The day starts with a rile.

Something different.  Not sure what it was, and still is at this late hour, 22:34, but I’m here, quite presently.  Forgetting what it is to write, because of the laptop being out of some kind of commissioned commission.  No more, though, after the walk at lunch along the creek bed, seeing the steelhead try so sharply to get up Dutcher Creek.  I watched, and took so as instruction, the not-so-little fish telling me to swim against the current, create my own currency.  The day started with a rile but after the event today he sits here, the writer, rather tired.  The semester starts the day following tomorrow and I’m prepared but strangely nervous.  Why.  I always ask myself that.  Do I have something to lose, as an adjunct?  Am I afraid of something?  Not being received well, in the lecture?  NO.  I’m just here, maybe thinking too much, but I’m thinking.  Again, “strangely” nervous.

Babies asleep upstairs.  Both.  Emma, walking all over the house today according to Alice, and now sleeping in her crib.  All the way down the hall from our room– or, just twenty feet or so.  AND, the little priestess decided that today is her day of autonomous saunter.  YES, the little poetess is walking.  How and why I ask my self as I just continue to get old, old, me so old.  I’m nuts, not at all perfect, just that aging daddy, here with no wine but knowing I need some.  Fuck it, I think, I need some.  Alice watches an old episode of ‘Sex and the City” and I sit here in this swivel chair not swiveling and thinking about Tuesday– day one of the semester.  Hunter S. Thompson talk and the whole getting-to-know…  Riding through the syllabus, and me trying to be the “professional” adjunct.  But what’s “professional”?

Tangential, that’s what I’m aiming for, typing on this keyboard that’s thin and odd; not mine and just weird.  The Merlot from sister’s winery tasting like it’s more instructional than that steelhead.  Walking along that creek bed and just watching the water told me to be truly tireless, not just think and talk about it in some timeless cognitive perambulation.  The wine has answers, the bottle has decision and speak.  It speaks to me with certitude with wandering grandiose layeredness.  Need to be more tangential and you should be, too.  With everything.  And I mean, really everything.  What is normality?  Something I want to avoid.  What I peg as “just weird” is acutely something I should chase.  Dance to and after.  Sure of one thing, the story need continue and never close– the Merlot develops its ferocity and refuses to halt, even minutely.  It sings with true angularity and throws its new pew.  No weather outside, no fair, so I just harness self and speak to this most recent tangent.  Like this morning, how it started, with newer than renewing new fire.  This new year, now new, but I set something never-before-seen to its pre-set scene.

The adjunct just wants his nightcap before his client meeting tomorrow morning.  Part of me growls, “Why can’t I just have a day off?” But that’s join of those thoughts I should have just kept a muffled thought and now put to page, but here I did, I did–  The light of similarity is too bright, I write too much mirroredness.  So I need embrace this theatrical tangential.  Did I not study HST?  I have no Fear, and I only love, no Loathing.  My babies upstairs have a daddy downstairs who still grapples with his meditations.  But, that, now, stops.

Pretty sure I have

whatever Alice has.  8:47 and I’m already thinking of bed.  Babies with one of their grandmas, and we here in that odd tranquility.  I’m set on getting up early, writing papa making promises that he always makes.  This whole day I’ve been frustrated in that vein, that I am where I am, not fully where I want to be in the ‘am’ sense.  Heater on, not sure how cold it is outside– wallet and keys, phone, earphones, pen and business card from someone in the wine industry at left.  Should ready for bed now, make coffee and set alarm.  Not tempted to have a glass of wine or beer even the least.  Just want sleep so tomorrow morning I can wake early and write– three pages.  Laptop not cooperating again so I’ll work on this computer, the one Alice’s grandmother left to her, or that was given to her, Alice, by her mother.  Even if I do have this cold or bug or whatever it wants to be, I won’t slow.  I’m the tireless writing father that I have to be to do what I need to do for my family.  “Ugh,” I think, “why now?” Why do I have to catch something now, right before the semester starts?  Who knows.  Time for bed.  But what if I forced myself to stay up, write through this runny nose and sniffles and the sneezes when they creep up on me? My mood falls like an unprepared rock climber that found his way further up the side than he thought he’d high.  Only want bed, and to wake in the morning more motivated to write than I’ve ever been, to be in some cognitive position to write something that will send me to the Road.  IT, has to happen.  Will, tomorrow.  Yawn coming on… yes, bed.
Next morning, still with symptoms but I accrued quiet a rally of rest.  I’ll be fine for the day.  “Push yourself,” I keep inwardly chanting.  Alice on the mend, but now little Kerouac falls to a bug.

Back home, keeping self moving.  Mom messaged and advised I stay home but for some reason, even though I robustly agree with her, my thoughts won’t allow me.  They refuse to let me give in to anything.  Alice on the couch with her mocha and breakfast bread.  Me in office, finally emptying out that goddamn side pocket of the backpack where I idiotically shoved receipts, cough drops, paper and coined currency.  The couple sips of coffee I had this morning and the 4-shot mocha I now know have me fearlessly and tirelessly into the day’s story.  And, going to bed as early as the writer did anoche certainly helps.  Being here in the office certainly tempts me though, I’ll disclose, but the tireless writer has to be tireless and immune to the same bugs that overtake these non-writing characters.  When we’re sick, we’re tested.  We’re made to see how tough we really are, especially as writers. So here I am, exam time.  Not thinking about bed, rest, a break, or trying to get well.  I’m well enough.  This bug or whatever it is provides little match for a writer like Mike Madigan.

inward jot

img_0237Emission Encourage  

Been a morning for the writing father.  Feel scattered, worn, disheveled and in a terrible creative drought.  At Hopper, last night the laptop not opening but this morning it did, and thank the Craft that it did as I was about to lose my composure and character composition altogether.  Have 59 minutes till I have to leave, get a bit of gas and head to Geyserville.  In this sentence desert where I have nothing to say but the obvious and expected for me, I look at the pages I stapled together yesterday.  Title for chapbook series, “Rune Rove”…  Then I write “Wine is an invitation and invocation”.  Then, “Freedom is not a phase.” Something obviously meant for the students this coming semester… so I open the teaching blog (which I thought I would have killed by now, and post it…  On the second page I scribbled “Rain isn’t allowed to inject boredom.  Only boldness.”  I remember writing that the day before yesterday when I was altogether bored in the tasting room, just watching the rain fall and thinking about how much I COULD be getting done had I not been at work.  And now I realize, “Get shit done at work.” And I did, but I could have done more.  Yesterday I wrote quite a bit in my little notebook I bought at work.  Idea for an independent class, some poetry, other thoughts…  I kept moving, no matter what my mood was—  And I wasn’t in a mood, but I kept thinking, “What if I were at home or in my office… what I could be getting done…” Don’t wish, just do.  That’s what I’m taking away from the last couple days, and today.  And this morning, where the writing father is being approached by kids, wife, the day itself… not enough time, even though I woke rather early and was in bed last night before 10, which is a rarity for me.

Taking back the morning.  Huh, ‘taking back’…  It never went anywhere.  It was always mine.  And on the drive to work I’ll record some thoughts into the mic function of my phone, anything that comes to mind, about putting everything on the blog, to photography… to shooting more videos like I did in the vineyard yesterday on West Dry Creek Road.  Part of today’s business plan involves a walk in the vineyard, contributing more to the “#life #happiness #bottledaux’ project I just started to upload with that very video.

Not too many people around me in Starbucks this morning.  One on her phone, the other in the opposite corner on her laptop, and man eating a banana, coffee at his side, waiting for  I think another drink.  The morning’s transformed, re-blended…  ‘Nother note from yesterday’s makeshift notebook— “Freedom— Sovereignty, Liberation […] from/for what?  From ALL.  For Autonomy”.  OUR Autonomy.  Perfect for the semester’s dominant idea and search, Freedom.  In the texts, for ourselves, getting what we want from life and from our studies and not being corralled.  Looking at the clock and I realize I’m being corralled, pushed to move quicker from the time, 8:53.  Will have to start packing at 9:15… prep mic for ride, write all day in little notebook.  At lunch, use phone for visuals and writing.  Laptop only for this sitting, this placement at this table in the corner of sbux where I fight off the morning.  No morning is not yours, readers.  All of them are.  The day, even more so.  Tonight, going to fully ready for next morning.  Always say I will, but I will.  I have to.  Again, thanking the Craft.

3:42pm.  Have to think

about leaving soon.  Want to go to whole foods and get some new beer for tonight, then get babies, maybe write a little when home but more than likely I’ll be in full-on daddy mode.  Which I love, don’t get me wrong, but I have to think hard about leaving.  If I leave, this session and sitting are done.  No returning.  Maybe I’ll leave at 4-flat.  Which gives the writing papa 16 minutes, a bit less, to write.  Collect self.  Use every minute you can.  be ready always.  Don’t be still.. don’t get distracted.  There’s a gem in everything— each hit of the drum or piano blurb, hum and yodel.  All around me now musical and I have to follow the song’s strokes.  Documenting all I can while I have time here, as when I pick them up, I’m with them, then I’m driving, then at home I’m feeding and readying them for bath.  Again, no qualms or complaints I’m just highlighting the reality as more of a reminder to myself, more than anything else.  I’m here, I’m a writer—  I’m with the babies, at home, I’m daddy and husband.  So budgeting time is even more crucial and purposed than currency.

Still up and writing and waiting for this “storm”

the weather goons predicted to land. You know how that goes. Heater comes on, last sip of coffee. Should make some more. Should finish this work for client and just send it over and be done with it. Shouldn’t say it like that, but I’m getting quite fed with my procrastination. Not as bad as I used to be but the inclination is still there to just put it off for another day… ehhhhh, just one more day. No more. Not in ’17.

Excited for the semester to start. Shit, just remembered I have to input the grades for last semester. I’ll do that tonight. Thought they were due on the 8th but it doesn’t matter. I want them done and OFF the plate.

8:02… should make my coffee and jump back into client writing. Agreed, a voice internally says while I look up to see no rain falling on the Autumn Walk asphalt. Quiet in the house, something I’m not used to of late… If only I had the whole day to write. A question I keep posing to Self as fantasy but it’s not at all something fairytale-like or something you read about, or it doesn’t have to be—speaking mostly to other parents this new year with stratospheric aspirations and aims that have high altitude. “Learn to fly!” I just wrote in the Composition Book next to me. If you want that to be your like then make it your life, right? Okay.. so the first step, write more. 3 pages a day becomes my religion. Anything on page, anything… writing to parents this morning as I am a parent with the rarer than rare quiet morning down here at the desk to myself, downstairs at this desk to myself, after in bed trying to go back to sleep, sniffling, thinking to myself “What the fuck am I doing? I could be writing… I could be taking steps toward that… my ‘that’… my Healdsburg office and my travels, coming home telling my babies all about what I saw and having some gift for them from New York, Paris, Florida, Texas.. wherever.” The thought went on and on but I can’t remember most of them by now after that first cup of Italian Roast but I know what the consistency was, the flavor of my under-the-surface musings and projections.

Still no rain. Huh… I wonder who dreams of being a weather person. A meteorologist studying climatology and the temperatures and functionalities of the planet I understand… but who wants to be the predictor? Who wants to be hated when the weather does not at all what you said it would? Just a thought this morning. I want the rain to arrive, and more fiercely than whoever said it would. Want to write to it. Want to see how people will react to it. I just want the rain today, that’s all. Feel like someone in an audience waiting for the show to start. Are they going on any time soon? Did they not show to this show? Do I get my money back?


img_99951/1/17.  So it’s here.  And I’m here for a couple hours to gather self…  Not an inch of planning, just doing.  Hopper Starbucks for a couple hours and disbelief that it’s already 2017, but I have to get over that, and immediately.  Woke with a bit of a stomach-honed uneasiness but that’s not at all a result from the wine or sparkling J Rosé I bought Alice, but eating too late.  And that ice-cream sandwich nightcap.  Yeah, won’t be having one of those for a while.  First lesson from this first day of ’17, is to just do.  Feel like in English classes they instill too much process and procedure when it comes to writing.  In high school and even in the JC’s quirky and medicinal-looking rooms.  Why not just hop into your idea, start writing and edit or polish or refine later?  Why can’t writers, or any of us, just be allowed to DO?  To write?  To express and be ourselves as that’s what living is.  That’s what Newness is and learning from Self— when you try new approaches and avenues, and you find yourself in a belle vie.  The first day of a new year, after so many do so much planning, you’ll find me here in Hopper just writing, just flying at the page with a blind appetite and subscription to this writing life.  To this creative life.  Even with my center a bit a-quake, I sip slowly a medium roast.  Left the sparkling water bought for me at home.  She just called to remind me.

Rather large man sits across the room from me, making noises and laughing.  I’m not being judgmental but I do need to concentrate.  On my story as a teacher with this new year and how this WILL be the semester to end all semesters—  Or rather, to START all the following semesters.  Me, mobile, sharing my ideas and thoughts and approaches with students, and formulating new ones with them.  Saw one of my strongest and more cherished students from Spring of ’16, yesterday at the Piner Café while in line to ring out with Jack (after he and I enjoyed a daddy-Jackie lunch).  The man across from me makes more sounds but then focuses on a tablet he brought and is quiet, or quiet under all this Hutchinson I have playing.  2017…  New Year, New Day, New Mike, New STORY—  So I fly toward it like a fly on a freeway about to hit a glass flat, but I dodge and continue flying toward impediments, evading them or slaying them.  Wine is music so it will be there with me in my story, in the 2017 stream…

Already see day one of Spring ’17—  Theme: Freedom.  In all the authors we’ll be covering.  Hunter, Plath, Kerouac, Hughes.  This will be the most constructive and magnetic semester of my career.  For a number or reasons, but foremost how everything will extend from the “teaching”.  Connected to this blog and to me and culminating in a book, sending me on travels where I’ll sip wine from some hotel room and write about the wine and the room and how I can’t wait to go back home to Alice and the little beats.  One object for this year, as I scribbled in the Comp Book, was something like “MUSIC…more music”.  Again, something like that.  But Bobby now tells me to just play, jumpy around in your own notes and knots and consciousness hops.  2017 is about life in the creative and only living such.  No playing roles, or “looking the part” as so many say— that’s always annoyed me.  Why spend anymore time doing anything but actuating.

More people come into Starbucks, appearing beat, worn, over-sipped, tired from the night before.  How could you do that to yourself?  That would waste if not terminally infect any forward in this first ’17 page.  Others aren’t like me, I know, or like my writing friends like the lady at work in the office who also teaches and understands this phylum of thought.  We have to write, we have to be we, always.  It’s definitely here.  The year where everything has to happen.  Freedom and exponential simplicity but I’m overthinking as usual, as a usually over-self-used writer.  Write forward, write from this coffee and to the next one, and back home to the water you were supposed to have drank more of.  2017 orders me to continue as veridical as possible.  No fiction, only truth.  And I do plate any fiction, like with Kelly, then it has to be from a place of truth, a fold not in any way fictive.  Truth solves everything, and truth coupled with creativity is impervious.  I start to relax, on this first day, while Roy Hargrove and Ronnie Mathews play.  The first day puts me in a place.  One if not lucrative then assuredly, freeing.