9:05pm and on couch with no TV on, after emptying backpack and swearing to self that I will NEVER fucking use it again.

Was a gift from my parents, so do know there’s no malice or fangs out for them, ever much less a goddamn backpack.  But I’m sick of clutter.  Literally sick of it.  Nearly had a panic attack emptying it, or I think I did, or almost did.  Opened a bottle of my sister’s whatever-vintage Petite Sirah and having a couple glasses to calm and know better my own nerves.  Even emptied wallet, it hurting my back and lower back, rear while driving.  I’m on a killing spree.  Of things. All this shit we gather and collect in our life, and for fucking WHAT.

Tomorrow when going to coLAB, I’ll have only this laptop, and my cell phones.  That’s more than enough.. “More than enough.” Fuck, that’s just my point.  Why do I have two fucking cell phones.  I love Sonic, anyone in my life will tell you they know that… but why did I agree to a second phone?  Anyway, here I am.  Looking to get rid of whatever I can.  All those coins, change, in one of the pockets.. thinking of looking for a wishing well (if they still exist) anywhere close in this park of Coffey Park, or some pond I can just toss those fuckers into.

Me versus Clutter… bring it, bitch.  And this is not some fashionable or trendy attempted tone of minimalism.  No… I’m saying get rid of it ALL.  I’m a writer.  I shouldn’t even have this fucking laptop.. and why do I?  For work, oh yeah yeah yeah….  Just where I am, what I’m doing.  Even sounds, don’t want too many.  Why I don’t have the goddamn TV on, or even Mr. Coltrane.  My friend Michelle at the new wine bar on West 4th earlier asking me what I wanted to hear, I suggested John, she accommodated, and there was a blazing simplicity to the room.  I don’t know how to say or narrate it, but the room with its color and arrangement, tone and person was simple and caressing.  What I feel in this room now, where I am in my house, in Coffey Park, Autumn Walk Drive with all the nosey neighbors and the clique-ish contests, and talk, and sidewalk grandstanding….  I’m here on a couch with only keys, me, the thought sea.

About to make coffee for morning, have one more glass of this PS, which I think might be temp-damaged from being in the garage… fuck.  I don’t care, I’m not letting my sister’s work be disrespected as some people might intend.  I come back to the wine, as that’s what I always say ‘One day I’ll have a……’ Tasting room.  Somewhere.  I don’t want to be part of some collective, I want my own Room.  And not a tasting room… a flat, a quarter, some I don’t want to say studio but something like that.. gallery… why do I need a word.  Just me speaking wine, like Dad recommended I do when we had dinner at Monti’s years ago.  And how that one guy from out of town when I was managing the Roth property said I should do.. “Yeah, talking about wines the way you do, that’s what you should do.” Simplicity, oneness, autonomy… just the page, me.