Now I feel better.  Typed a poem I wrote yesterday, while walking in St. Francis’ Wild Oak Vineyard, into this chapbook project I’ve started.  Working today at Kaz, and having Mr. Jack here at home with us, shows me I can’t change my mind.  And I shouldn’t.  Creative Wine Writing, in chapbook form, could lead me somewhere.  No, IT WILL.  Jack tells his father to go forward.  Don’t turn around.  Press peddle, forcefully.  Nice guests in the tasting Room today, a shift unusually busy this time of year.  Met a lot of people from my old neighborhood, all over the Bay Area, notably San Francisco, and all over the country, world.  Met a couple from Morocco/France (he: Moroccan; she: French).  Everyone came to sip, talk, learn.  Positive, peaceful.  The pace, not as overwhelming as yesterday’s, but still impressively consistent.

Tonight, no wine for me.  May have enjoyed a bit 2much for my first sipNscribble in a while, last night.  Either way, I’m here at the keys, tired from these days back at the bar.  Not even listening to music.  But that’ll change when I open the Comp Book to scribble some rimes.  Going to check on Sir Jack, fetch Self a Ginger Ale.  Do I have any in the fridge?  Was my mocktail of choice at the hospital.  Looking at the sessions titled “Nonfiction” I wrote in earlier than early hours, both before and after he was born, all on that 3rd hospital floor.  Life has remolded for me, beneficially.  Joyously.  Calls for a toast.  Ginger Ale…

Raising can…  Tomorrow, back behind St. Francis’ counter.  Was smitten by all the new releases, other wines I hadn’t tried.  I do plan on another vineyard walk, carrying the little notepad, taking pictures.  As I with the Literary Lunches in downtown Napa, I’ll so sequence with the block saunters during my 30.

Not trying for 1000 words tonight.  And honestly, I don’t want that count.  Not aiming for it.  Don’t need it.  Don’t see a need for it.  Want to just leap from this device to the incomparably organic Literary process–ink, paper.  Even the Comp Book’s lines unsettle me a little.  Next journal, just a brick of blank canvas.  A boldly inviting page stack.  Lines, emblematic of strict direction.  Don’t want my writing to be ordered to excessive pattern, or any routine, map.  That’s ridiculous.  Want these pages boldly, even obnoxiously, ARTful.  I see my paragraphs at their truest when cubist.