Slow Rowing

Tasted a 2010 Cab, from barrel.  Couldn’t believe the charm it already had.

Taking notes now, next to Jackie.  All I have time for.  He’s speaking to me in his dialect.

Right now, sipping an ’07 Sauv Blanc from AV.  I’ve tasted a few ’07 SB’s of late, one of the a white with SB base.

Need to revisit the BOOK document on desktop.  Do something with those weeks of sessions, instead of just having them rot in this machine’s bile trench.

Eye, left: want to itch, scratch, snatch it out of my head.  These allergies, making the day, and this session more struggled.

10:02pm.  Failed again this morning with waking early.  Problem, giving Self the option of waking when I wish.  What I’m doing is still having the alarm set for regular time, 7:20am, and hoping rise at 5-something.  And, for information’s purposes, I’m still in debate with Self on the purchase of the SB fruit.  Don’t want to aggravate these allergies further, so on I’m moved…


Kelly, I’m sure, doesn’t let allergies bother her.  IF she has them.  Not sure she does.  She’s never told me.  Thinking her painting pace has been increased.  That’s what I’m seeing for my character.  But then again, only she knows.  On the couch now with TV on, not a rich time for mental illustration for, with, in, about my character.  My goodness am I a mess.  Wish I had more of that ’07 Sauv Blanc left.  AV Winery produced it, and it’s still holding up championingly.  Makes me think of that ton, or half-ton, I might buy.  Such a mess be this writer.  Exactly why I need poetry, SONG, more than prose in this day.  She agrees, tells me to abandon the project envisioned to keep consistent with expectations.  Shoot for written radicalism, she urges, in less words.

She recently started making herself margaritas, only when she paints.  It was still warm, almost on 11pm.  She thought about making herself one more.  But she couldn’t.  She had to finish her project.  Or did she?  For whom?  That gallery?  They couldn’t guarantee it’d be sold.  So she stopped.  Sipped.  Went to the kitchen to make herself another.  Looking out the window, she saw a little red car.  She couldn’t tell what type, model, make or whatever, it was.  She just saw it.  Stopped.  At red.  She thought about what the person at its wheel was thinking, waiting for the “clover color,” she called it in her head.  Pouring the slushed voice into her glass, she looked right, at her progress.  It was dim, both in prospect and tint, shade, shape.


Mike saw no progress.  He felt bad for her.  So, DELETE.  He wished he hadn’t done that.  He selected SAVE, from the File drop-down, or whatever it was called.  So he couldn’t “Undo Typing.” He hated his laptop, wanted to close it.  Keep it closed.  Only work on paper.  It would pair better with the SB, he thought.  He thought of the Cab barrel sample from work.  He should just buy the fruit, that Sauvignon Blanc, with his seasoned winemaker buddy.  He could only lose.  He could only, maybe, wine, or WIN.  Both could be bad, good.  But how bad could it be, losing on his first completely Autonomous winemaking operation?  And how good could it be?  What would it really do for him?  He needed another glass, one obnoxiously generous.  So did she.