11/11/17.  Not sure what people notice in ’11/11’.  Up.  Not as early as yesterday, sipping coffee and I think I’m ready for the day.  A day where it’s only myself and one other person behind the bar.  Have to do what I said yesterday, and just breathe, and work with what I have which is me, her, bottles to pour, that’s all.  ‘Nother sip… why didn’t I wake earlier?  I have no time to write this morning… well, I do but not as much as I’d like.  “Well, too bad.” One side of the Gemini says.  The other stays quiet, doesn’t say a thing.  Manipulate… manipulate the moment to suit the story.  Idea I just had.  Nearly took breath from my vessel.  Need to do personal finance budget… will do at work.  Not going to shower this morning but just brush teeth, wash face, find something to wear and zoom out the door like a lawyer late for court.  Be in car AT 08:00, driving, if not earlier.  Move quicker, quicker than other humans can.  Other humans don’t write, or at least not like this, not like I do, not like a tireless writer— and certainly not these wine writers, or the ones that embolden themselves to the point— self-deceive themselves to the alter of anointing themselves ‘journalists’—  No.  I’m me, the only of me, and I manipulate my Personhood and all its caveats and coursing, directions and partial directions as I want.  Shit— 07:25.  Already feel the coffee.  So what.  What does the writer do.  Have to use restroom but I don’t want to stop.  Sell wine as you sell yourself, as you did yesterday over the phone with that guy in, where was it— MN.  Yes.  Bought two css of the single-vineyard Cab, Alex’ Vall’.  And over the phone.  Couldn’t believe it.  Or I could.  I was selling me.. my words, my language in talking about it—  Gothically painted Cabernet with its very assertive translation of not only vintage and varietal but where it’s from— dusty and slightly sweet embers, chocolate and volcanically-pulsed dust, a thick air of anomalous narrative—  Now I want to buy some.

Friend came in yesterday and said how much she loves to hear me talk about wine.  Not that I’m bragging, but I’m a little bit bragging.  I know where my strengths are, is, are, and coalescing wine and spoken-word is one.  This moment transfusing my thought cascade differently and the same, a postmodern maelstrom that only makes a writer more garrulous but not on matters at all meaningless.  11/11… it’s the visual, how it presents itself on and to and in the page.  So be me a writer, aujourd’hui.  Echoing in my reason and vision and letters to self and students, and you reading this if you’re not a student or someone I know or…

Toys around me, evidence of dad-dom.  I do all this for them, and the rest for others.  Just realized that none of this, really, is for me.  I want parents to of course be proud of their writing son… sister, same… wife, as well…. I’m not doing any of this for me, I see.  Huh.