A book about coffee…
This quarantine and pandemic… thing.
Wine …. ?
Sitting on the ground like I am typing on a Sunday morning.
The guy I saw yesterday running across the street in downtown Sonoma, mask on.
A book about anything.
And again, this is the block. The thinking. Just what makes me cantankerous. Love that word. Don’t know if I’ve ever really used it speaking, or written it. But the word just came to me this morning. Like SELF was judging me. Thinking.. that’s what obstructs, makes Mike Madigan moody.
Strong thinker rather than weak writer. Not in any way what I want. Lately been seeing difficulty in writing freely as I used to, when I was in high school and college, writing a song or more in class. One day in Bob Coleman’s Lit Analysis class, writing a strong, forceful three-verse track in less than I wan to say 25 minutes. I just wrote while Bob lectured, which I now feel bad about. But I was free in the pen movement. And I WROTE, not typed. Maybe that’s what contributes to my canterkertude.
Journals in bag, wonder how many people seen today. Hard to tell. Sunday’s can go any way they want. Be horribly busy, or calm and eased in the progression of people.
Promised I’d make myself a pb&j for the day. No lunching. Just sandwich, some veggies if I can find some, and….. crackers? As long as I don’t eat out. No Starbucks, no lunch, zero spend day. Writing in that room, gathering pages. Wines yesterday, not much speaking to me. Why I didn’t sip that much. They just didn’t see me, nor I them.
Coffee. Running tomorrow morning, affirmed.
Should get in shower. 8:35. Leaving in just over an hour. Beloved drive…