And I was reminded, again, organically, by my own thought stream, to put everything out there– everything I write. And I’m 35, the journey should have already catapulted, no? but I can’t get into that again, that’ll only halt me. And I’m not a genre fellow, I won’t write something that’ll be so conveniently marketed and categorized on Amazon, or at B&N. I don’t know what set me on this road, but I’m thinking in dismal droves. For what? My Beat, my beat, like I’m an officer on my own streets. Took my first sip of the ’10 Lancaster Cuvée, and I swear it wants me on the Road, in some hotel, writing, finish or just beginning something. One of the people I took to the mountaintop today asked me, “So how long have you been working here?” That question I hate. ONE, why do you care, and, TWO, I’m slightly embarrassed to disclose that two of my life’s 365- blocks have been consumed by that place. And it’s a celestial spot, really, but the job is what ruins it. The job.. another fucking job. Dav showed me this collection of articles today, in a book. I only had the chance to skim through it but none of the pieces, if I heard Dav right, goes beyond 800 or a thousand words. And it’s journalism, reporting, accuracy or the hope of. And my character, and characters, still waiting for their placement. But the wine motivates, like that tree the other day, the one I saw from the gravel lot. Still not sure why it folded me as it did, with its everydayness, but it was there, and so was I, and we were meant to see each other as we did– or I was meant to see it. Right before leaving for class, just before 4:30p, I had a huge sip of the SB, the one from neutral oak, and I looked at the tank room, all that steel, and hoses, and puddles, discolored concrete– purple, red, slight brown or yellow or some shade I can’t parlance in this pulse of prose. But today it took me, and as I succeeded in my gulp, I saw myself there, another direction, on that walkway above the tanks, looking down, or doing additions from up top, or watching the yeast react, eat what they could, but just watch either way. OR, I could just stand in there, on the clock, find some hidden corner and just write, no photos, just notes, spy on them– these epoch edgers; what they do, how they talk, how they walk around like all of this is because of them; they’re so elevated and sagacious and sterling with their stenches and barreled tumbles and everything they deem an obscure and intriguing subtlety. I pull label, and it is, ‘buffoonery’. Comedy, meant for me, but I’ll still sip, ‘cause that’s the point, correct? I mean, did I miss something, or am I just off-topic again? My students need one speaking this frankly, so I completely let go, for the first occasion in 35 years. So take that, devil.. machine… And on my run tomorrow morning, I’ll recite this all in head, or what I can remember. And I could care less if it has a SKU, ever.