Seven minutes till I need separate from the desk.  These lonely keys.  One coffee in circulation.  Just emailed some info, and picture, to magazine editor.  Interested to see where that leads…  I’m also interested to try the ’09 Cuvée, Alexander Valley, that I brought home last night.  95% Cab, 5 Merlot.  May be a little young, but with all the French oak it saw, and some breathing time here in base, it should be a treat.  A welcomed oeno-shock.  I’ll taste it, sipNscribble, 2nite.  Five more minutes…  Why am I counting down?  Time wins that way.  Don’t want to be anywhere but in session, writing, today.  The Starbucks, or any coffee house [Napa Valley Roasting Company!] time warp.  When at work, I can’t work.  Not on what I want.  I want all my life’s nanoseconds in these entries.  That’s my fantasy.  Yes, wine would be there, sometimes.  But this is a Literary aim.  An Art thing.  NOTHING to do with wine.

Now, I hear more cars speed by, all going to work, I’m sure.  How many of them have passion for their “duties?” How many are miserable?  How many have dreams, still, and may be at an age where they’re considering accepting defeat, that they may never swim in that envisioned body?  Makes me sad, and sick thinking about it.  No one should be kept from their picture, their film.  Their purposed role…  Soon, I’ll be like my Dad, in flight, joyously asking himSelf, “I’m paid to do this?” as he deconstructs cloud shapes, looks down at our ground.

Business cards, who knows where in corporate America’s channels they are.  As I step over the time’s bordered, I’m in a responsibility demilitarized zone.  Should I just keep typing, make some character notes for her, or get in the shower, get ready for responsibility, “professionalism?” Shouldn’t phrase it like that, this new assignment in AV’s been more than generous, supportive with me.

Do I have time for a mocha?  No.  Well, I will, but I’m not letting Self have one.  Refusal of the coffee brothel’s tempt.

(3/21/12, Wednesday)