Quick dash to coffee house to write, or type. Always paranoid when working here, like someone’s looking. Like these moronic kids behind me. Not comfortable, should leave. Did another racking, for 1st chapbook. So ridiculous. Getting tired of my habits, annoyed with them. That was the last such act before I just start putting my journals out there. And that will be me– poet, journalist– or diarist. So sick of complicating my Literary love, with considering whether or not it’d be “marketable.”
Watching the rain garnish the Bennett Valley street, still. Surprised how long it’s lasted. Would love a glass of something red right now, but that’d slow me down. The mocha, these additional 3 shots, to everything I’ve already had today bringing caffeine charge.. bettering my aim’s bravado, sharpening it.
Not comfortable here. Need my own office, already.
4:37pm. BACK HOME. Caps off, sorry. This final caffeine shot for day, telling me I need to get back into running routine. But I can’t today, I yell back. This rain isn’t right for my intervals. Staying in session, writing, producing pages for the my journals’ invasion.. invasions. And remarks, criticisms, backlash, fallout.. not in any way worried. nothing can happen to a writer like me, even if I died. I’ve written to much. I’ll always be around, directly–
Jack, still looking through his books. Deciding on tonight’s wine. Thinking Pinot, actually. And not the one from SFW. Another one I picked up a couple months past. Want to get deeper into wine, everything it surrounds, is surrounded by. On next writer retreat: a different wine each night. Yes, this means a lot will be poured out, but I need to learn, more exposure to wines out there. Remove Self from comfort’s zone. So, try more Chards, Zins. Try everything.