Thursday, April 7, 2011


Just back from the coffee shop.  Saw one of the gray men from the aged crew of 8, or between 8 and ten, think it’s grown.  He was by himself, with his dog, golden retriever.  Was he lonely, or content to be lone?  Couldn’t help but feel for him, even though he’s been rude each time I’ve said hello.  One time in line I bumped into him, almost concurrently saying “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” He glared at me, as if to melt my momentary vulnerability.  Said nothing.
As my iPod can only fit so many tracks, my first book should only be allowed so much MikeMadigan.  Why did I spell my name as one word?  I like to.  I’m free in this sitting.  First mocha sip ... rattling.  Not agitated, just letting would-be encroacher know I’m here, in mode.  Thinking of her, my character.  Feel hidden.  From her.  But that’s probably something I’ve in the vision cooked.  Shouldn’t have done that.  Still can’t get this iPod situated.  Listening to WineLounge beats, getting Self in character for this third-to-last night of MikesWineLounge at Terroirs.  Sad to leave, but the new wine position in Napa is sure to change everything, elevate everything.
Stopping with this little music square for now.  Of course, the rain hasn’t arrived as the weather jesters promised.  But I can hear the melodic maddening lawnmower down in the quad.  Ear murderer.  Peace pummeler, punisher.  Does make me remember, strangely, that I need to charge my camera battery.  Why does that grass chopping motor connect me to such realization?  Don’t know.  But thanks.
With the camera battery charging, the lawnmower’s hellaciously howling.  Know the guy’s just executing paid tasks, but it disrupts my writing.  Does he not know this?  Want to go take some pictures, of the breaking buds in the vineyards.  Wish this camera would charge a tad more speedily, for me.  Selfish, this author.  I know.  Don’t think I don’t know.  I do.
Charger, still reading red.  Guess I’ll use my phone’s snapping function.  Don’t want to, but I guess it’ll do.  Time: 10:58a.  Last night’s Pinot, still in the system, reflective channels.  Sight, smell.  She won’t leave.  Fine with me, my other character.  

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