Thursday, November 3, 2011

59, pt 2

Just keep writing, Mike tells himself.  As Kelly does.  Or, actually, not as she does.  She, sovereign, no longer tastes constraints.  She just paints, sips her tea, sometimes coffee, and wine with later brush bustles.  Mike envied her more than he ever did, since her departure from the restaurant.  Mike typed.  He tested himself, with words per minute.  He was his own employer, for the next 29 minutes after all.  He had to be more stern with Self, demand results.  “When are you going to have that book editing done?  I need it by the end of next week, the final final draft.  Need draft one on my desk by tomorrow night,” he heard himself demanding of Self.  Why was he so mean, forceful, demanding, unrealistic?  He had to be.  Mike was distracted by the odd man who just entered the coffee house, wearing a San Jose Sharks windbreaker.  He talked to the baristas, Jewel and her coffee colleague like they were never so interested in a topic.  The normal regular flies, around Mike’s normal spot, returning to pester.  Why did they find him so interesting?  It were as if Mike was a voluptuous cluster of Cabernet, or Syrah since that was the type typing in his sight, and they were tenacious fruit flies.  No.  Nothing so romantic, imagistic, he thought.  They were just flies in a coffee house.
He thought of the tasting he’d do, in a few hours with his sister.  Topping off barrels, he knew nothing.  Katie had to teach him, at the lab, or in the warehouse where the barrels were laid, set.  Mike sipped again, from his cup’s sexy contents, watched the time run from his like he were the monster.  He felt offended, when he thought of it that way.  Why was it targeting him, the clock?  He thought of his research in grad school, whilst writing his Master’s Thesis on Carroll’s Alice works.  He watched the Disney interpretation over, over, for inspiration.  The scene of the rabbit’s clock being destroyed by the Hare, or was it the Hatter, jumped into his thoughts’ proximity.
1:20p.  He had 17 minutes, or 15 if he left when he knew he should, to appear “professional” upon return.  He looked around the café, a detail hunt.  “Images, symbols,” he thought, just like in Wonderland.  The pastry tray, with its glass dome.  How many flock to those in the AM, afternoon.  He looked at the man at the table across from him, with blueberry muffin.  There’s one, he thought.  Lady to right, at rear table, also with laptop.  “Is she writing?” he wondered.  Other writers, or potential page pepperers made him nervous when close, but also motivating.  He looked again at each machine behind the bean bar.  How long would it take to train him on each?  “Is it like winemaking?”
The digital cash register, with its modern point-of-sale system.  Seemed out of place in such an organic ingredient scene set.  He rushed through two long sips of his second mocha.  This one, also free.  Adrainna2 paid for early installation.  He could get used to this.  But didn’t want to.  He couldn’t.  Or could he?  Yes, if, WHEN, Self-employed by page, his wine.  He sipped again, as though his dreams were part of the blend.  The red chairs, about each of the small circular marble surfaces, now his focus.  How many moments have been at these tables?  He imaged the potentials, for books, plays, screenplays.  Suddenly, lights behind the bean bar, activated.  It changed the inclusive set.  Mike enjoyed the final ticks of his break.  He couldn’t believe he’d made it past 1000 words.  It was the mocha, he thought. 
Document on laptop belonging to book, open.  He edited, read, lightly.  No real seriousness to his eyes’ skims, skips.  The coffee house came alive, both in character and feel.  Of course, right before he had to leave.  He thought of his tasting Room, how it would approach senses of visitors.  The wine had to be the focus, he knew.  But he wanted a blend of charismas throughout his floor’s stretch.  Autonomy was nearer, he felt, possibly knew.  He sipped what remained of his dreams.  As a little curious boy, no older than 2, approached his table, looked up at him, he fell further in love with wine’s ability, vivacity.  He’d sip from the barrels tonight with purpose, conviction.  He wanted to talk with the liquified contents, see how they were developing, if they could consult, write with him.  [11/3/11]

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