Not sure how I feel, not sure what I want to say.  But someone today told me, after I asked him what his “apex aspiration” was, during our brief encounter in the break room [should have just eaten outside, as it didn’t rain all day as they said it would, but I’m glad I didn’t]: “I have this delusion that I’m a writer.”

“You are,” I said.

“Eh…  But I have to prove it,” he slouched.

Haven’t been able to let go of his words.. I feel nearly angry.  I’m convinced the world will have to accept me as a writer.  This I’ll no longer have to write in this cluttered kitchen nook, that I’ll soon have my office, that I’ll be on the Road.  [took out garbage, which was in a plastic bag, just to left, leaning against one of the wooden chairs, placed there by Alice..]

Went into the lab today, at lunch, tasted through some 13’s, research for C——’s character.  The only one that directly to me spoke was that Syrah– the oak integration, caramelized consistency.  It was nice to consider these wines as she would.  What I was doing, she’s never done.  She’s been in a cubicle for 6, nearly 7, years, and only now want to venture out.  What kept her in?  Not even she knows.  Well.. the money.  Obviously.  That drowns all dreams.

Sipping a ’10 Cab that Zach made.  My favorite wine at the winery, by far.  And how I’ll prove my writerdom.. through verse.  The poems.  Destroying other penners.  So I need a reading appointment.  How?  Where?  Investigate…

Well, if I wanted to.. this Sunday, March 2nd, at Hop Monk in Sebastopol.  It’s an open mic..  Think I can handle that.. but I need to designate pieces for a “set”.  I’ll gather tomorrow, or start.  I’m proving that I’m a poet that needs to be loved, studied, respected.. feared.