These pod chairs, or seat, I have to have one in my office.  For me… My office, can see it.  I can.  I see it without closing my eyes.  It’s a vision I not only believe it but find calm and quietude in.  I’m there when I think of it.


Hot with this sweatshirt or jacket on.  Can’t stop typing and take it off, though.  That will cost me.  Time.  Time.  What I can never have enough of.  So aware of time, today.  Life and its short stint.  I choose to spend lunches like this, most of the time.  Monday of course, no, getting lunch with Tasha.  Yesterday, getting latte and writing a bit in car.  So that suffices, partially.  But this, this is a true literary lunch.  This is what writers, true writers, do.  What I’m doing now, a writer.


Thirsty.  Want another sparkling water.  Wait till after, after the typing and work for ME.


Someone else, in a pod next to me.  Heard him turning pages of a book.


Gathering tax stuff….  Thinking of challenging self, again… what I can do till 4/15/20.  2020… makes me cringe.  Time.  Again.  Reminding me.  It’s coming.  For me.

Lunch. Small latte in car. Windows down. Even with clouds it’s a bit warm. Excited about drive home as I want time to Self, quiet and music. The day is a bit odd now I feel, changing its tone and talk, character and code with me for some reason. I sent the day too much influence and say in my day. On Solano, in Albany. Was tempted to get something at a nearby Mexican grille but told self no and stuck to pb&j and latte guns. Now, time to Self. Cold air replaces warm and humid uncomfortable. The air, nicely pushing me, easing my edge and nervy echo.

Car next to me pulls out, back, drives away letting more speedy air at me from left. A Porsche Cayenne, then a ford, then a Civic. People going somewhere but where I want to know for story sales and just the curious strut mentally. This town I find interesting. Would never live here, but it’s different. It’s new. And the older I get I find that’s precisely the aim to everything. Newness.

Work. In the Field. Each day gifts Newness, but you have to manage your temperament. Then I think there’s nothing to write about in the cabin of this company car with a small latte and windows down, people walking by and cars zooming up Solano behind me. And maybe there’s not. But there is. I’m here and Sonia all of this. I could be staring at the screen of this bloody phone, but no. No. I didn’t let myself. Celebrating that I didn’t.

3/19/19. Thousand words to book. 

Planning day.  Week.  Life.  How it’s all to go.  Self-publishing this book and changing certain dimensions before “the assessment”.  The day I turn 40.  Want the book done.  No more not-selling writing.  No more self-doubt.

This cold, making a second pass, but I’m defying it and denying it any entry or connection to my character.  Staying elevated and positive in all pulses.

Almost done with my latte.  How the fu–  Time just moving so I move with it, and like I stipulated in the thousand words–  Guy enters nook carrying a ladder and I ask if I’m in his way he says no I’m fine, I ask if he wants me to move he says he’s going to paint the wall black within the next hour or so.  I tell him I’m going to be out of here just before nine and he extends his fist for a bump, I answer with bump, “Have fun!” He says and leaves.

Have fun.  I think about that. Of course.  Why not.  I am.  Have fun at work, in work, with my work. What I do. My character and its definition and decision, decisions.  Have fun.  Enjoy the story.

This morning continues to educate me on me and my work, me here at Sonic.  This, this building, me and my role, I’m seeing is part of the There.  Yesterday meeting in the Zen Den, or Zen Cove as I call it still from time to time, talking about what’s ahead and how everything now moves in positive pulse, tells me I need focus on it more.  My book, on Thought, the definition of thought and what thought does, can do, where it comes from, wildly provoked by this building, this company.  And the other building, when I’m in there.  I didn’t see this, when I applied, when I first started, or even in my first month.

The first month, I was still celebrating being out of a tasting room.

Work… work… work…..  I write about work and making work your own.  Making it your own story, your life, what you are and who you are, not just job title and location.

8:41.  Made self lunch this morning so I HAVE TO eat and write in car.  Not all ideas and thoughts, visions about and from where, past where I am.  My office, this office, always working with this company and help tell its story.  Revolution, movement, music, poetry, SOUND.  I can barely stand and translate everything that’s being said to me by the morning.  Sonic very much reminds me of a Coltrane track, in its precise yet frenzied and random patterns, the profuse passion for the Now, the track itself, being there, present and speaking, reciting, reveling in colorful immediacy.

8:44.  I’m reminded here and when in Field that each moment serves standalone story.  All of them.  No exception.  From business consideration, this is enigmatic and pragmatically spastic.  That’s why I identity with the language, with the scene and stage and ways from day to day.

St. Patrick’s Day

Not sure what it means to me, the significance. If there is any. But I’m enjoying the day. Brewery up the street from the Autumn Walk Studio that I’ve been wanting to visit for months. And here I am. Finally. Back to work tomorrow and I return more composed and confident than recent weeks. Why…. I focus on the idea of sound, speed, efficiency, story. Kindness. The pillar and principle that should determine business momentum. Playing now, as I about to pick up the pint+ of Red Ale, Born On A Bayou, CCR. I’m taken somewhere. Somewhere. Some mood elevated and renewed. My day off but not. Not at all. This, this tap room if you’d call it that, present now in my pages. This is all significant. That I know.


Home from dinner at parents.  Last night to self in home.  Glass of last night’s red at left and I don’t know if I’ll open that other bottle, a Cab, I had my eye on.  Tonight, one of music.  Writing by hand, in Germany Journal.  Bed earlier than last night.  Alarm set for morning.  Can settle on a treadmill bit of speed work or a run later in morning from Bennett Valley and into Howarth Park, Annadel.  Writing business plan in head for remainder of night.  In bed by 11:30, latest.  Till then, write poetry in pages, listen to music.  I’ve realized this so many times more before, but all in my story must center around and stem from poetry.  Which is music, you know I believe and see.  Will let my pen talk, do the work not for me but with me. The quiet of this little family home, heater on, wine nearly gone.  Going over my life in head after talking to Mom and Dad about family friend that literally just passed, matter of days ago, finding I’m just a passer of ways to know.  Or so…. Night telling me to slow, more collect and deconstruct not be so abrupt.  I’m home.. not just in this structure, but in poetry, the lines and beats, rhymes and syllable play, but thoughts on a paper tray.

Waiting for an idea, something to shove me one way or another.  Maybe I’ll get it on my run in the morning, or later morning, early afternoon.  Life, just walking away from us like a like a royal not interested in the common glass.  Time just sees through us, not even ignoring us.  To ignore is to exert something, some energy or interest or effort.  Time doesn’t do that.  So, then, I need that Cabernet to write more in this life and clock fray.

Lunch in Berkeley.

Crepevine. Been here a handful of times. Today’s rewarding me for something I did. What. The thousand word start to the day? Me staying in last night? I’m loving my walk today with the Field Sales Team. Small streets, quiet with a spread of varying tree types.

Today in the Field is different. It rewards me and provoked me to do more. More. Reminding me that I need wish for nothing. Everything is right here. In this restaurant, in Berkeley, in every street. Most can’t wait for their workday to end. I dread the out punch, leaving this chair, the omelette she just set down for me. I want more of this. Today. Now. What I do.

from this morning

…one place.  Here.  This page and the ones that follow.  Writing anymore becomes odd for me.  A tricky feel.  The thoughts about my character need jazz, so I turn to Coltrane, “I’m Old Fashioned”, the remastered version.  I know what I’m doing, what I’m going to do.  Surprised I’m this awake with how late I to bed went.  I rose, write, more coffee, more jazz, more sight and plans for how the day’s to delineate itself in my life, the life of the day itself.  I want today to be different, and different in a way that defines and decides the life of me and those around me, favorably.  That is, the impact I have, on their life, the Mike Madigan they meet today… 

The classroom…  How I still, somewhere in my character want to be full-time, at a university, publishing and lecturing, traveling… why don’t I.  Okay, okay… before I go down that Road too far, what am I doing now.  Writing.  At work.  When I could as I see others be on my phone watching YouTube videos or just looking at the clock till it reaches clock-in time.  I’m not elevating self above them, but this reality has me realizing my purpose and what I’m to be doing.  The idea then comes into my head, go out to dinner tonight and write about the discussion, about the restaurant, about the quiet house.  Where I am, what I’m doing.

Someone walks their dog outside, past the window, dog pees on one of the bushes to right, I sniffle a couple times and then feel tired, take a sip of latte, then think of cancelling dinner this evening.  That time could be spent, should be spent, writing.  AND, I probably shouldn’t be going out if I don’t feel my most self of selves, no?


Of March.  Still not feeling one hundred, and the morning for me is odd, little things happening here and there that aren’t worth page presence, but I’m thinking of 40 and how it’s now quite close.  Wanted to wake this morning to run but the facets of whatever bug I have were still dominant.  Went to be last night I believe just before or after 8.  Woke this morning to wife telling me we slept in, around 7:15 I believe. So, rested, me, yes.  But I’m off.  In nook with jazz in ears and 4-shot latte, needing today to do something.  Looking for other income possibilities, to one day have that house in Monterey or Santa Cruz, on the Oregon Coast, then I remember–  Where are you, Who are you, What are you doing.  Don’t look for anything.  Got it, got it…. Kerouac in Big Sur cabin re-assessing everything around him and in his story so do I now in this morning with this latte and with this cold or whatever I have.  Throat still a bit pained, not so much a nasal note, but I’m not my fullest of full selves.

Wife and babies going to Tahoe with fried and her daughter.  You’d think I’d be thrilled with the time to self.  Not.  Not at all.  Didn’t see babies last night, and won’t tonight and tomorrow nuit.  Know that’s affecting my mood and how I’m composed, now.  I’m sure of it.  What if I pulled an all-nighter, tonight.  Didn’t have dinner with my brother, Jesse, and just ordered in, typed until I found more of what I found this morning with the idea and purposing of classes online.  Not so much an English class, or writing class, or ever reading, but FINDING self in the literary.  March’s Ides, this Ide, moves me one way, the back into Self to find more Self, seeing self in classroom and staying in classroom.. not needing to look for ANYTHING.