Dishwasher running, and a bit sad the day’s over… a day where I spent more time than I usually do with the babies. Jack continually telling me what a great dad I am, and that he loves me, and that he’s so glad I’m not teaching tonight. Emma too but nowhere near as vocal as little Kerouac. Jack too told me he wants to be just like me when he grows up, “a businessman” as he specified. Rather than just take the compliment and bask in it and say something back with unknowing condescension to him like “One day you’ll get there, son.” I told him that just now at my old age am I learning business, and I’m not ‘good’ at it yet. Following the quick words with Kerouac I felt unworthy, insecure, and panicked…. Like I need to get to my office, OUR office (Jack’s and mine), and show him that I am what he thinks I am. So that’s why no TV tonight, why now while some want to self-pity and just accept perceived conditions and a mood, and surrender to whatever, I’m here… working. Sipping some of the Sophia’s I was gifted last night after a Winter Wineland weekend, and writing what I can.
I did miss the students, this evening. Will write them shortly. While grocery shopping with little Kerouac, he requesting that I be accompanied, I bought what can only be deemed a writer’s arsenal of caffeine… cinnamon dolce latte k-cups and the same Peet’s cans, espresso, Mom and Dad got me for xmas which didn’t last long at all.
Driving back from the store with Jack, and he again saying what a fun day we had, I saw myself doing this… THIS. Writing. Working. Working… be what my son sees. That Mike Madigan.. the business owner and entrepreneur, who lives from creative. The AE life is teaching me all over again how I don’t need to be taught a fucking thing, but loudly reminded to just be MIKE MADIGAN. This crazy wine writer, the tireless writer and “teacher” that will soon speak to students everywhere. And stop thinking, or like Gabe said the other day in what I guess was Mission District, SF… “Don’t give so many fucks.” Assuredly.
Going to murder the credit card balance. Finally. After YEARS of fighting with it, going back and forth. That story is finally sent. Done. That, my son can recognize as a direct effect of work, creative… telling my story over and over, and seeing that things can be done, believe such, and just fucking making whatever I want happen, HAPPEN.
The idea of devoting a book to each Madigan baby, one titled Jack Patrick and the other Emma Catherine, not so much seeming likely but just something I’m going to do. Not one word of it posted to this blog, but just written. A book. A book for little Kerouac, one for Ms. Austen. Both of them now asleep of course but I look at all the silly pictures from the day…. All the videos, all the smiles and laughs and silly poses. There’s little recollection of my story without them. Hmmm…. I don’t need remember it. IT’s not wroth writing. But this, THEM, my two little beat-loves, worth books and books. What if I have it be that they are nearly ALL I write about? Why not. Yes I’ll still write wine, and about sales, and being an AE, and all the other shit stepping and stomping in my story… But they are more than anything. Immeasurably more. I can’t count or quantify, and don’t want to try. Jackie with his love of playing catch in the street with me while Emma just wants to be held, given piggyback rides, and listen to music with her daddy… I’m just in love and realizing this way to this magnitude and extremity now, here, in the kitchen alone, with wine, after a busy weekend, seeing now at my old age that I have everything… that now is the perfect time to build a business and be what Jack thinks I am.