If I can tell you, honestly.. I hate weather tellers.  They have a job, always, always in wrong.  How?



Just realized, today’s payday from the JC.  Should have direct deposit, but failed with promptness with respect to that form, back in Fall ’12.  Time, 9:09am.  Checking in a little late.  Enjoying my morning, I don’t care what happens.  DID get a 3shot mocha, but with change, no cash.  Paid daycare racket $200 for outstanding Sept ’13 days.  Will bring them yet ANOTHER check tomorrow.  That, taking quite care of that bloody muddle.

Desk, a bit cluttered, but nothing I can’t handle.  Watching “Sylvia” has me set on more poetry.  And more journal entries, their value.. so gorgeous…  Not that I am, just the form, so confessional, so freeing.. so TRUE.

Am going forward with my Merlot, but this’ll be the last wine for a while, no matter what Literary altitude I reach before next year’s harvest.  Want to write books, and that’s all.  Choosing my direction, finalizing it.  Sulfuring it, stable.  This mocha, the two cups this morning that preceded it, motivating me.  Not letting my mood be what it was Tuesday, for my loyal English 5 group.

Thinking.. Sylvia, Sylvia.  Her voice, Literary shape.  So much exploration, so much doom.  A life that can only connect to readers, my students.


Back at winery tomorrow.  Am I looking forward to it?  I suppose.  I’m ice, cubed.  Need more Newness, and I feel the grounds.. the Estate, wine, characters wear tired.  But if I break it up, into vignettes, or garnish the bites, tastes I’ve gathered, there has to be something, right?

Think I need a break, already.  OR, an empire state’s swig from this heated cup–

Coins in this German mug, at bottom, under pen tips.  Wonder if any of the ink’s dripped onto presidential scalps.  That’d be hilarious.  Tragically comical.  Oh this quiet.. better than interaction.  I’m controlling my control, here in this chair.  Only hear spaced traffic.  Some bird crescendos, callings and chords.  Know already what the day’s to be.


She walked into work, through the front glass doors, using the right.  She always did.  Putting on her apron, flew to back swiped card then up to machine.

“Three shot latte, tap of cinnamon,” register said.

She heard the customer say ‘tap’, but what did that mean exactly?  She started with the milk, shots.. waited.

Looking at the line, its widening angst, she could only think that she’d been there sorely a minute or two.  Five, if fortunate.  Which she wasn’t.  6:03am.

“Okay, I need a nonfat five pump venti mocha, 165 degrees,” register shouted, handing the gray frowning woman, 60s more than likely, her change.

“You gave me the wrong amount,” the woman said, extending her hand towards the register, slight shake.


Most certainly I find the morning coffee spot more interesting than the tasting Room.  Why?  Because of all the different preferences, morning stubbornnesses, habits vs addictions, temperatures of drinks, what people say to each other, and under their breath in line.  Need to do more writing there, I think.  Maybe today.  And I won’t be bringing this laptop monster with.  No sir, not today.  Pen.  Paper.  Only.  (9:28am)


Weather’s nice outside.  Musical, jazz-like.  This couldn’t be foreseen.  By anyone.  Especially them.  (9:30am)