10/20/12.  Couple beers with an old friend from the other side [Napa].  Just arrived home about an hour ago, a bit less.  No time to scribble anything 4Self.  Old little notebook, full.  So I had to buy one at winery.  Injected one thought, reality.  Need 2B more diligent about notes for Self, I know.  But there’s only so much I can do when on their clock.  I mean, when there, I DO have to work.  Saw my Merlot, its little bin, cold soaking in warehouse.  Pretty sure I begin punching down tomorrow.  After a couple reality flickers today, I realize that I want everything with an encompassingly Autonomous strain.  No partnerships, no dependencies.  Only me.  I know, that may be delusionally idealistic, but I’m an Artist.  A Writer.  That’s how I think.  An Emerson quote I shared with class the other night, now on mind.  Not going to ramble on another wishlist trail..  Focusing on the wine I’m about to open.  A Rosé my sister made.  Been eager to pop this bottle since Mom gave it to me.  Do I want to make a Rosé?  No.  I, honestly, just want to enjoy this as a consumer.. as one in love with wine.

The road, again calling.  Writing 2nite to be paid from Creative practices.  Why else?  Air conditioner on.  Not sure why.  Not that hot in this condo castle.  Oh, this morning’s photo shoot, not yielding the material that I’d hoped.  Felt like.. I was in a vineyard, at night, with really bright polling lights.  Yes, there were a couple stills to share, but other than that, from a Literary perspective [from where I’ll always reflect, evaluate] there wasn’t much there.  Could have been how tired I was.  Or my attitude.  Not that I was in a bad mood, I simply wasn’t the enthusiastic Mike people might recognize.


Mike rested the camera in a small space, in his work bag.  He pushed it down between the Comp Book and the papers he still hadn’t graded.  He wanted to look through the pictures he took this morning, early early this A.M.  But, he was hadn’t a ounce of Life in him left.  Sleep, his only thought.  1000 words before bed, he thought.  But that wasn’t realistic, he knew.  Kelly, in London, on some Artist escape.  And he, still there.  In Bennett Valley.  Writing, rather typing, in front of repetitious TV.  The new.  Hardly news.  It wasn’t new.  The same story.  Just day different.  He didn’t to endorse that progression.  He sipped his Rosé, close the laptop.  Put it away.

Not typing anymore tonight.  Off to Comp Book.  To be a real Artist.  This device dependency, bothering me significantly.  Have one more Jubelale in fridge.  That’ll be my nightcap.  These pictures aren’t bad, actually.  Something about that vineyard in a morning’s earliest and most earnest hour.  Watching Pride and Prejudice.. haven’t seen this since that 2008 semester for SRJC, at the Windsor campus.  Ms. Austen’s use of epistolary interjection makes me think of writing letters.  To everyone.  Mom, Dad, Alice, Katie, Jack, my characters.  Why not?  I remember a guest I had on a mountaintop tour.. he told me that he wrote his daughter, away at college somewhere [can’t remember], letters every week.  He refused to send her emails.  So, Ms. Austen, thank you so very much for reminding me that ink and lines are where I need B.  Cruise in ablution…