At the kitchen island

on one of the stools. Needed coffee. Went upstairs to check on Alice and found Jackie in our bed– Sleeping he looked so safe next to his mother, and comfortable– the scene served its own apothegm. Now I hear someone up there stirring, who probably Jack. That wine I opened last night, not with much voice, I have to say, in that the general composition and print of the wine on my senses was rushed, minimal. But I’m spoiled now, I understand, working at Arista.

How to approach the day differently than yester’… Took some notes, but… how….. I know! Try ardently and with angry intent to speak at little as possible. Write EVERYTHING down. And I mean everything. Be a true journalist– which reminds me I need to write Dav a letter, the first in months. Need to write more letters to several people: Amber in India.. Lila, Dav as I said, Mom, Steve Gutierrez (whom if you remember is my grad school fiction instructor, I mean PROFESSOR)– he’d be a lovely character to stay communicatively harnessed to.

Breaking up my thoughts with the wine still a bit tactile in my functionality. But the coffee mends.. hoping ot reach a thousand words before Kerouac and Ms. Alice wake, but who knows, this morning if I had to use it as a barometer for how the day’s to go is metaphysically endorsing, but that’s just hyperbole– I feel quite well, and motivated, how’s that? And I’ll keep writing till I leave the property. Wanted to run after work yesterday on Westside Rd but Mom’s warning shook me and made me realize it’d be foolish execution. And this morning, no, as well, more in the mood to log this mood and momentum and think of how I want to note the day’s minutes, even seconds in my little book, the little pages of the blue-covered notebook I bought at the store by the condo castle (which is now ready to list and sell, finally, my aunt the property agent proclaiming it “looks great,” Alice told me she expressed).

Decided I don’t want an office here in home. Too many distracts and too much activity. I’m a roaming notetaker like Kerouac, like Hem in the cafés. Writing at home– well I guess I will do it more when the blog and my novels are seen by a vast audience and I can benefit from such tangibility and visual, but for now it has to be offsite as much as I can. In fact I may stay on property for a bit to write, after shift. Maybe, depends on how much the sun is hitting that deck and how carnivorous the mosquitos are– was bit more than four times, with educating depth, teaching me how persistent those little bastards really are.

sample note for day/fiction: Couple from Iowa, on honeymoon, first time to winery; “This place is so pretty. How long have you been here?” “About a month and a half.” “No I meant the winery, how long has ‘Arista’ been in business?” I feel stupid. This has already happened a couple times. This exact conversational design.