The rain, still in its fall.  And me, this dizzy writer, exhausted after two vineyard tours in this rain, sipping the last of his Merlot.  Again in vision: how do I want to be seen as a writer?  Poet, novelist?  “Why not both?” Because I don’t want it so.  Yes, Plath wrote a novel, some prose, but she’s known for her lines, verses.  Please be this the last such introspective investigation.  This rain.. what could it be suggesting?  Well, we’ve had to wait quite the while for its presence; and it’s here, plentifully, in fact more than anyone really estimated.. but that doesn’t help.  No…  Like Dad one time posed, “What do YOU want?” Looking around the kitchen for signs– but why am I doing that?  Shouldn’t I just be able to answer?  Like I urged to the ‘100’ section the other week, even writing it on the board [which I never do, but that’ll change], “Don’t OVERthink!” Practice vs the preach, I know.  Definitely opening another bottle of my ME after this glass.  Can’t remember the last time I popped the same bottle 2 nights, rowed.  But I will bring so to fruition tonight–  There has to be a symbol in that, right?  Wish I could go for a night walk tonight.  And I would, if I had a night to myself, like I used to, years ago.  But I’m glad I don’t, honestly.  I want my little Artist, and wife, here in castle, with me.  Ugh this day, weighing on the writer.  Should be working on the apps, but I’m tired.  And it’s Saturday night.  And if I can’t have a Saturday night as I used to, then I’ll TAKE one.. have one modernized, more suited to my obsessive journal habits.  Need another glass, to see how it’s changing, since last night.  And I have to note, here: the Merlot (ME) has more evolution potential than that blend Blair and I did, in my opinion.  (2/8/14)