3:48, writing at the Mendocino Ave Starbucks right before getting Henry. 

Not my favorite location to write, for reasons you know if you live in Santa Rosa and if you’ve ever been here.  No judgement, just reality.  Iced coffee, my order.  Some old jazz with female vocals playing, the only boon to this place.  Went by office supply store or depot and the desk I wanted not in stock and can’t be ordered.  Somewhat, actually ENTIRELY, relieved if you want to know.  I don’t want to be that desk-doting writer.  Why not just write at the kitchen island I’ve always wanted?

Mendo Ave from this tallboy table, traffic and curious passers, some lady around the corner of this wall in front of me laughing with the barista and telling a story then finally getting around to ordering.  Just realized I have several short emails to send out.  Maybe do tomorrow, or Sunday.  Don’t get internet till Tuesday at the loft so not sure I’ll be able to really do anything other than just write and listen to music and sip wine tomorrow night.  Which sounds heavenly, perfect, healing.

People talking loud around the corner, 20-somethings or maybe younger.  Ugh…. My age more than felt but re-emphasized.  Reminds me of… I don’t know.  I have some obstruction in synapses preventing me from writing and reacting to my surroundings or even to myself and my inner-mediation and deliberation.  Deciding now… that this is IT.

The writing… 

And yes the blog.

These words and reactions, the people around me, the quota war de-emphasized but still important and tended to in terms of topic.

Can’t wait to be in the loft tomorrow night, BY MYSELF.  Just music, words, reading, wine, QUIET.  How long have I been waiting for that exact moment?  No idea… long time.  Even before all this divorce shit started, easily.

My own walls… two of them brick which I’ve fantasized even when I was in grad school.. dreaming of being that writer with a loft in New York, doing my book signing or going to some party like Capote and coming home for a nightcap then coffee in the morning.

I’m studying me… always something to note.  The iced coffee, that backpack, me a changing penner.  What does the study entail…. Main character, what that main character wants.  Where he is and what he’s doing.  Starbucks on Mendocino Avenue and beyond electrified at the prospect of getting out of Santa Rosa, walking to Town Green from his condo to get coffee, or run, or get a glass of Balletto Pinot at Kin and scribble in one of his dozen or so notebook.

Study of self.. the emotions moods – my volatility, and temperament.  Like Kerouac, finding new Roads and Beats.. poets in one poet, me, multitudinous sides.  Migrate that to business, the blog and startup rhythms.  Study continuing, what do I find.  Hard to tell.  Or not.  Impatience.  Wanting materialization to have already happened.  That’s definitely a result of aging.  Has to be, right?