Watching The Thomas Crown Affair.  Seeing how people admire, gawk over, commit crimes over, Art.  Paintings priced in the hundreds of millions.  Artists CAN survive from their revolutions.  History’s proven that.  And which version?  The Pierce Brosnan edition.  Galleries.  With Artists’ lives, whole souls.  For me, no more wine this eve.  48 hours from this sitting, here on sofa’s left side, or wherever I’m sitting, I’ll be alone.  Simulating office.  Might be playing a video game, with new journal exposed, wide, inviting.  Today, and the four that preceded, took my integral.  I’m more than drained.  In 48, I’ll be sipping something lifted; something stratospheric.  Maybe that ’07 Cab I scored at the AV gala.  I don’t know.  But it has to be luminous.  The movie, about to end.  Galleries.  So indescribable 2me.  All in borders.  Thinking of that footage in Paris.  Should transfer some of that to blog, on my homed artistic retreat.  Such admiration, protection of these pieces, hanging from walls.  Want my books to be seen same.  Have to type in waved similarity.  Nearly wrote linearity.  Gobbled by fogged hobble, my fault.  All in2 vault.  Little Kerouac, asleep above my immobility.  Can only think in morning mocha masonry, manuscript’d.  May still be slightly grinning from the ’10 blend.  This movie also has me thinking of Art as it infuses aside winemaking.  MY wines, have to be expressive, purist, minimally manipulated.  Tentatively have dinner planned with winemaking sis, sometime this week.  Want to talk to her about oaking, yeast strains, topping, racking, blending trials, tasting, descriptor selection [as a winemaker would write them, not a writer/winemaker..].

News on in a little.  Me, falling into lethargic whisks.  Still have my grading to do.  Doing all in one day.. 1/1/13, or 1/2.  Already missing my students, especially one, the talented writer/rhetorician.  Her papers, pulled my back into passionate pedagogy.  Don’t have energy to get to my word target.  Maybe Mom’s right, I should take a little break from writing.  But who am I kidding, or even my beautiful sweet kind gentle mother, for that matter?  Writing’s not merely what I do, or “like” to do.  It’s WHO I AM.  Anyone who fully knows the writer knows that.  My wife, reading “Paris Wife” before I do, says she came upon a part where Hemingway goes to a coffee shop to dive in2 Craft, and she [Alice, my lovely wife] thought of me.  “That’s what Mikey does,” she said, adorably, in the kitchen as I poured the first ’10 push.  May get in a little café composition, tomorrow.  But we’ll see.  Two Pinots I want to taste while writing retreat, but I’m hooked by my Cabernet salvo.  Dilemmas of a studying winemaker– hate that word, “winemaker.” Sounds so titular.  I make wine, or am starting.  I have no ornamentally cyclical scope to hold “winemaker” title at some “powerhouse” coporate goblin winery.  I just want to make wine, traditionally, maybe sell a couple bottles.  […]  And the sitting, set.  Can’t wait for sleep.  Wonder if she’d tell me to stay awake, or retire to write more tomorrow, early.  My blood test, for physical, in A.M.  Not in any way looking 4ward.  So, to bed.  Even tireless writer pirates need setting.  Bona … Dreaming of Art, mine, what it’ll soon, only in weeks be.