Sunday, July 17, 2011

8:06a.  I remember falling asleep last night, or early this morning, hoping I’d wake unusually early for a weekend morning.  And here I am, clocking in.  What am I doing today?  Writing.  All day.  I have no desire to go tasting, to drive around like an amateur explorer in search of photographs.  Now, at this early hour, joyfully in the chair.  In fact, I don’t plan on drinking any wine today, to tell truth.  Why?  Just want a break from it.  Did have a great time, a creatively fruitful stream, at the event yesterday.  Showed up quite bent from the morning mocha, 3 shots.  Didn’t like the way it made me feel.  Too uneven, imbalanced, walking passed the entrance booth.  Think I may have separated from Starbucks, finally.  No desire in THIS early a.m. for a morning mocha.  Plus, if I were to go fetch one, that would mean leaving this seat.  No.
Focused in this oddly early scribble.  May leave the chair today, but only for a walk.  No interest in anything other than this page.  Like Depp in Secret Window.  That’s MikeMadigan today, but no naps.  Don’t want to hear others’ dialogue.  Want to see what the studio tells me to type, solicits me 2scribe.  Allowing Self to post to my “wine blog” only once today.  Want my session to be solely allocated [hate that word, mostly how “the industry” over-misuses it] to manuscript, or prospective release.  This is probably boring for readers, this stamp of intent.  But, it’s what I’m compelled2compose.  Sorry.  Yes, I’m certain: no wine 2day, only words.
  But then I think I should have a break.  At some point.  But it has to be scheduled, just the same as a job.  This, this writing, quite the job.  More than “employment.” It’s inherent existence, expressive subsistence.  Now, humorously, I crave a mocha.  Maybe not a 3shot.  But, if I refrain, I save almost $5.  Those five tender notes could publish, contribute to the dissemination of five, let’s say FOUR pages.  Four pages, single-spaced, even with a couple breaks between pieces, potentially totals about 1200-1500 words.  This almost 3rd grade-level math I’m barely capable of has me thinking.  About where all Mike Madigan’s pennies go.  Decreed: no more mochas.  Only writing.  Completion of project.  Scribble, scribble ... 
[7/17/2011, Sunday]

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