My family should be here, but they’re not.  Some could say this house shouldn’t be here, but it is.  On the side of the San Miguel tracks, there are no thoughts like this.  The houses are gone.  Couple seconds ago I was bothered with the prospect of taking a cold shower.  There are no showers being taken on that other side, or along Coffey.  So I humble, I silence, I meditate and conceive what’s before me, a writer of wine.. so much life and in that life there is less than “little time”.  Wine isn’t just about celebration, it’s also about appreciation, acknowledgement of life and how invaluable it is.  That morning, Sunday, with the winds at 60+ MPH, and smoke notes and visible glowing pieces from a structure or structures floating our way, pushed by those gusts, I had no idea what to think.  Had to remain composed for babies, show some strength or sternness.  The quiet broken by the train and a car driving on our street or the one over.  Don’t want to be here, but I should want to be here.  I have a home.  East San Miguel can say nothing such.  Try to enjoy what’s left of my coffee, in my Coffey Park studio/home/base/heart where wife and kids eat, sleep, play, love and learn and grow.  My coffee cold, but not like the shower.  Now’s a time to write, record, be quiet like the house.  Don’t think about work, business, selling, wine.  Concentrate and somehow measure and inventory how lucky you and you family, your street, are.  I write this on the floor of my bedroom, sipping coffee, after a shower, collecting musings and measurements.  The sound void does sting, but it as well sows, sews.  New visions, scopes, hopes, decisions.  For me, family, the story’s entirety.—. Fuck, why were we, am I, so lucky?

Can’t think like that.

But I am.

The loud quiet here begs it.

(10/13/17)