Maybe watch some more of that Hemingway doc. Every time I see him at a desk, the desk is clean, clear, no clutter. I know, we’re different people, and definitely no Hemingway. Would be nice though.. to have this area clean. Maybe separate the AE story and the Mike Madigan one. Don’t have overlapping journals, or laptops. Dad and Mom got me a backpack for such, to separate AE and teaching identities. Settled then.. this laptop no longer permitted on desk. Same with the ’48 journal.
The couch is my true writing zone, territory, going forward.
Listening to a different form of jazz, on Spotify. Quite like it, actually. Need note more notes… about the coffee, the pens here, my journals, ME… the kids, Melissa, Mom and Dad and Katie.. wine.
What wine tonight… see how that Pinot help up after being open 48 hours. Open the Westwood Chardonnay. Taste the Rosé I opened for wife last night.
Soft mood, atmosphere in room. Didn’t eat much yesterday. Famished. Want eggs, breakfast of some form. What.
Yesterday in Berkeley all the people having coffee or walking by, one lady saying how it’s great people-watching where she was sitting. And that fucking porta-potty. Think I’m traumatized. Will never use one again, even at Jack’s little league games. My god they are so fucking disgusting. How are they legal? Isn’t there some health risk, or threat, immediate danger. Nevermind that thing… Berkeley, like SSF the day before, then San Rafael before that. I need to be out there.
The desk here telling me to get away. “What are you doing here, still?” I imagine it asking. I agree. What if I swore off the desk, or limited self to certain hour count …