Gathering pages.  Chore.  Not as much fun as I thought it’d be.  What did I expect?  Did I think making a living as a page person would be easy?  Indoors, in my home.  No stimulation.  None.  Need to get outside.  Travel.  All targets on list chirping to my unseen sensory slate.  Have to take notes when in tasting Room, always.  All days, shifts.  Business cards need changing, just realized.  Always promoting bottledaux, but 1Stop’s the first site seen next to my name.  Sorry, reader.  Just in a bad mood.  But why?  [Thinking this should be something for the Comp Book..]

Miss the Literary Lunches from when I worked at the box, downtown Napa.  Putting together an email list, not that that’s a Literary act, but I’m hoping to shoot a newsletter-type effort to contacts accumulated.  Again, not sure I want to follow through with this, but I’m thinking about it.

Ready to work today?  Think so.  On a material hunt, as always.  So, just so I can point out my intentions: I’m in spy mode, looking to capture characters, their moments, for this writing.  12:32pm.  Clocking out, prepare 4 departure.  Pen, pocketed.  Need to get new mini-pages at store.  New ink cartridge settling in printing, printing test page.  Annoying.  Ugh, and this desk’s surface.  rubble

7:04pm.  Home.  St. Francis wines always re-invigorate my passion for wine, winemaking.  Brought a bunch of tech cards home with me.  Sipping one of the Sierra Nevada Torpedos I bought the other night, when Mom and Dad came over.  This will be my last post of the day, as I just want to play with words, rhyme crazily.  Be truly Artistic.  Tired, for some reason.  Thinking committing a Barleycorn session tomorrow morning.  Which means, no wine tonight, after this beer.  And probably one more.  Thinking again about the email blast, or mailing list, or newsletter.  Just doesn’t sync with what I want to be as an Artist.  I want my son’s to have a pure Artist father; one who only creates, 8+ hours a day.  Travels, reflects on those travels; takes risks.  Not some pseudo-scribe/marketing block.  No.  I’m Poe.  I’m Plath.  Joyce, Faulkner, Kerouac, London.  Shakur.

Took a picture with my phone, of a view from SFW’s “Syrah Patio.” Love this wine capsule in which I live, write, sip, sing.  No where else for an Artist like me 2B.  I’m talking about permanency, not saying I wouldn’t like to spend a couple weeks in distant cities; Paris, Milan, Lisbon, Madrid, South Africa, Australia.  Need something to eat.  Dizzy…

After a little in writer’s core, coupled with this second [and last for night] beer, I’m ready for page.  Before I lose memory, wanted to share 1 character I met in Kunde tasting Room the other day.. mid-50s man, training for half-marathon; wine club member, but hasn’t had a sip of alcohol in over 3 months, was picking up his shipment, planning on giving it to friends.  His race isn’t till July of next year, and he’s sharply devoted to not having a single solitary sip till after crossing race’s end-line.  Admire him more than I have time 2 here write.  In these final lines, I’m just again letting it B known.. writing my way to inner & outer peace, from the peace I now find, in this sitting, submerged in my moments.  (7/23/12)