Awake Wheels on Sleepy Street

Jackie and I having a snack and drink in Healdsburg.  When back, I decide to cruise out to Sebastopol, to the Copperfield’s Books and see if I can spend the gift cert’ that my aunt got me, on something – see if something catches my eye.  Nothing did.  So….  Back at desk.  Kids outside playing, me already through a glass of SB, and now what….  The Sonoma County St. Francis SB.  What would I rate it.  That’s the thing, how and where do I start?  Maybe I shouldn’t…. I mean, then I’d just be another wine person who has some trite and bland scoring system that’s not even credible enough to be credited with subjectivity.

My story changing, and is about to change even more.  And in a monumental sense.  Music through it, I say to myself.  Dad’s words, “See it as an opportunity…” Seeing a room to myself, where I can make music, instrumentals like – well, like no one.  They’re mine.  Need more music, definitely… a galaxy more.

Listening to various beats now, Emancipator, Timbaland, Tycho, Thievery….  Not looking for anything specific, just want to be around music.  MUSIC.  What I look for in the wine now – SB, like soft jazz but not the type that claims to be jazz you know, “smooth jazz”, but in no fucking way is.  Time for red soon, day cooled down to the point where red wouldn’t be odd.

This track, giving me ideas…. Need more lyrics, meant for tracks.  Document the steps to a room where I’m doing only this between tracks.  Sorry, my head in a sea of scattered continents and tones, possible possibles and whatever else.  Window open in front of me and air touching me is kind, gentle and not a blaze of climate ire.  What next, what song, what me –