I walk into the cottage for my lunchtime 300 words.  Sipping a Ginger Ale, helps a little.  Woke with the most horrible stomach pain from that packaged fucking pulled pork last night.  Told them I may have to leave today but earlier two gentlemen that came in started a discussion with me about wine and what’s going on with Colin Kaepernick, both sides and all sides like I would in class, then we returned to wine.  Haven’t sipped a thing today, with this stomach duel.  And I don’t plan to.  Tomorrow mother-in-law takes babies to school and I run, then go shopping for some new clothes, which I desperately need.

Not sure I’m a fan of this ale, but I am this quiet.  Surprised how busy it is in the tasting room with today being, essentially, opening day.  Too tired for a vineyard walk and all I can think of is bed.  Didn’t touch that coffee I got this morning, hardly.  Maybe take a couple hits of that?  Don’t know, my brain is in one mold and mode right now— to relax.  Listen to that aquarium’s gentle brook.  I’ll again note, my lifestyle, entailing meditation, teaching myself something through quiet, meditation.

Hear people outside yelling from a game of corn hole.  Don’t want to be around noise, but I have to.  I’ll scribble singular words where I can, when I can, if I can.  Can I?  Maybe I shouldn’t be writing, even if I feel like I have to write all the time.  But this time, at this table in the Dutcher Crossing cottage, all is mine— unobstructed, healing.  Nay-saying is a self-inflicted illness which I refuse to catch.  So my attitude shifts, as does how I feel.  Waking up, but still can’t wait for bed.  But I can wait…  There’s a story to write.