamed of.  In fact, that I’m eager to write about.  26.2 miles…. Start slow, feel and get sense of morning, surface, air, people around me, me in the day itself.  I’m assembling, re-writing morning and me in it.  No more of that mood in the coffee line.  I have to stop with that coffee stop on Stony Point.  Even if I were to have had cup in hand sooner, the mood would be there as there was no place to write and that same clown with the long white cord stretching across the floor to his unattended laptop while he talks to the oddball in the fedora by the window… not my routine.  Not anymore.  Not attempting to have that be in my morning.

8:34.  Lesson for this morrow…. Write through it, out of it.  If something’s taken away, add something, yourself.  I will.  My courses, my books, everything.  I will hit 3000 words today.  I need it.  More than need it.  My body and character, here in page placement demands it.  Not so much philosophy or psychology, but the Now-ness of what’s here, now.  How did I get here, how am I in a position to ask for classes to teach, hoping there’s one FOR me to teach.  You can chance whatever you want, I’m seeing and I know I’ve written before.


Mike sees the morning differently, with stark and encouraging contrast, than he did just an hour maybe less, earlier.  He works on his essays and articles, notes, some projects formal and others not.  He re-writes himself as a writer.  Not concerned with any rules or overuse of “I”.  Nothing.  Today, that day he’d hoped for, where a formula would be disclosed, where a key would be handed to him and if not a key a book, blank, all pages for him to fill.  A new table, new lot, new connection to self and what’s meant.

8:41.  He’s more than eager for the day to land, approach and antagonize him.  He gives himself to the page, solely the pages in front of him.  Sip latte, need new topic, a novel, an essay, something.  He just keeps writing, he can figure all that out later, he reasons.

Mike relishes and celebrates in and from the singularity.  Of where he is, in the office, in that nook in the breakroom which always has seen his own.  His office, if he couldn’t yet have his own office.  He moves money from one account to another, for his office.  How much is rent, in Healdsburg.  Probably astronomical.  He’d put money away, anyway.  Mike could see the table where he’d write, the door, the books on shelf, then the travel, speaking at campuses about writing and if you want to teach don’t be dependent on the institutions.  They depend on adjuncts, as long as they know they can depend on them.  The need is mirroring, but not.  If you don’t have a class, it’s no pain to them.  If they don’t have an adjunct to fill a class, they have to move.  They have to maneuver.  They have to pain.  Mike’s temperament again leaps with more luminosity.



At desk.  Cruising through to-do’s.  Bulldozing them, really.  They have no chance against me.  None.  Making notes, now, for the day.

9:54, friend Abraham comes over to ask me about pronouns and gender, telling me he thought “Professor Mikey’s in the building, why don’t I just go ask him…” Made me laugh, but reminded me of my vision, where I’m going and the smaller destinations in the larger collective Road.  Appreciate how he and others see me.

Break approaching.  Thinking of my book, what book, THE book.

Wrote in each journal.  Sonic, Germany, and Happiness Project.  The day and I have a dance.  We dance and love and more do as the hours us pass.

10:09, tempted to take break but I’m rolling in my role, my roll, here at my desk.  Writing everything—people walking past me for meeting in room behind my desk.  Can see my office, my nearing bridge, the composition of and…. Everything.  Visions.  Singularity.

6:31.  Soon to class.  More awake than I thought I’d be.  Haven’t had caffeine in a bit. May go get a decaf.  To bed early, tonight.  Soon as home.  Wake early tomorrow morning and either write or run.


1/29/19— Not in much mood to write, I’ll be honest.  But if I decide to here at the Stony Point Star’, I have about an hour.  Brought the latte I bought at another location.  Not sure if that’s taboo or not but I’m of much mind to care at present.  Woke early but not early enough.  Was in bed just a couple minutes after ten last night, after giving easily the most fiery and animated lecture so far this term.  What I need amplify, intensify.

Some guy, one I see here every morning I get a coffee here just asked me to plug in his cord, in the outlet just to the left of my shoes, then the long extension cord stretching left, and even over another person working or doing something on laptop, left.  Can’t help but be annoyed, put in a mood even as the man had, has, no regard or apologies in interrupting me.  He didn’t say “excuse me”, or “I’m sorry, would you mind…” Now a bit warm.  Not taking off hooded sweatshirt.

Need my own office more than ever, right now and all days leading up to now.  Need quiet.  My own room, like a brother or sister sharing a room with their sibling.  The power cord guy sits at a table across from me, across the floor and talks with another man I see here all the time, while his laptop and bag stay at base at the tallboy to far left, cord still expanded.

Now someone sits in front of me at this communal table that can, could, sit about 8.  Not letting anything sever or puncture my quietude, my morning write.  More people sit at the table, speak loud and interrupt the jazz.  I don’t know if I’ll stay.  Should I just go to the office early, write in the nook, or breakroom?  Should take about ten or fifteen minutes to get there which would get me close to 8:20.  No… stay, I tell self. There’s story in this struggle, in this fight with self to ignore the people around me and write something… something…. Stories and little narrative islands and roaming meditations that go from one direction to next, to next, to….

Try to wake up more, even after all the sleep of night last.  Work today, no class tonight.  Working on ideas in head not yet writing them down, lectures on Sedaris, writing and reading, the college student’s story, me teaching Philosophy anywhere and everywhere I can.  I absolutely cannot work like this, anymore.  In cafes and corporate coffee shops.  Too many distractions, too many pushes and pulls.  But that’s ‘cause I let myself be so shoved, shrugged.  The page in front of you, what’s to be said, don’t force pace, simply follow what’s around you and what is being said to you by the day and the room, the people to whom you don’t listen.

You try to tune them out, can’t, but rather than fight you embrace what’s proximal, the jackets and people showing each other pictures on their phones, the people walking through the door letting in cold air then standing in line to get whatever they need get.  You remember why you came here, to have  a language of moments for you, for your morning, to start your day how you wish.  There is nothing to this, more than this.  Your intention, your aim, what you see for self.  Still settling into a writer’s form and mood, you type faster.  The two men in front of you speaking to each other and laughing, even occasionally hitting the table from the overwhelming humor and value of their stories, disappear.  It’s only you and what you want to do.

Your beat and music erases everything.  There is only this, this, only your moment.  You think of stories and pieces you need finish, what you want done with day.  You make a list, then scratch it out.  Reason to keep it in head, to memory committed. No need for pen and sheet.  Your music elevates in decibel, to a point where the bothers and intrusions dissipate.  You’re in the mood, now.  Finally.  There will be no departure from where you are.  No surrendering your seat.  You forget about the cord guy, the men in front of you talking whom you can’t understand why they don’t choose some other table and seats set in room.

This is your room.  Yours. For your morning.  Whether you write or not, territory yours.  The men in front of you get up and move to another table as that lady leaves and you saw her rise for departure but they had it in sights as you did.  So you stay, you don’t unnerve or frustrate, but stay in place.

You stay to further understand, study, appreciate, LOVE, your Now.  Alive early somewhat in morning, to find more of your Self in what you do.  The room becomes your classroom, to study all movements, speak in and from new realities and realizations.  Don’t overthink, you tell self.  To do so is detrimental to the rise of this Now, this storm of thought and deconstructions of immediacy—why you’re here, how free you are now in this sitting.

Identity molded and written, re-written by a morning.  Not even a full morning, the hours that make a morning, but a handful of breaths.  Breaths you made productive and transporting for your story.  To think excessively is a sentence, one to permanent rest of effort.  Just create, don’t deliberate.  Find something, learn something through discussion with the scene itself.  Tussling and conflict with it only holds you in place.  More awake now than when I arrived.  Awake and alive, aware, apt.  The words from the walls and people around me

Chose to come to this coffee spot, already with a coffee humorously enough, to collect.  Find something.  And I did.  What distracted me is nonexistent, now figments if I allow.  Identity is shaped by the presence and self-preservation you permit.  So now, accumulation.  Of Self, Life, Knowledge, Presence.  The mood morphs into a luminous reasoning belt.

Today I’ll be in SF, Richmond District.  Don’t think it’ll rain but I’ll bring jacket in event of.  No lunching out, none.  Goal is to save, build something, build.  Something.  Young lady next to me typing on a laptop, asking if she can sit there I tell her sure but she has to move that idiot’s infinite white chord that reaches the wall over there, left.  Still can’t believe or grasp that man’s nerve.  Moved past.  Past to this page, and the ones following.