Writing at the new Starbucks off 12, the one that replaced 12 & Mission.

The one that got my latte order wrong twice on Saturday.  Day just taxing out, on runway, pilot me talking to control tower morning.  Ordered a small medium roast, letting it cool.  Know if I sipped it now I’d be torched.

Last night’s dinner showing me more about the shift, change, how it’s possible.  Characters change, or more so they develop.

Coffee still too hot, putting my left grip on it lightly.  8:23, plenty of time to do what I need.  Waiting on a contract to come in, the small one I sent out toward EOD yesterday for voice only.

Blend last night when at the house, telling me to stop stalling with the book.  Wrote from wine… the vineyard, people, think of the kids helping their aunt on the crush pad…. Little Emmie stepping on grapes with her little brother, then Jack moving bins or pushing something on a rolling forklift or whatever you call those things.

Last night she reminded me of conversations, the ones present and the ones that need be shed.  I’m getting older as I write all the time and for which I receive shit from my parents and other people, saying “You’re not old….”, but it’s how I feel.  It’s what I notice.  And something Dad said the other day about him one day not being able to do something, “It’s just going to happen…” I think he said, makes me more intent to retreat into the pages, my writings – the blog and books.

Coffee at a decent temp.  Two sips, maybe three.  All these baristas… wonder what time each arrives.  I’ve been fascinated by them for years.. the early arrival, their speed, their familiarity with the innumerable concoctions and devices.