spot bell, struck

I’m in mode of wind-down.  No rain.  No activity.  Too much still in this Room.  But I’m writing.  Jackie, asleep upstairs.  As is Ms. Alice.  A little Chardonnay in glass to left.  Would love a glass of red, but this writer can afford to wait till morrow’s afterwork hour.  Have to get to road, as my sister does with her winemaking travels.  Not sure how much Art her jaunts entail, but even still.. she’s an Artist, on her Road.  Traveling, conversing on Craft.  As I wish I could.  Stagnancy, stabbing my perceptive sanctum.  Thinking of Notre Dame, on that island, what I felt looking at those candles, hearing onlooker echoes.

A year ago, what I was just reading on this godforsaken “blog,” my days at AV winery.  Would love a glass of anything red, but I won’t.  I’ll write it.  And if not, then about it think, dream…  Me, on tour [like Katie, in her NYC stay], sipping some red while I scribble in my Comp Book.  Just engaging in purism.  No tech lean.  Kelly, not even having a single social media account.  She has email, but only checking in when she needs.  She returns to her couch.. sketching, then painting, applying shade.

Memory:  the short story I wrote in freshman English, in Mr. Stapleton’s class, about my then-pet, “Bubba the Bunny,” providing a correlation to Alice’s chase of her white rabbit.  And then I think of how I wrote my Master’s thesis on Carroll’s work.  And how I thought of my potential–actually, eventual–thesis on his pieces while walking to my advisor’s office, merely one day.  Miss grad school, being an ACTUAL student.  Just after 10p [10:10], thinking I should slow.  Up since 6a, but still quite musical.  OR at least that’s how I’m feeling.  Need more song, like what I started scribbling yesterday, while watching Mr. Jack.  Looking at these old photos of my little Artist beats me into epiphany.  All passes.  Where do I go with these thoughts?  I’ll have to let them rest in barrel, on this blog/book.