4pm. Last day in July. Hot like summer’s only getting started on us. At the Starbucks on Farmers. Could smell the farm animals on drive over. Sonoma County Fair aroma, putrid. Mission while here, complete 1 verse. Watched a documentary on many of the beat poets, including Kerouac, so I’m with no other impulse but to write verse. Across the floor, though, I’m given a character. A larger woman, probably about my age, talking with opera volume to her friend, a mere foot from her face, about her beefs with her father. Or uncle. Some male in her life. Then, an older frumpy woman in light purple shorts sits down at the small circular table to my right, only a couple feet, when there are tables entirely empty all around us. Ordered a mocha frappuccino with whip. Only order these on the hottest days disrupting me. forgot my earphones, so I’m forced to listen to what this corporate coffee creature plays. Actually, this song’s not bad at all. One of my favorites, actually.. “Get Up, Stand Up,” by Marley. This, too, urges me to return to verse.
Already feel the caffeine from this cold concoction. Have to keep writing. That girl across from me still talks, shaking my concentration like before, during, and aftershocks. Looking at all the cars pull up to the drive-through. Wonder which character’s story would benefit me. Selfish, I know. We all are. Writers, I mean. The lady directly across from me, alone; with laptop, actual headphones enveloping her ears. Jealous, me. Focus on page, I tell Self. And I in-moment.. again. Just identified 10 pages of material, here on this little demonic laptop device, that I could use for “Project 51” [what I’m not calling my 51-page dastardly gathered chapbook]. Need to get going on this idea. Going to do a trial release, running only 10 copies. Like a “soft release” of a product. Approaching my Self-publishing like a musician; like my friend Risa, the singer/songwriter. Write, release. I know, I know. I’ve said all this before.
Wonder what it would like to be a pilot, again. You’d live a life, see things, that no one else would. Yes, it could be said of any profession, one could say. But the pilot’s post, duties, are staunchly singular to their seats. And the travel, the mobility, the perpetual scenery shifts.. have to have that. Someday, in moderation. Don’t want to be away from Jackie for too long, ever. This Starbucks, always a nest of characters. To my left, a bit in front of me, behind this folding screen, sets a NYT copy. Tempted to pick it up, read through it. But what would that do? Let’s see, as I’m desperate for stories… Can’t find a single thing that stirs me. The election, civil war overseas, social media bla bla. Need the tasting Room, its material. Am I really excited to return to work in morrow’s morrowest morrow? New for me.
This chilled coffee, blizzard cup.. losing my interest. Too sweet. Has me thinking of wine. None tonight. But I might have a Racer or 2, for poetry’s sake. Wrote quite a bit of rime off-blog while enjoying my last Cabernet pours. Want everyday to be poetic, musical. Wandering prose, even mine, I’m finding, self-presents quite annoyingly. But I have to write it. That’s what a journal is, right? That’s my brand: ME, my life. Now I’ve just enflamed Self, could keep writing, about all these Starbucks chatterboxes at my sides. Makes me think of my days in the box, downtown Napa. I haven’t forgot, and I will return to those journals; all those entries I composed; all the scandal I gathered in those legal pads from their supply cabinets, on their dime. Can’t help but laugh.
Two police offices just sat at the little table only a couple feet in front of me. They’re talking about a bike ride from one of their houses. Quite boring, really. Was expecting more, when I look up to see two badges, two uniforms, two GUNS, sit with little coffee cups. That’d be an interesting profession to write about, as well. And I’ve thought about that before, maybe writing some cop murder mystery/suspense/thriller/already-been-done-before/nevermind.