Sipping a brutally honest cup of homemade, I mean brewed, coffee. Two volcanically heaping tablespoons of that mocha mix Mom bought for me. The charcuterie at SFW was better than I expected. And I anticipated something rather riveting, captivating. Loved the selected wines, especially that 2008 Cab Franc. All on the plate was beyond “delicious.” Can’t believe I even wrote that word. And there’s no synonyms that’ll do it any sliver of justice, so I won’t bother. [Hate the word “justice,” too.] Even that sentence should be offensive to Chef Dave Bush and his crew. — It was supernaturally frenzied, with each flavor orchestra. I wish I could cook… But even if I could, it would never be, COULD never be this good. The weather, ideal. Little breeze, with Alice and Jack just to side. Again, thought of my own place. What would be on the menu? Where would I get the capital? Would have to come from these pages. That’s why I can’t stop writing. Ever.
Now, Jack on right, in his swinging chair. Room needs music. And he, Little London I’ve been lately dubbing him, agrees openly. Looking at the pictures I took, thinking I need more wine in my life, if that’s even possible. Didn’t get a chance to do any errands. And you know what, I’m immeasurably glad. Wine, family, and now Writing next to my little Artist son. How could such ever be trumped? Need another sip of the caffeine, as I find Self sinking, just as Jack did on the way home. Just topped-off cup with deep black. Tastes heavenly, this little blend of the mocha-tilted coffee and deep space [what I call straight black]. These beats, making Jack move. Wonder what he’s thinking. Probably that I should stop writing on the keyboard, do more pen2paper. He’s write. I mean, RIGHT. Afraid this little monster will crash on me one day. And for that reason, and/or possibility alone, I need to back up EVERYTHING. And use ink first. Then type. Maybe I should get a typewriter. Much more Romantic, Literary, than this ungodly tech tentacle of a tool.
Jack yawns. Then I let one fly from my voice wheel. Need a sip of the amalgamated caffeine. Harshly energizing. Just what a writer like Mike needs. Thinking I might transfer everything on this laptop to an external hard drive. But if that crashes, then where am I? Sticking to paper, ink. At my age, I can’t afford catastrophic failures with my work, depend on machines. And with technology, that’s always a potentiality.
Mike started to jitter. He needed a beer. Wine sounded horrid. And he wanted his notebook. Technology’s nearness made him sick. He wondered if typewriters were still made, able to locate. Would he even know how to work one? He sipped his coffee, looked over at his fidgety son, looking around the Room, at him, ceiling, his newly able hand, wall. He had to write something useful tonight, or at least engaging, charming for readers. And on paper, not a simple selectable screen. “What beer’s going to pair with paper?” he thought.