Sipping one of my friend Jason E’s wines, and inventorying the day.  Working all day, setting two truly crucial meeting for future near, picking up babies with wife, shopping for groceries, and now here on floor.  Planning a class… one centered around the magic number of a thousand words.  I’ve always found that number to be magical, a certain perfectly theatrical containment of expression.  Overall, today was a ‘pro’, little to no ‘con’.  Finally, the writer needed this.  Feel like a vine, sometimes, like one of those vineyard blocks that just perpetually gets pummeled by either weather, or animals, the vineyard crews and their “sustainable” sensibilities with the vineyards… just feeling worn, rattled, manipulated.  Sometimes.  Not always.  Si détendu, now.  So relaxed.. French phrase for evening.  Have to make coffee for morning and continue to work till close to midnight, as I earlier promised myself.  But will I—  Probably not.

Talking to myself in notes and reminders, like I’m some calendar or something.  I’m about to be 38…. THIRTY-FUCKING-EIGHT.  So more-thank-thankful for these two meetings.  But the writer needs to study up… prep.  Or not.  Why not just construe some truer-than-true impromptu—  This morning’s lecture has me electrified and dinosauric for the week’s remainder.  I’m going to get everything.. EVERYTHING I want.  By my 10-year anniv’ with Ms. Alice, booking a few nights in the Inn we staying in, our wedding night.  AND… new car.  This new turn, is THE turn to take.

No more wine in stemless plastic Govino.  Starting to hate these fucking glasses, and I don’t know why.  I love a stem, its characterization and personification.  Let me be honest with myself, ‘I’m here and in the planning mode, still.’ But I’ve actuated quite a bit.  And not just the two meetings.  Those don’t DEFINE me.  They’re a boon, but not definitive.  I’m too relaxed, now.  I’m too free.  Woke this morning just before 6 to dress like a Tasmanian Diablo and dash out the door.  And now here I am, slowed by vino.  But what was my first impulse?  Write.  Keep moving.  I’m not in front of the TV, as some.  ME, entertaining possibilities, the plausible, planning, to be in that hotel room with wife and look at the ocean while she early sleeps, sipping some Monterey Chardonnay hearing white caps that are cherubically blackened by later hours hurl at cliff side and protruding piedras.  The day me catches, and I’d love another goblet of J’s Red.