10:22pm.  Want to be done with night writing by 11p.  Is that wrong, that I eventually want to stop writing, just relax?  Have the Comp Book next to author, in case the urge surfaces.  Wine 2 for night, another Cab, more eased, transitional, scenic than pour 1.  Need another glass, now I’m in thought.  But what would that do?  What would Kelly say?  I have to work in morrow’s early marrow.  So, when in doubt…  Another pour of the ’07.  Whoops, wasn’t supposed to disclose.  Reading over this morning’s verses.  Inspired to be on stage.  Collecting pieces for Self, my new mission.  Not for a publisher, not for a book-length project.  Just for me.  My Self.  I AM the material, the manuscript.  Don’t have to spend the biz stash on a chapbook of poems.  I walk in rhyme, I find…  Have always.

Tiring, I won’t lie.  Need that last glass of wine, here at 10:29[pm].  Still incensed by the character, poking at Artists.  How is someone like Mike Madigan just supposed to sit still, stay silent?  I can’t.  That’s not how I was raised.  I know the wine industry would love for my to stretch invisible mind tape over my chatterbox.  But, Dad always told me, “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you…others are dying to think for you.” Others want to talk about others, how they write…  I just want to write.  Why are some so hungry to judge?  Do their lives lack so palpably?  Shameful.  When I’m his age, I hope I’m either beyond, or comfortably fluid in self-publication.

Just poured the final glass.  Clocking out at 11p, definitively.  This 2nd Cab, evolving into a ballet-like stretch.  What does it want me to think?  Again I think, what is my first vintage doing, right now, in the St. Francis Winery production area?  You know what sounds good now?  A beer.  Racer 5, in fridge…  No.  Need to settle.  And to be frank, I need this page poised.  The Comp Book, at side.  Will make sure my songs continue in revolution.  Want another sip, just like Hemingway, London, Poe, Plath in her  atmospherically ambrosial disclosures, journaled.  What do I do, but pour another glass, adore my druthers’ mast.  My character, waiting on a mezzanine, somewhere in verve.  But where?  Getting my next glass…  From bottle 3.  Feel like I haven’t been taught as much as I’d hoped in this tasting.  True, I’m not at all familiar with chemical intricacies as others, but like Dad told me, I have a palate.  Actually, he said, when I revealed my insecurity of not having the background Katie did, DOES, “You have THE palate.” This should, I hope, be read by those slighting Artists, what we do.  We’re more than merely valid…  Perhaps more so than YOU.

11pm.  Late submission.  Good thing I’m Self-employed with blog, answering only to Self; Dependent upon no corporation, its evil lean, suited troops.  Find distraction so appealing.  This means I need to clock out, now [at 11:04pm].

Memory:  In 1997, I think, I was let go early on my last day at a job, for challenging a “supervisor.” She said, “Is this your last day?” I told, confirmed, affirmed, it was.  She threw, “You can go, then.  You’re done.” So funny, I thought.  And I still do, in this “industry.” Wine’s robots, just jesters, for writer amusement.