A standalone idea; proud isolated and firm. Yes.. from now on. So now, this chair: wood, cheap, straight, stiff, not waivering. And certainly not comforting. I try to concentrate on the last of the ’10 I just poured, and the whole dilemma with theory and teaching and literature, but this chair won’t let me. It wants to be noticed, hurting the back, hips, and even knees (how does it do that?) Maybe it’s suggesting I work on my posture or look more attentive or just seem more professional, more sophisticated since I teach at the college level, but what is that? This is my house. And if I wanted to, I could toss this fucking thing in the trash if I wanted– but then I’d have its three siblings to deal with, and more than likely they’d hurt more, angry with me that I tossed the other seat into the parking lot bin, that large one with whoknowswhat in it. And I’m not convinced this is real wood, erecting this seat, this seating station for me, so maybe it inflict pain as means of being recognized. Yeah that could be. Or, it’s just a seat and I’m in a mood, maybe it’s trying to point that out, that I need to relax and not be so obsessive as a writer and turn it off once in a while. Yeah maybe… Another sip of the Cab and I still ache, buttocks to brain to bravado, I’m uneven, which is interesting as a seat is supposed to situate you, especially a writer, right? And, again, this is my house, my kitchen nook, and my evening– push it out of your head, I tell myself, this seat and what it’s made of.. it’s a bloody seat, wood maybe, cheap and barely edified. The Cabernet tells me that it’s not worth another word. But then I think, “Who are you to be talking?” And I also note, nearly say aloud (which would wake little Kerouac and make my wife think I’m loon’d), “What do you want me to talk about, you? You’re just WINE.” I sip the rest of it to shut it up. And refocus on the chair– I will say this, it doesn’t allow me to get distracted, by anything; by the TV my wife watches, by the day I have tomorrow at the winery doing all the usual nonsense, that I’ll be 36 in 14 days, 4 months… It forces me to focus, be linear which I’ve always thought was a detract, but no, I’m seeing, more clear, and that’s because I’m here in this straightened hard nominally copse cathedra. Oaky, not so much, just reminding me of a tree, one murdered for consumerism. In fact, all’s simplified and honed to my liking in this chair, and I’m not with any impair. I’ve waited 36 years nearly for this. Just wish I had more Cab, so it could see how nugatory it is correlated to the moment itself, where I write and what had me writing. And that’s this chair. Singularly.