Odd, my feeling this whole day. Made better when in backyard having dinner, sipping the Porter Creek Chardonnay and Emma with both her arms wrapped around and hanging off my left arm while seated on bench at picnic table, she at her popsicle. Dishwasher going, with this new laptop courtesy of Dad, like a new business… new opportunity, at this new age. 41. Holy fuck, I’m 41.
Now sipping some Porter C’ Zin. Not terribly impressed, but interested, and one of the last bottles I have in house. May have to order those Bottle Barn bottles I have waiting in my online cart.
Not sure I’ll get up and run in the morning, the early AM as previously envisioned. Why not… because, more than likely, this beat is going to have another glass, or two. One of those days, where some people—couple with your already odd and lull of a day—just want to reinforce the sour, what their perceived preceptive ailment is. And they’ll argue, no matter how off they are… they teach me to as Mom once ordered me to, speak in bottom lines.
The wine, this odd, dirty and overly terrestrial Zin tells me to keep place, pace, perform more poetry int his kitchen to the beat of the dishwasher. Took a nap earlier, was pulled from my meditative calm-growl by a knock at the door. Thought I’d wake slow and foggy but no I went right to the laptop, working, trying to revive the day. One of the only times, I think the second, where I took a nap mid-day, since this whole SIP shit started.
I look forward to night. Where I can pour wine, type freely, think about the morning, the day that’s done and never again going to appear sad as that may make me…. I’m here at the counter. Looking right, over to far counter, empty glass. May go to sleep, talking about my nap earlier. Full from dinner, leftover pizza and some small apps. Peculiar climate and shape to day, and now my character. Is this a quarantine symptom? The next glass will be the last, then bed. Rest….
Need distance myself from the screen, keys. Too much distraction. A zoom meeting still going on… teachers or administrators talk, about … what. Not sure. Not sure they are, either. And after this profound meeting, what action will be implemented, I’m wondering.
Just wanting quiet. So it’s not anyone, but me. I’m the disruptor, I’m the agitator. Fuck… please stop talking. Some lady says she sees things through an athletic lens… well, if that’s true, you have a game plan, no? There I go.. venting, just going off with no plan, myself. Air-conditioning on, a bit cold in kitchen… first thing in morning, run. No matter how slow I’m moving.. run. Satisfy goal written earlier, and above in this document… Wine quarter or shop… nevermind, just wake early. Make coffee now. Even if I don’t run, I’ll be up and writing. No… there will be a run. Luckily this Zin is low ABV, partially why it’s so quirky and funky, messy and foggy in feel.
Another note for night…. NO MORE THINKING. Deliberation is DEAD. Just write, and write freely, with no fear… aim to unintentionally offend. Not saying anything hateful, just wholly and holistically honest. How can anyone cite or slight you for that?