In house today.  For some reason.  Keeping self busy with projects and note-taking.  Writing plan for day.  Plan to run at lunch, taking lunch early, hopefully.  Not too hot, I checked.  People around me talking, wonder how much work they’ve done so far today talking about movies as much as they are.  Makes me want to write a script.  On working in a tasting room.  Didn’t I have a project on that, at one point.  Yes!  It was called Tasting The Room.  What happened to that?  I remember I started writing it while at St. Francis.

Opened the Tin Barn Syrah last night.  Not bad.  Certainly not impressive or inspiring or convincing of any new Beat or Road, in any way.  But I did have a couple glasses.  The Syrah in my tasting room will be far more expository and loud than the Tin Barn.  I can taste it now.

Plan for day—Run at noon.  Write notes throughout day.  After clocking out go to nook and write, a thousand words for no specific project.  Post it all to the bottledaux blog.

But what about a book.

What about one.

Just keep writing.  Everything in this office this morning and for the stretch of the day will push me to my There as that’s what I demand it do.

Sparking water, latte done.  Everything is to be written.  Everything is something on the Road, in the book.  THIS book.

9:33…. Need a break, soon.  Sooner than maybe I’m perceiving and formulating in my A.M. head.

10:04, and I’m in a circle pattern, holding pattern, some pattern where there’s no real pattern being established or reiterated.


2:36.  After run.  7 miles.  Not hungry, but a little tired.  Thirsty again.  What’s the next thing in the day…. The next… thing.  What’s happened so far.  Not much.  Make something happen.  I know…..

3:25, coffee.  Didn’t do what I wanted, the ‘what next’ dilemma.  I know now, though.  So… here I go.

Started a new haiku stream.  Just wrote one, but will write another soon.  Maybe in a minute.  All work done.  So now what. One of those things, thoughts, sip the coffee that’ll help.


3:58 and two haikus done.  Will type later.  Or I’m hoping to.  Coffee absolutely helping.  Will revisit that Syrah tonight.  Not excited about it, but I will do so and write about her and the Pinot I had… Raeburn?  Is that how you spell it?  Feel my mood getting rattlesnake-like.  Hunger, hungry, could use something.  What.  French fries and Pinot?  Warriors game on tonight.  May watch with Alice and babies. Know little Kerouac will want to see game, his favorite player Mr. Curry.

from a journal


Friday.  But you know my opinion and stance on Fridays.  So what.  It’s Friday yes and to some that’s something, but I don’t care.  I’m working tomorrow, and the next day, the day after that.  I’m a blogger, writer, writer before a blogger and always noting something, so days off are days of others, not me.

Resolving to not spend any more money, today.  Not one penny.  What about lunch.  I need something to eat at that time, always do.  So what do I do.  Use change.  Yes.  Get as many quarters as I can, that’s lunch.  The quarters don’t matter, today, this meaningless Friday.

At the coffee spot same as yester’, with a 4-shot latte and the back table all to self.  About 40 minutes to self before I have to get to office to be a professional.  Professional.  What.  I’m learning.  Educating myself closer to 40 I get, knowing that all I want is the world, every Road I can find, any wine I haven’t tried, and sip and scribble overlooking a street, a canyon with a river somewhere in Switzerland.  That’s my most vocal and mobile and noble of “goals”.

Every morning should be this, time with self.  Friday or whatday.

9am, Saturday

Finished piece for 8page, clocked in, done with morning tasks, and now looking at the Kerouac journal Mom and Dad last night vouchsafed, Kerouac quote on front and I’m more than tempted to touch it before filling the Germany journal they bought me on their last trip.  Stories tempting me, talking to me, confusing me, turning me around…

Tired, need another cup of this Sonic coffee. Writing self to liveliness, some woke state, some movement, in all of everything around me.

Co-workers singing some old commercial ditty and I laugh to self quietly.

Wake up!  I say to self.  More coffee… more.


Last hour about to start.  Have to write final essay/submission sheet.  Promised to have it ready for students last week, I believe.  And I felt stupid, quite stupid not having it ready last meeting.

Wrote assignment.  And now, 51 minutes remaining.  Love the feeling of having all my work done, but still get a bit antsy or shaky when I’m this, like this… too productive.  All wonderful, especially now with this new movement this month, the month I turn 40, of scribbling everything.  Or like now typing everything.  And this will not be a valetudinarian effort.  I can’t incur the results of such.  Placed, present, me.  Now and onward.  40.. fuck.  Can’t believe.  But it’s here.  This month.  28 days from this Mike Madigan you read now.

Need a glass of something.  SB.  Or a beer like Monday.  What… I can’t decide.  ‘Cause I think obsessively, excessively.

1492 words for day, before this sentence.  Columbus, explorer.  I feel like an explorer, to tell you truth.  Now I’m just getting silly in thought.  Sipping the cold coffee in cup on desk.  When did I make this cup.  So long ago I can’t remember.  Who cares.  Sip.  Helps to wake me. Feeling the run, still.

Think I may have one sip left.  Wine on brain, wine and where it is, is always to me and in my view… the rows. Those forming clusters.  In this last hour, I write wine and about wine, for and from wine.  What about it.  What else can I say about wine in this last hour, now 36 minutes, after writing essay assignment for my last teaching term for the foreseeable anything.  Don’t care.  Wine is there for me.  Wine is always there for me.  When I’m running, when I’m not.  She urges me to run—NO, tells me to so I can alive be longer, taste more of her geography and shapely ideology.