Never Done

img_1338Need another sip of this Dutcher Crossing Chard.. the Stuhlmuller.  No, a full glass.  Then relax.  Can write all morning, tomorrow, with wife and babies gone.  Coffee… already thinking about my coffee. MY travels… videos of the vineyards and people writing with me in them.. who wants to write with me in the vineyards?  Just a pen, Composition Book or Legal Pad, or whatever.. just writing in the vineyard.  Shit.. would do that tomorrow but it’s supposed to rain all bloody day— are you kidding me?  Now I really need another glass of wine.

Have second glass, and I’m without a thing to say.  Could be the hour, could be that espresso shot wearing off… who knows.  Tired of using ellipses between sentences.  Feel’s thought it’s a cop-out.  OR just fucking lazy.  The wine makes more boldness teach itself to be bold.  A postmodern ardor that’s truly unstoppable, like Plath poetry and all related.  This writer suddenly feels inner-yodels to be more confident and instructional in his writing.  Wish I could pull an all-nighter as I did in college.  Watch the sun come up and know I did something extraordinary, that few people on the planet have ever, EVER, done.

This Chardonnay, a planet to every palate, disclosing complexities and varying languages as it lands and runs away, returns with the sip next to orate its varied and contained thesis.  I’m motivated by what I sip as I am hardly ever by a Chardonnay.  I do feel the effects of what I’ve sipped but I’m still on this floor, after over 1,000 words written prior and still in my syllabic stampede.  This second glass will most plausibly be my last.  Looking left, see son’s shoes… oh shit, I’m a daddy… this writing has to sell.  How can I relax?  I have to work.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll write a fucking book.  I have to.  Bills, bills…. Kids, kids… shit, there go the ellipses, again.  Who on this planet thinks, let alone writes, like this?  I’ve mad gone— gone.  Another planet, on…

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