The wines, still haunting me from last night. That Chardonnay… I bought it where I now write, Oakville.. mom seemed to like it, maybe I should get another bottle. Why not? May need it tonight if Addy (Jack’s best amiga) stays the night. The patio here, more and more crowded, but I’d take a thousand packed Oakville patios to even one of the sbux outside areas, right by the drive-through intercom. MY mood this morning, uncertain, rushed and impatient. I want something to happen— and why the fuck can’t I wake at 4? IS it that hard? It is when you taste wine the night before.. fuck, so obviously the writer’s fault, I know. But I’m still thinking, thinking about how to make today outstanding, to make it one of the most instrumental and decisive days of my life. For my son, daughter, wife, parents and sister and everyone in my wined life that notices what I do and how I do with wine and words— the poetry and elucidating doubled haikus which I’m going to do more of. The Hutcherson song tells me to write quicker, forget about stress and where you have to be in a bit (TR), and any appointment or schedule for next week, or at all. Two older men talk at my twelve, several table away, in the farthest corner of the patio area, against the low wall, basically on the sidewalk. In their late 50s, early 60s I calculate, or really estimate. I think, “I still have so much to go before being them.” But do I? More urgency about me.. want to taste C. Donatello today, saw his lights on which I hardly ever do.. and there’s something for me to write about.. each day has to be wined in content, even on days where I sip not a fermented droplet. OH— and Topel. Tasted there YEARS ago, when I worked at that disastrous Dry Creek tasting room on Westside Road, or off Westside— Man sits in front of me, with all these other tables available, to eat his sandwich. Not sure why I’m so annoyed.. I focus on the new track playing, “December (2002)”, McCoy Tyner. I swear, sometimes if I didn’t have music, more acutely JAZZ, I’d go mad. And not the positive type madness that writes novels like On The Road. No.. I mean destructively mad.. and see? There? I just forgot the sandwich man was in that seat at my 12 with his back trying to stare me down. Now 11:26.. Another Healdsburg sitting, my office here on the patio.. some of the employees here joke with me quite often when I get my coffee or Coke, or sparkling lime or lemon water like this A.M., “Another day at the office?” Or, “Whatchya writin’ today?” I love it. Soon, before meditation 100 and the semester’s finality, I will have my office somewhere near this square, this patio, on my own clock, able to to gather content as I wish and do whatever I choose with my “shift”.