Sit next to me, the smaller square table, she already having her coffee— so glad I didn’t order anything with caffeine.. very much ready for some wine, or just more music, like now I listen to a song I’ve never heard before from Thievery.. on my way home in a bit, where I’ll further settle into my day off, take notes in the Carpe Journal.. or write poems, or something.. something.. have to stay writing.. that is my “brand”— but I hate that word, and idea, that I’m reduced to a “brand”.. I’m a writer, not some box on a fucking shelf.
Mom and child, little boy younger than Jack, leave. My space, again, all mine. Feel myself getting worn out and down from writing so much. But I’ve been focused.. I deserve a glass of wine, and some new music, maybe the song I just listened to, maybe another..
Now a father and his two young girls sits next to me— “FUCK!” I think. But I’m leaving soon. No white wine at home.. I could get one from the store up the street, on Coffee, the gas station. You’d be surprised, the selection isn’t bad. And how impressive can white wine be anyway? I know, I know.. all the Chardonnays that Paul Hobbs makes, and all the cult Chards from Sonoma Coast and Napa, and wherever, and that SB from Matanzas Creek— whatever, it’s all white wine.
Music everywhere, and these people around me, all with laptops, even the father shows his daughters (one of them anyway, the other on her phone) something on the screen— Yes, I’m running out of steam with this day of godly writing. Too much typing, I think. When home, just take notes.. little anecdotes like Kerouac’s father’s magazine.. oh, love this song… poetry, sing, recite, have people enjoy what you share.. shorter the better.