11:05—  PM, mind you,

and I’m having trouble with something I posted earlier this evening.  Right now my attitude is, rather curtly, “Fuck it.” But now, one of my devices, oh the lovely cell phone, tells me something’s uploaded, a video.  Thought I already fucking uploaded it—  Ugh, too late to deal with this, so I just look at still shots from when I did my lunch walk, up and down the Mourvedre block.  No more, I’m not going to talk about it, my troubles with fucking tech—  I’m downstairs, in a now-quiet house, babies and wife upstairs asleep.  You dads know what I appreciate now, this quiet.  I guess it depends on how many kids you have, I only have 2.  But either, you appreciate time to yourself, no?  Moms AND daddies.  I can feel that vineyard air around me, especially from today.  Fucking blustery as a the devil’s impatience.  It was like I was being forced further into the vineyard, like the day wanted me to be late back to the office.  My mind now is not with me, at all.  Have coffee out so I can wake earlier than early, so early I offend all of you fellow parents, asking shit like, “How does he wake so early?” My tell, frankly, ‘cause I want to.  I need the time to Self.  I need the time to write.  Yes, I know it’s a “fool’s errand” and all that responsible puke, but I need my time— the page and my thoughts, collected and confined to a page-space.  No abbozzo, this is the final sketch.  I don’t have time at my age to draft and draft and draft.  How many fucking times can you “draft”?  What I appreciate now, sitting on the floor with my spin against the outer-spine of this couch’s pillows, is  a counterclockwise conception of my Now, the immediacy of my echoed expediency, through versified poetry.

And there’s a yawn.  Thinking bed is nearer, near to me like another glass of this St. Francis Cab.  But no.  I’m done.  I have a 4AM call, show, right back here on the floor against the couch or on the couch itself.  I want to be seen as demented in my page addiction and loyalty.  Like I race to the empty space.  Now I think of the coffee, and that Mourvedre block, the flex of the clusters, how I felt so insignificant next to them, knowing each grape would contribute to something, something so many would sip and remember.  And I was just there taking pictures on my phone, like a local industry dunce.

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