At a desk, calling. Want to be out in vineyard and I will be in a minute but this whateverth cup of coffee has the writer impatient. Keep moving, keep thinking, making notes in the Carpe journal. But they’re just notes. There, just notes. Here, just me. Me and this coffee. Meditating over this journalistic urge I have, this “transition” in the White House, this transition for me as a writer, and all else imbued. Going to bed earlier tonight, that’s for sure, as I have to be here early tomorrow morning and I need to set my alarm, this time. Didn’t last night and I don’t think it would have made a morsel of difference as I would have just dismissed it, hit OFF or SNOOZE a dozen times. That last glass of Cabernet had me moving a bit slow this morrow. But tonight’s a new night, and tomorrow’s morrow’s a shot of Newness as well. So onward, onward the writer flies and I mean FLIES. Have to move quicker. Be deliberate, yes, and measure several times but move quick. Can’t wait to be in the rows, out by the Mourvedre and Grenache. Need air. Need the colors in all those rows. Need a walk to renew me on this 11th day of the project, where I gather as many singular pieces as possible hopefully totaling 50,000 or more words. Just need quiet. IS that possible anymore for this writing father? Yes. I know, dumb question. I have to grab it, force the quiet in my days and Nows and perpetuate an efficacy I never have. Senses heightened from this hunger. I’ll move and feast on imagery. That’s how I have to do it, today. Didn’t pack a lunch. I’ll eat the leaf colors, that clumped soil, the slight overcast, my impact on the grounds– what around me enccourages, all, and in a multiplied tide of ‘poz vibe’.