Sipping some of the Trentadue Rosé, and knowing I need to wake early. And I will. Had to put down phone and stop looking through emails and messages and loud invasive posts, like the voices from the street behind up, Gold Leaf, those neighbors that aren’t really neighbors just speaking loud and drinking and in some sort of party sorts, and me just wishing they’d silence.
This morning I asked one of the baristas what time they had to show for work and she said 04:30, which means they wake at around 04, I’m guessing. Need to. Will. Tomorrow. Have to remember to call Mom tomorrow and wish her a happy Mother’s [Day], and be in reflective reflection that my mother is much of the reason I’m here now writing and not just looking at my phone like some drone.
Tired from day. Need to put day and self away, under sheets, into bed and then wake early, early… just fucking do it, already. The backyard other-side-of-the-fence-ers, just get louder and louder. What are they drinking? Wine? Doubt it. And why do I care. What does this have to do with the bottled ox? Not a thing. Nothing. Thought about so much behind the bar today while pouring for whomever and looking out at the vineyard and wishing I could just walk around out there and roam and write and be with the day in my way. But constant the penner poised, posed, professed. Me now, Mikey-a-mess in thought and possibility. But… thinking everywhere, new sentences and memories of day, what I saw and heard from people sipping their pours poured, reacting with some words and musings they think have to be shared, and me seeing more in my language and its application…. Tomorrow morning, I’ll on the treadmill be, soaring, then home with my words and keys, pages roaring—