Friday, September 16, 2011

108 -- 107

1:50p.  Home early.  Sick.  Beautiful outside, drive back home.  But what can I do? Just rest?  
6:24p.  This little bug, or cold, robbing this writer of any push to paginate.  Was able to log a few cubeNOTES at work, though.  Paid today, need to budget funds.  Definitely don’t have energy for that.  Need to imagine Self not sick.  No wine tonight, I can tell you.  No varietal sounds palatable now.  This sitting, going nowhere.  Need to know when to walk away.  Clock out: 6:27p.
Back in: 7:27p.  Just trying to make mySelf forget it’s sick.  Will be enjoying a dinner out, Saturday eve.  Not sure of the location, just yet, but this’ll be a prime opening to start vinoDish, where I examine and more closely appreciate, and examine, the harmony created by food and wine, together.  What I do know, we’ll be here in Sonoma County.  There’s a restaurant in Sonoma’s square that we’re considering, and another on Santa Rosa’s Railroad Square.
Find that I tire so quickly when under an umbrella of momentary infirm.  Thinking mySelf away.  To...Aspen.  Would to attend that wine and food occasion they have there every year.  Find mySelf, still, going to hotel/resort sites for that Colorado snow utopia when at work, between calls.
10:36p.  Right before dreams.  No material, none me surrounds.  I may know precisely what, or how, the manuscript, the next one I’m to market, will result.  But I don’t want to think about that, either.  I’ve been robbed of desire to draw with my sentences.  Again.  There, three sneezes, and I’m for the last time punching my nonexistent time clock.  I hope you enjoyed this absolutely forced, bland, incredibly weightless entry.
Mike looked up.  At a ceiling as plain as stale as his sentences, imagery arrangement.  He thought about a couple more minutes of battling his symptoms.  But, why?  Sleep sounded much more scenic.  Those dreams of her.  Her language, expressions.  He didn’t know if he should go in tomorrow.  If even a small slice of these indicia remained in early hours only hours away, he’d halt in his house.  
9/15/2011, Thursday
107:  Still No Wine, Just In-Sick 
Clocking in for this sitting, 1:13p.  What had Mike been doing all day?  Resting.  What a boring installation this would make, he thought.  He sucked on the vociferously medicinal cherry throat lozenge.  His head, slow bassy chords, throbbed a song he hated.  He couldn’t ditch its tone, no matter how much water he drank, or how fast he typed to try and push his attention out of the brief ailment’s aim.  He closed the laptop.  Surrender, as always, he thought.
He imagined what would happen if he didn’t open a wine bar, but a Parisian-themed café.  That meant he’d have to go back to France, for research.  Oh no, he thought.  He’d have wine, beer at his coffee house, but it wouldn’t necessarily be the focus.
“You know what, when I went to Paris, most of the coffee shops had a pretty impressive selection of wine.  That’d be something new for this area.  Would you have it in this area?” Kelly asked, setting down her bag.
“Yeah, I noticed that, too.  What do you have planned for the rest of the day?  Can you stick around for a little bit, or...” Mike said, arranging the papers on the floor, the ones sentenced to shredding.
“I’m actually tutoring my mom’s friend's daughter for a couple hours.” Kelly smiled, sharing her delight, in possibly a new passion, Mike thought.
“Tutoring?  What, painting?” he said, swiveling towards her.
“Drawing.  Like, figures, characters.  The daughter wants he work to be more detailed.”
“‘Her work’?  How old is she?”
“13,” Kelly said.  Mike thought of where he was within the aforementioned age’s palm.  He wrote, a little.  But didn’t have wherewithal to solicit counsel, or have his parents do so.  His face froze.  Shocked, impressed, warmed by Kelly’s kindness, willingness to help.  “Isn’t that amazing?  You should see her ‘work’.  I don’t know why she thinks I can help.  By the time she’s my age, she’ll be in more galleries than...” she added.
“Can you get a coffee first, before you head out?”
“You feel good enough for coffee?”
Mike smiled, but not to a conspicuous shine.  “Yeah.  I’m starting to feel better.  A lot better.”
9/16/2011, Friday

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