…we had fruit land yesterday, Pinot Gris if I’m not mistaken.  Wrote the other night that I’ll be like them, the vineyard crews and winemaking teams up and out early to get their prizes from the vines and truck it to the scales for record, then to presses.  Now I am very much awake, certainly more than when I started this entry.  Capture everything.  Book HAS TO BE DONE by harvest’s end.  And by “harvest” I mean Roth’s.  When the last fruit comes in, I will have a collected cannon of these inward jots… this writing father.  I will be one of them, the harvesters.  up early.  I miss my rise, I miss my prize, my fruit, what I need to make books, as they can’t miss the pull ‘cause then, well, no wine.  No wine, no job.  No job, then, you know… you know.

05:34 and I find more freedom in this sitting than I have in most if not the total sum of all in the rearview’d three or so months.  I’m here on this couch in the dark when most are asleep and hitting the snooze button.  Wife and I are up, working toward not so much goals but readjustments, our rewrites.  Well, I can’t speak for her, but me definitely.  How much can I write before she returns home dripping and now always with a coffee for her writing hus’.  Could use the coffee now but actually don’t yearn its heat and comfort and wholly persuasive code…