None here. Only peace. Wined love. In wine’s world, attractive set stage.. set, stage. Punching in, 11:22am. Much earlier than I thought. Alice & Jack, airborne. The whole drive back, missing them. And, thinking about writing, what I’m going to write, how I’d write it, what I’d want readers to walk away with. Then I realized, I’m overthinking. Poison, to us penners. So, I’ll just type. Have a list of goals for day, and I’ll do my best. Typed day’s targets into phone, with last night’s writing movie still on mind. May watch it again today. Just realized, I’m writing in kitchen, during day, in complete silence. With blueberry scone in oven, my 3-shot mocha not even touched. Never with those realities, before. One item on day’s chart: take inventory of wine. I’ll be honest, I kind of lost track of what I have upstairs. And down here.
Don’t think my morning manuscript mocha’s ever tasted this incredible. Weather outside, perfect for a so-far perfect opening to this new year. I heard someone say, “The way you begin the new year’s how the rest follows.” To state, bluntly, I think that thought stream’s garbage. But, if it were true, with any value grains, I’m almost childishly anxious for scenes my way sailing. Need some music. This quiet’s disquieting my focus.
With music, I can only realize what I have before Self, as a writer. A whole day. Mine. And again, more than I thought since I’m back home far ahead of where I estimated. Part of me thought of tasting today, but I don’t think anywhere’s open. And that’s fine. I want to lock Self in studio, as I said in a video I shot earlier, crossing the Golden Gate. Should go for a drive with newJournal, cameras, see what I produce. That is, when certain targets have been hit. Methodical, strategic, pragmatic, cunning..
Just put newJournal upstairs. Wish I hadn’t. Just had a rhyme, random lines fly by. Have the little pages, right, on top of Plath’s book. Just scribbled what I could remember. Hate when I forget thoughts, especially poetry, song. But, if I didn’t summon it, it mustn’t have been worth recollection. Right? Assurance.. please? The smoldering scone, spiritual. Not as buttery as I thought. The olfactory offerings promise something richly buttered. But no. Consistent, rustic, humble. Balanced. Takes me back to Paris, where Alice & I would go each morning for our mochas, pastries [before we discovered a Starbucks down the street, right at third corner, I think]. But even when we found that SBUX legions had already invaded France, we preferred our morning sweets from the the lovely high octave French woman.. “Bonjour!!!” she’d always say. And, “merci vous cous,” as we walked away, barely able to hold selves back from devouring our extraterrestrial gluttony grenade.
Think I want another. And how is this mocha nearly evaporated? Selfish writer! Should I make some coffee, here in castle? These Wine Bar Beats, their chilled persuasive flutters, making me sleepy. Can’t take nap, have to stay in seat, as I urge the students. Speaking of which, need to hop to grading, at some point. Think they’re due 1/4/13. Can’t overthink. Let day progress as it, and you, unanimously wish. (11:59am)