freeness – bottledaux

Earthquake earlier. Actually two.

One over 4 on scale. Amazing dinner with Dan and Sue, now in Nook Office as I used to be when living here. Found a Pride Cab in cellar here that had a post-it with my name on it, “MIKEY”. Letter obvious and attention-getting, note to future me meaning the tonight-Mike.

Sipping Roth Cab, AV, and thinking about Dad’s pilot store from earlier, the stormy approach in SFO, and other. Can remember specifics right now, too wrapped in life’s brevity and how the writer only has tonight.

Mom and I talking about the quakes, first one with he reaction like “Oh is that an earthquake?” Then the second, “Oh fuck, that’s an earthquake.” The Cab helping, mentoring.

Long day of business and divorce shit… someone telling me my blog reads like a journal. Yeah no shit. Wildly genius assessment. More wine, ‘nother of the Roth AV. Reminds me of the beginning dates of this. Writing late here in the Nook. I’m here again, conversations til Mom and Dad, grateful. Kerri messaging me that she’s having her daughters help her prep boards.

What is this blog, what am I – About EVERYTHING, a writer. Learning.

Picture of my grandma above the fireplace in the room in front of me, guess you’d call that a family or ‘living’ room. Time, times with Grandma and Grandpa, taking me one place or another when younger. Need to think…

ME – 43, music, need more. Of what, more music yes but more peace, more a Composition and story new. Haven’t sipped the Cab yet, waiting. Trading ideas from one character side to another persona tide. I know where the new Mike Madigan goes, is going, what poems he’s throwing.

Free, freeness.. messaging old friend sad new ones. Something different in life, the prime, earth, something – this table. What a poet needs and upon feeds. Nearly wishing for another quake but I’m sure I’ll regret that frag’ soon.

symbols…emblems

Busy, in Reserve Room. Still, with the wind. Sipping, quite slow, Sauv Blanc. The ’12. Did a little reading of Emerson’s “The Poet” at work, some associate criticisms. Thoroughly connect to his elevation of the Poet, how we’re seers, voices of crucial Nature. Having trouble concentrating, here at home. Tomorrow, while grading, in much better locale. All day, seeing my book as more of a collection that a novel. And what’s wrong with that? Emerson did same, collecting his essays, writings.

Can’t write in cluttered envelopes. “Clutter,” not what I wanted to say. Just the comfort, distractions of home. Not a negative, just reality. Bradbury had to leave his house, confine himSelf to a library basement to finish Fahrenheit 451. 9:39pm, need to get to my work soon, really soon. Just planning on freeness of writing. My night’s flavor, all for book. Plan for morrow, write as soon as I’m woken. Reminded today, partially with Boston explosion, that Life’s so short it’ll pass before you even have plans to plan its rest. And there’s no excuse not to write. Not for a writer. We should always be recording, studying past masters.

This ’12, motivating vivacity. Reading through The Poet, again, getting ideas for tomorrow’s session. Want to connect Emerson’s piece with our exploration of Art, what defines it, constitutes it. But when am I getting to the grading? The question I don’t want to force on Self, but know I have to. You know, reader.. think I’ll just enjoy my night, these thoughts, this re-read of Mr. Emerson’s work. Pairs nicely with the ’12 SB, honestly. This’ll be my last glass. Not in much mood for vino. Only Lit.

Emerson stresses the Poet’s importance, presence. Makes me think about everything I’ve written.. recently, long ago. It has to go somewhere, amount to something. Fruition is poetic, Artful. He urges persistence, in his essay. Can’t read it here. Too much distraction. And that’s okay. In the office.. that shared adjunct cell. Poetry, for night’s rest.. where do I start? Have to just begin, that’s it. The world for me waits. Collect, collect… Done with wine, onto sparkling berry water. Need to concentrate. No interest in anymore Gatsby missions. Completing tracks, pinnacle of priority.

Taxes, today. Mine, done weeks ago. Wonder where that money goes. And I mean, where it REALLY goes. Not sure why I’m thinking about that now.. have writing to do, poems to finish– SONGS to soon print.

Running into more avenues; accidental

panaceas the Poet had to choose.

Stalls, cause by litigious brick walls.

Across the sprawl.. but I’m to stubborn 2fall.

Like a dazed doll, with chilling stare.. but why would

these devils care? Floating on their cash clouds.

They’re like, “Why does he talk that loud?”

Thin destiny, new recipe.. vended me–

There, put Self in poetry mode. Had to. It’s the only way I can live. Musically. I know just where ALL these pages go. When I’m gone, it’ll all be out, flying in readers’ minds. And what’s not, well-organized in vault, on reaction’s conveyor belt. So I’m just writing till it’s all done, all these books. To sleep now, structurally sound. Splendid spirit shape.

(4/15/13)