Training a new Rep in a matter of breaths.  Productive day, to say the least, and more than productive but one of significant and exacted character development for me.  Tonight lecturing, know my direction.  Fixation on the story, telling one and writing one, reacting to one.  I must commit to logging everything, this semester.  In and most notably and imperatively outside the classroom.

Starting with a question, tonight.  What’s narration….?  Won’t have them take out notebooks or journals.  Not immediately.  Want them to relax.  Settle in.  Write in as few places as possible, note to this writer’s self.  Two journals to right, Sonic and Germany.  No laptop at moment except for this one, and the computer at home, the one in SRJC office.

Sipping coffee. Had it made extra strong.  The day has soared by me.  Adding Germany journal to stack of materials to take into training room.  Or, meeting room.  Same room in which I meet the Reps, everyday.  In mode, posture and mood and M character of characters—the writer, essayist, and I guess speaker.  Educator.  Idea purveyor.  This coffee is most profitably and pervasively working.


Still haven’t had any coffee.  Not one drop.  Part of me wishes for a latte, but that wish and that side of me will go away as soon as the first sip is had, I’m sure.

9:32.  Team gets here shortly.  Coffee at right.  Today, of observation.  Collecting thought and thoughts in what I see, where I am.  I’m more than calm or composed, but in pages, far into the pages I write and the ones I I haven’t written that for the moment stay thoughts.

Don’t know what to do, what to write…. My son this morning telling me he’s so excited to spend time with one of his friends, that grownups have to “do jobs and kids have play jobs”, he cites and takes time to be deliberate with his thoughts.  Emma on the floor of his room this morning reading a book, going page by page, slowly, examining each image and how the characters interact with the other.  She reads to herself then to her brother, then to me, then picks out another book.

9:36 and I feel the coffee already.  Jazz in my head and soon I the car I take from the lot to transport me to SF.  This twelfth day, new year, I think this could be when discipline takes on a topic, or I make it a topic, write a book on it.  Discipline to the point of no Starbucks, no eating lunch in SF, writing in car, running tonight at gym more than the meek 4.45 miles I somehow put out under that incendiary bulb.  Why didn’t I see that there, where the treadmill was.  Didn’t I notice that it was strangely more highlighted and on-stage than the other belts?

Today, new.  New book, new Mike Madigan in character and story, such thesis to me and what I do wherever I am.


Line at Starbucks, came straight to office.  Yet to get coffee.  Laptop working fine, now, this one and personal.  Cash saved from what I would have spent at bux.  Saving for new laptop, needed, and car.  Today, I will be extra obsessive about writing everything and putting to blog and deconstructing, further considering later.  Everything today, syllogistic in reality.  The money, what I want, how to get.  New habit… writing my own books on waking early, running, budgeting, Equilibrium (not just happiness).  Today, 12th day of the new year and I feel shifts in my universe.  In office now with heater on and me wearing sweater as the temp outside reminds me to pack and dress warm, that it’s pen weather, the climate for composition.

No lunch in field, other than the words, the work.  Eating string cheese right now, pretending it’s my omelet.  Or not so much fabricating but thoroughly believing.  What I see is in no way venal.  It’s primordial, from when I came to the story, my story, where I am now and what’s to be done to get to where I need be.  What I see.  Omelet done, now sipping sparkling water, 8:08, day just starting, the chapter just getting out to runway ready to take off sweater, put $6 in part of wallet, like a back slide-in pocket where I usually stuff money for saving, for something.  Hear phones in other department ringing.  Work, I tell self.  Work.  Aims for day—Lunch by self, no money spent in field, on ANYTHING (even coffee or a latte), transfer money to savings, make credit card dent again (Ahead of that, mind you, the payment schedule.), write random and crazy ideas.  True dreams and visions… the more unusual, bizarre and ‘a stretch’ the better.  Nothing is achieved without enthusiasm but as well certainly no greatness can be lived without being a bit mad.  Or, completely mad.  Made of creative lunacy and embracing whim as this company’s leader has shown.

8:14, thinking of time and each minute being its own teacher and class, moving from course to course, skating in surfing in dreams.  Need coffee, need a pen, journal, already 8:15 and I’m catching the day, writing the book on time and how to rule it, not so much control it but navigate most advantageously your own.  What’s happiness to me, how to live in joyful jaunt, starts in thought.  Acknowledging your decisions, the power of them all and how when you make one the story’s moved one way or the other.  Like with the visit to Starbucks, walking to the front door I told self that if I saw even a small line I would turn around and walk back to car, get coffee at office.  I saw a medieval dragon’s tail of a line, and did just what I said I would.  That that I’m to be commended, but I see the results of the antithetical action if I’d done so.

8:22.  Still no coffee but did some things for work, for my role here.  The office this morning seems more soundless than usual.  I’ll get up and walk to building’s other side, use restroom then get coffee, then come back and do a couple more things, then take a writing break, plan day some more, writing down the wildly seeming-stretch dreams of mine… house in Monterey, apartment in New York, writing flat in Paris, running in the Alps, marathon in Spain… What’s the composition of the bridge from here to there.  What I’m learning today.


8:28.  Another snack, still with sparkling water.  I CANNOT eat out in the field, San Francisco….  I paint a visual in my head, a scene, me in car writing while looking out at ocean and I mean really writing in the Germany journal and not on phone or company tablet.  Ask the waves for something, see what they say, listen for their close and concise counsel.  So many have so many ideas on goals and how to “reach” goals and live some standard of living… right now I’m thinking geography, thought, how if thoughts are assembled with certain rhythms and framing that whatever you see for self can be attained.  Bites from snack, listening to conversations around office and some frog somewhere out in parking lot.  The little guy calls quite loudly, like he’s with a thesis for me, some new idea, something to write down.  My philosophy prince, perhaps.  My Machiavelli.

May drive straight to city, not stop at gas station with sales team as we usually do but get to SF as quick as I can, write some thoughts in car, walk around the upper 40 Avenues, listen to some starting songs from the Pacific.  This morning, I’m eased, simplified, set on my Road to reasoning with self how to get that self more self.  Senses of, all that I can find and then later put to page.  A new behest, this day’s thousand, or more.

Tired of snacking, the sound in my own ears from my own chewing so I tell self that was the last bite for a bit.  Last night I wrote about wine for the first time in weeks, maybe more than a month.  Wrote about it seriously and with intimate perambulation.  How the Syrah sang, her notes, I was in a Beat that I haven’t felt in a while.  Like I was back home or has found some instrument I’d lost but now had again and could play just as fluently and loudly and accurately as I could before.  When I turned away from that line this morning I thought of that last glass, last night at the kitchen island counter, and if I would have stayed in that line the same story and rhythm would have persisted and what I want is the New, Newness in each drive to this part of Santa Rosa.  The Syrah reminded me this morning, and last night around 10, that I have time, but not so much time I can be careless.  Not anymore.


Progress.  Story.  Self-leadership.  Noting everything.  And I mean really doing it.

Have meeting with speakers, later.  Gathering thoughts, thinking about what I can say no matter what topic I’m assigned to address.

With this team I manage, or supervise, I manage and supervise my own actions in a deluge of ways. Seeing everything before it transpires and when it does analyzing and deconstructing each attribute of the action.

Today writing everything down.  Fasting.  If the laptop doesn’t work it doesn’t matter.  Starting over with what tech I use for writing.  Cruising through what I have to today do, with no obstruction or interference.  Needing coffee in hopes the hunger goes away.  Progress.  More than progress, but visible travel.  Today, I travel.  Don’t need to travel to travel.  Ideas, from thought to thought and notion to notion.

Ignoring hunger.  Bathroom then coffee—

11:08.  With coffee.  Will sip in a bit.  Too hot now.  I’m certain a burn will result, if I sip now.  All these papers on desk.  Makes me look busy.  But I’m in cruise control right now, flying but more a glide through tasks, through sentences and the bridge to get me There.

Took a couple notes and now I re-focus.  Or try.  Getting close to something, I can feel.  Going to stay in office a bit longer, tonight.  So….  What do I do for lunch.  Stop thinking about food.  Think about words, I tell myself.  Finishing a book finally and travel, teaching more.  More proximity to other writers and writing books in other cities, in only three or two weeks’ time.


3:12.  Done with everything.  Looking around desk, finding project for self.  If I see something, it becomes a project.  Or I move it.  Office survival.

4:03.  Wrapping up this day, preparing for next one.  On tonight’s run, study form, study thoughts while running—why I run, why I continue to run, think about how much more time I have running as I do.  Notice the office starting to calm down a bit.  Notes for meeting first thing in morrow.  It’s not a matter of staying busy, but seeing what I else I can see in the projects I can self-assign, self-mollify.

Have to walk iPad all the way across the floor to safe in computer room.  What do I do between clock-out and Kerouac’s basketball practice….  Get books for next semester, maybe.  Go somewhere and write more, fiddle with laptop.  That goddamn laptop…


4:49.  Practice, my son’s, isn’t for another 2 hours.  Should I go run now?  Sure the gym will be crowded as a cow heard packed in a small barn.  Am I making up excuses?  Have to lead self one way or another.  If I don’t run, then I write.  Inclined to run.  Last semester on Wednesdays I’d be in class, then go get dinner then see Jackie shoot his hoops.  Run, Mike.  Run.  Find a tread, and speed.  Work in and from and for more flight.


Been writing in more than one place for the ’19 story.  Oh well I say to myself with another glass of sparkling, Jackie over there playing on the tablet my mom and dad bought him this past xmas.  Nothing I’m writing lately I’m liking.  Certainly not loving.  So what’s the bandage for that?  One part of me says just write free, with less shackle and inner-hassle.  What’s that mean I don’t know so I re-focus on Jack.  The day he and I have had, his sister too.  She now off with wife and wife’s friend and wife’s friend’s daughter to Target to get who knows what.  Kerouac has some inner dialogue with himself regarding the game, if it’s a game or some scholastic, learning program…. “Jack, what are you doing?  What are you playing with?” He gives a bit of a mumble but I’m not convinced that was directed at me.  He goes back to doing that, whatever that is.  He rests the right side of his face in his right palm, right elbow on right inner-thigh as he sits on floor, legs crossed and lightly locked.  We just spent the past couple hours watching football.  Playoffs.  Or postseason.  Chicago versus Eagles, in Chicago.  Eagles pulled it by a point.  Just one.  I of course was on CHI’s side for various reasons—none of which I’ve told you so I guess I shouldn’t write “of course”—and so was Jack.  Both us disappointed in the result.  But we move on.  He with his game, or learning program, me with words and this morning before our together time, and time with his sister, a 7-mile run which I now feel.

Hoping to get some reading in, tonight.  Hemingway, Coelho, Plath, Hughes….  Not sure I’ll touch all four books, but one of them I’m rather confident.  Need to write more poetry, read Hughes more, and other poets like Cummings, Plath of course, Yeats, and from that collection of several poets I was gifted years ago.  Today teaches me to not work against existing momentum, ever.  What you want to do with the day is one matter, what you’re able to do and what you can do with what is present is quite another write.

Writing everything down….  Jack, quite poised and careful how he touches that screen. Face Ibn right palm, again.  He says nothing to me on his own, and I don’t want to break his connection to his current action so I just push these buttons while I look at him.  My little boy who daily loses his littleness to time— Time, that fucking animal, devouring all of us as a matter of duty and functionality, normalcy.  Why I deplore normalcy, the patterns.  The expected.  The unavoidable tumult of the clock.  I look at reflection, mine, and can see changes in my face, around the mouth and eyes.  Forty this year— fuck.  Have I lost some of my awareness and writing ability?  Am I starting to fade?  Looking over at little Kerouac, my little beat.  He’ll keep me young.  His sister, too.


With grades handed in, the semester floats away from me like an abandoned buoy or side-boat, or decaying dinghy.  In office, dark and quiet, safety from outside, from that wind and rain and airborne leaves that somehow find a way to follow you.  Co-workers from other department file in, slowly.  You can tell they’re in a mode of settlement.  I’m in a position and tone of settler, settling into my Sonic role for day.  We’ll be walking in this, this weather, the sharp talk of rain and the more elephantine curl of winter Bay Area wind.  San Francisco.  More than likely will be colder.  7:53…. Need to start on list, soon.  Keep lights off for the time, for this time, making now and the entire day mine.  Normal proclamation from Mike Madigan’s normality.

Coffee.  Will walk across floor to get, from the office area on the east side of this structure.  Lights above me still off, lights behind me in meeting room on.  Another person walks in.  I think of what to do next.  Working and not, thinking about where I am in my story and how this fits in.  I need to run more, not getting out last night has me regretful and on an evaluative sword’s mercy plate.

Quiet, and then the settling noises.  Of any workplace I’ve been at this is by far the more interesting and enveloping in terms of characters and general theme, progression of story.  Other offices, like the insurance office in the early 2000s, and the home warrantee operation of ’04 (which as it happens used to be in this very building and I used to sit not far from where I now this type).  Then, of course the box of 2011 and into January of ’12.  None of them had life, none of them had any promise.  How do some employers expect the people working in their walls to be animated and progress to any profitability?  I have to ask self this.  What do some of these employers think when they design positions then offer people jobs?  This is why I’m taken by Sonic as I am, as it’s nothing like them, nothing.  It’s a loving and perplexing morass of more volume, more sound and music.  You find YOU, here.  A definition and intonation of self you don’t in other folds and office buildings, assuredly.

Submitting the semester past’s grades last night, I think of what Sonic’s taught me, what I’ve gathered and learned and upon reflected.  Who I am and what I’m doing right now, in from rain and wind, safe and collected at a desk.  Desks used to repulse me now I’m renewed, taken to a higher arrangement of character and story adjustment, the Now of it all here in this office.  And, me here, what I do here, what I observe and what assembles into my assembly of perception.

This year’s one of study.  I’m a student.  I’m studying.  I’ll receive a grade in the form of opportunity, opportunity I provide self.  So I’m grading myself.  I’m with the grade book and submitting for sakes of the grade in the book, with a book of my own. Being written here, at Sonic.


8:32.  Got a couple cereal cups from market here in office, down this row of desks and then a left, ‘nother left, then a sharp left then sharp right.  Back at desk with coffee and cereal, daily tasks I had set for self done, now I collect and ready for day.  Ready self for readying and rallying team for a day in the field.  Again I don’t know how inclement it is in SF, but I’m sure it could affect mood and morale, if allowed.  How some go to jobs they hate, over and over, year after year, astonishes me.  Fills me with sadness for them and a virulently loud intent to never let that be me.  At none of my other “jobs” was my own pace endorsed, encouraged. Never was I encouraged to this degree to find more of ME.

The jazz of this office reminds me of the thesis to this office and my story here.  Sip coffee after bite of cereal, and what precisely the next paragraph holds.  This right here, the meta of this magic, magic in the plain, in the so often dismissed and ignored.  The singularity of where you work, what you want from it.  This building directly addresses and I would say challenges just that.  IT tells you that this is more than a simple place to work.  IT’s not a job.  That’s profanity here.  IT’s a missions and edifice of explorative hue.  All for you, YOU, whatever you want to do.  You heard what the owner said, “Use it as a platform to get where you want to be.” He said that, in a room full of new hires, those impressionable, those possibly still seeking conviction and assurance that this was the right move.  You know it is. You have no doubt, question, demand for explanation.  You’re hungry.  Finally, you think, finally this happens.  Finally this is what’s before the day, for me, for what I want and what I’ve always expected a place of employment to be.  You know this is more than simple employment, that a simple clocking in and clocking out and getting a check and doing the same thing all over again next pay period.

Even teaching doesn’t do this for you.  Teaching, you thought the only career path for you but you found so many caveats and conditions, so many variable and so much chasing.  You’d grade that career choice, or more choice as it’s certainly no career, an F.  F.  F.  It failed you in so many manners and immediacies that it’s hard to even entertain inventory.  So you move on.  You move past it.  It’s only an it.  One easily replaceable and you have replaced it with life, not a to-do list but LIFE.  More invitation for Self and what you were before you even heard of this place.  Your normality’s abnormally loving and supportive, enriching and enlivening.