3:19.

Prospect didn’t like pricing, said was too high.  I don’t even have the interest to argue, or try and coax him.  Sent a follow up email, and my Engineer chimed in.  If he goes for it, great.  If not, he sucks.

Kids outside playing.  Not mine, but the neighbors’ miniature demons.  Finally quiet in house.  Wanted a beer, but elected espresso. Why.  Oh well, here I am.

The day flattens.  Now, nothing.  Told it would be like this, which is different for me coming from the wine world.  This is your busiest season, arguably.  There are no quiet phones, or emails not raining down on you like you committed a crime.

Way people are talking they’ve already checked out, like vacation is now and through the week.  Quiet is the new opiate, the new thing sought, the most loving of intoxicants.  “Day 1/10.” Written in journal.  Finish a book.  Ten days.  About EVERYTHING.  This year, being an AE in such a year, this espresso machine Mom bought me and that changed me composition ways from front to back.

Could go open a beer.  3:29.  It’s 5 on the East Coast, where one of the vendors is that’ll be on the call at 5:30.  Have to produce tonight, pages, projects… stay working.  Fight off Lazy PM Mikey, as I called myself in the ’48 journal noting my always falling to temp of winding down, being lazy, watching some Netflix show that will do WHAT for me.

The beach cottage, in mind.  Keep seeing it, saying that to yourself, listening to this Lo-Fi playlist and this track I’ve never heard before.  The espresso, gone, but strong and still playing not letting me stop with the types.

Kids sitting on a lawn across the street, resting from riding bikes, their mother talking to another mom…  Me, like a kid, unable to break a habit.  This small desk.  Why am I here… and why am I typing on the work laptop.  Questions I won’t answer, that’s for sure.  How certain am I, fairly.  But it’s not fair how I do this to myself, over and over and not fair how I write it as many times subjecting you to my circles and dizzies and blindly hairbrained strays.

Absolutely nothing.  Like the world is closed.  For a writer, this is gold.  Act like you’re “at work” so people around you keep beneficial distance, then you write.  Neighbors’ kids outside are like a Viking army, and one untrained.  They just ride around the street with no real intention, and scream, roar.  I know they’re kids, but I can’t even discern what they’re pretending.  The savagery is humorous to me, and as I’ve said before watching my own kids, enviable.  That’s how I should prospect, just call business to business, email or actual call, and see what happens.  I will.  Noting in ’48…

Prospecting ideas in my own head, to this beat, and the sounds Jack makes in the other room on that old keyboard  Tell, or ask, Jackie to turn it down, “I’m working in here.” I tell him.  Which is true, but not, but entirely is.  Just found another Architect in Oakland.  See?  I’m working…