Like a Horse 

Not wanting to be 

Corralled 

Or controlled, only

Seeing open plain and terrain

So I just run, run and go to 

The next highest point.

And me, running to the other side.

Don’t put your hands on me, don’t put

A rope around my necknor pulling me

One way

Or another.

Just interact, compassion, communication–

The air is my addiction, faster I go, faster

I perambulation down that path..

Write myself a song on a treeside.  Would

That work– think so..

Chasing the air and the dragonflies around

The stable, I’m out here, I don’t want to 

See that place, those rectangles– that’s supposed to

Be home?  I’d rather be in the open lone– nothing

More known.. my mind windblown.  Sitting

For a second, need to rest before the river

Crossing.  How long is that.

I don’t know..  everything stops…

And I just stand, expecting the predator 

Type.  But nothing arrives.

My stage is mine still–  not at all

ill.

Just waiting for next trot.

from book…

…stories and music and poetry— this Bobby Hutchinson song, Camel Rise…. Wine is all of this.  How I can afford coffee, how I only now at my old age “know business”, as is said.  Me, now, at the kitchen counter writing thinking about my day and what I want from all of this, where I don’t want to be versus where I should be versus and blended with where I am.  An equation glorious but as well just as much a kerfuffle scenic.

I look at the word count of this document.  31,822…. And I look at past entries and the day number is off.  Who cares, I say to myself.  Focus on the Now, NOW, right now in this kitchen and the Nicholas Payton notes.  Definitely hungry.  Need breakfast, or should I hold off, see how my character reacts.  Not sure what I’m thinking or feeling this morning but it’s certainly something and I need to not so much find out what it is, define it, but actuate within its congruency, or incongruence—  Again, don’t try to define it.  Me in the morning, thoughts and Philosophy, new approaches to everything already in place….

vin jot

At Mom and Dad’s, enjoying quiet.  Tempted to go out on back deck and enjoy night air and see into nothing I can see.  Miles plays and the quiet is an entrapping intoxicant.  Beer, right–  Tonight’s one of those meditative nights you’ll remember forever.  Dad just went to bed and I’m here with my beer, thoughts intrinsically clear.  My tone and mentality, mellow.  Tomorrow, my Friday, but not really.  Teaching.  Doesn’t matter, I don’t want days off.  I want creation all days, each day, all seconds.  This is a moment– something to capture… me at the bar counter at Mom & Dad’s, sipping my beer slow and I won’t lie I might have another after this, enjoying the scenic mute and stillness, pause and peace of all with chatter and clutter replete.

Earlier tonight had an Albariño, followed by Dutcher Crossing ‘PR’ Cab.  Anymore, wine teaches me that I have so much to learn about its momentum and visual, voracity and musical poses.  Distracted for a second, and I know why–  I’m tired.  From the day even though today could have tested me resoundingly more.  Quiet… a funny thing.  Hank Mobley tells me to find my soul station.  Have I?  If I haven’t now I’m sure I will eventually.  Dad brought up tonight the idea of an ‘end-game’.  Very much know what mine be.  ME.  Mike Madigan selling wine or whatever at his own posture and pace and reality.

Getting tired.  And I’m trying to resist, but I’m unsuccessful.  Will have to wake earlier than early to get home “on-time” and get ready for winery, be on road in time for Windsor writing…  Interesting night, honestly…  wine talked about as well as business, careers, corporate atmosphere, vision and professional selection.  The writer falls to sheets, thinking.  Another sip.  Centered.  Thinking.  More Miles… meditating.  Tired, yes, but awake from my typewritten pace.

6/15/17—  Midmonth? 

Already?  Wow, time truly doesn’t care.  But I do.  So I make the best of what I have here, in terms of time, this first of my last two full days off before Summer Semester starts.  Sinus discomfort going away, may take another Advil… meeting at 10:30 with prospective client… of it feels amazing to write.  Why do I feel like I haven’t written in days when I DID write yesterday on lunch.  Only got out 500 or so words for newsletter and didn’t post anything to blog— well, here I am, readers.  More than ready for my day and for my writing and needing this quiet of the house, my Autumn Walk Studio.  Going for a walk later with wife, run tonight at gym hopefully, get conditioned for planned run on Tuesday with my winemaker friend.  We’re planning on launching from Lancaster and circling the property, one massive circle around the property and the properties around the property.  Can’t wait, really.

Taking a break from the coffee this morning, sipping what’s left of a sparkling cherry water I bought the other night after my speedwork.  Just shy of 7 miles… think I hit 6.98.  “SHIT!” I remember saying in my head and nearly aloud when the belt stopped.  Not bad though, really.  Haven’t got that close in a while.  Not sure why I’m focusing on that right now, should be writing some verse or some poetry since yesterday leaving Lancaster I had this colossal inner push to write more poetry and write more musical and poetical when writing prose— so then naturally I now ask myself, “Am I doing that here?”

No wine tonight.. just running and writing, planning for Summer.  Have a very optimistic taste in the writer’s mouth concerning this Summer.  Why, don’t know.  Maybe from changing as an educator, and how I’ve changed my outlook on life itself, recognizing I’m a father and I need to be a certain way for my babies— I need to be the ‘papa of all bloggers’, and the ‘tireless writer’ I brag I am.  No excuses, not even when I’m sick or have some sinus aches like I did this morning.  Have to say, I’m proud of how I reacted, getting in car and rushing to Walgreens, buying some Advil then coming home, popping one, and getting to writing, getting to WORK.  Oh… this Summer will be life-changing, career-propelling.  The story’s going to change.  I know it…

09:20—  Work isn’t work for me.  It’s just me.  Me for me.  Can’t get enough of me and I don’t care who knows.  That’s probably what bothered me most about the sinus ache, was that I thought it might get in the way of getting shit done today.  But no.  I won’t let it.   I’m a cross now between a leopard and a butterfly, a snack and a hawk… a train and a tulip.  Whatever that means I don’t know I just know that I don’t know about myself as much as I once measured.  But that’s what days like today are for.

09:40.  Took care of a couple things, made a couple notes, sent out VLJ letter.  The 6th.  Proud that I’ve followed through as I have with this effort.  Need to build with it, somehow… keep with it and use as a vehicle.. for sales, marketing, branding, all.

some of day’s poetry/spoke word…

am I

talking about wine so much, and the apparent philosophy and mythology

to grapes fermented?  This is weird.  Think of

how even after a person passes there’s the

longing, the

influence,

the impression of their time here with us, so their

story still sequences and we see and sing ‘there is no end,

there is no destination’.  so my thesis,

inextricable, impenetrable, that’s how convinced I’m convinced of

something, this something, wine helping me make the thing

happen, you know that thing that makes me a good daddy.

what.  immeasurable, untetherable, talk to self

in oeno-syllable.

Maneuver out of anything, bring

a notebook to jury duty— all conversations blurry newly—

centering gem, jewel, amethyst or ruby, of an eye’s eye for me

only slightly see, completely…

Day gets tough, I

out-tough it, direct dozens

of fiery narratives, last poetic

pundit– syllabic pugilism, after

today, new truth has risen..  directly

confront the circumstances given– characters

like me slows nary, and no woe, up turbulent

rivers in the most inclement

I row.. your octave is elementary at best–

Work harder than me?  How’s that possible

when you’re always grieving about lack

of rest?  You’re map’s a mess, I’m in a box-like trot 

of redesign, betterment for eversent.  Journal entries

inventory the dents.  Escape with my again-polished

slate.  Review certain dates, re-plate.  Walk past the cake.

Finally did it.

Doing it now.  Writing in the ever formidable 04:00 hour.  Set alarm, and I slowly bright self to this, quiet typing– stealth on my phone.  Now 04:07…  this needs to be more a habit.  Not even “more” a habit, but just the way I operate as a writer.  Nearly went back to my odd dreams, my worries in sleep and my festering and stewing in realities I cannot control.  This new wine book, or my only wined ms is about me and vision, breaking patterns to stand as the best varietal I can– sounds cheesy…. to be accepting of my own Personhood.  If that makes sense.  This hour is odd, and with a slight accentuation of danger to it.  Not sure how much longer I can fight off the compulsion to go back to sleep.  Would that be failure?   I did wake when the alarm told me to… or is it only victory if I STAY awake?  I can’t see much in this room, through the glow of my phone’s screen, and can only hear the humming fridge, someone upstairs turning in their sleep.  Can’t let self go back to bed.  Winemakers during harvest are already out in the vineyard at this time, or at least the vineyard crews are… Farmers, like Glenn.  Need to keep those hours, be a farmer with my words.  2015, out in that one vineyard in Rincon valley with Glenn, filming them bring the grapes from vine to bin, then truck it from there to crush pad, Punchdown Cellars up the road from this house, on Hopper.

Not at all enjoying or even mildly liking my sentences this morning.  Not sure why I call it morning when it feels like the middle of the night.. but I’m up.  I’m up.  I finally did it, dealt 4AM a shot in its years-long reign over me.  But, my system and circuitries tell me I need more sleep.  Need more something.  Like what.  I don’t know, I’m hoping the Vineyards tell me that today… give me some pronounced and profound sight today.  You think?  Make the vineyards speak to me, tell me something that will irrevocable helix my Personhood to Craft, to my pages, to an elevated elevation of Wellness that will elevate me and everything around me.  Now I’m finding it hard to take myself away from this sitting– though I’m not sitting but laying down on the couch, room that used to be home office but is anything now but.

04:23..  Should I make coffee?  Heard odd sound off to right.  May have come from upstairs, or maybe it’s exhaustion catching the writer.  4AM… not a weak one’s hour, that certain… but if you write through it, before you know it you’ll be through it.  This will be a way for me.  MY way… 4AM.  This quiet and cruel, dark and enlightening hour.  Where it’s only me.  ME.  It’s all on me… like the vineyards, the vineyards and how everyone’s watching them till harvest, till they deliver what’s wanted then more or less ignored.  But not by me.  When people are on the crushpad taking pictures of fucking grapes I’m the obsessed pupil out there in the rows writing to and taking stills of the bare arms.

04:29.. Need a little more sleep.  At least I’ve started my writing for the day.  When up, have to iron some pants, get ready and zoom out of here and up to Jimtown to write.  I know how this book is set to conclude– with no conclusion. Just memback out in the Vineyards walking, waiting for some idea to precipitate down to me like a lucrative spiritual storm.  Notice I’m using that word more now, for some reason– spiritual. Hmm…  What if I just stay up, enjoy the spirituality of this time… this 4AM hour in every inch and micro-measurement of its nuanced instruction.  No.. much you don’t want to admit it, you’re Human.  Wish I wasn’t.  Wish I didn’t need to sleep, rest, eat.  Wish I could write tirelessly, more tirelessly than I say I’m tireless.  Literally never sleeping.  That’s a wish.. just a wish, some sick writer fantasy.  Only working– only writing books.  Even when I’m touring as a result of a book and speaking about it I’m writing another, writing about life on the road speaking about my book– the ultimate aim is travel, having mornings or nights or mornings like this in other states, other countries.  Talking to people about writing and living and happiness… now I think it may be impossible to go back to sleep.  But if make too much noise, little Kerouac will come down here, and that will make his day tougher on him, being tired and not connected to school activities.  Go back to sleep, Mike…  You can pick this up later.  Glenn would never say that to himself out in the vineyard, ’round harvest.  How many farmers do you know, if any that would just make up an excuse like that, something so it’s easier to talk themselves into something.   Well, phone tells me battery is down to 10%.  But even that’s not an excuse.  I could get out my Comp Book and write with pen. But that would wake Jackie.  Just put it down, go back to sleep.  This can be finished later.  This sitting, or laying is a victory.  When was the last time I did this?  Can’t even remember.

Have to use restroom.  Be quiet… tips of toes, tips of toes.  Well, if he did wake that wouldn’t be so bad.  Then I could keep working, defeat 4AM even further.