6:43.  Should go back to sleep, with the long day ahead.  But, what would that do?  That’s writing time, prime, just flushed.  Should add more to the project, what I really should do.  No, a moment like this is more aptly paired with freewriting.  Of course, I’m fantasizing about writer travels.  Would love to go to Africa, journal a safari, photograph animals.  Or not take cameras at all, just confine it all to the page, truly focus in on the moment.  With pen, no lens.  Sitting up here, in bed, I look right and see that shade of light turquoise slither through the shutters.  Day new.  Another for work, but play too.  Want today to be crazy, want characters even and opposite; I want to see groups come in with no wine knowledge whatsoever, asking the stupidest questions they can pull from their dimwit wells.  THAT will provide better pages.  Don’t want the gentle character, the safe character–the flat life varietal.  They do nothing for readers.  I want someone to come in today that’ll use descriptors like “tangy,” “oomfy,” or “ringy.” “This wine sure has a ring to it,” I remember one guy saying in a tasting Room in Napa, when I was out with a friend in 2010.  Still have no idea what that means, but I loved the free dialogue snippet.

Hungry, suddenly.  Thinking a blueberry scone with my mocha.  No, no mocha.  Need that $5 for publishing.  But, no to that as well.  Only allowing Self $100 for this release.  That’s what I can afford, that’s what I’m allowing Self.  Like a test.  Have a couple bills to pay, one of them gas.  So relieved I’m not spending all that money on a horrendous commute, to spend all day at an even more abhorrent job.  Anyway, moving on.  Travels await.  Paris, Spain, New York, New Orleans…  Have seas to see, while they stay trapped in that box.  You know what, I am treating my Self to a mocha.  Morning toast…  (6:57am, 3/4/12, Sunday)