And at

day’s end, I collect.  We should inventory, much I hate that word, and evaluate what we did, how it contributed to our character.  Only an hour and one minute left in day, and the quiet of the house speaks to me as it did the other morning when I was up well before 6.  Now I’m tired, yawning and forcing self to type.  But I’m doing it, no?  I’m working when I’m sure others I know are out, partying or drinking or doing something that does nothing to forward them to their There.  Sounds like I’m judging but I’m not.  I’m citing reality.  And if not reality, then a blaring likelihood.

Tomorrow morning, HAVE TO wake early.  Earlier than early.  03:45, like the student from Spring term.  How did he do that?  Not missing one class, and always walking in more than awake and telling his colleagues of how he went to gym after his alarm pulled him from sleep at 03:45.  How… I’m going to know.  Wife upstairs and before going up, her verbal— “Don’t stay up too late, Mikey…” Oh, I won’t.  Believe me.  I have so much I want to get done in morning.  A run, being one.  Where is my running watch?  Think in desk drawer, somewhere.

Photography.  What do I do.  Looking at past shots in the vineyard, and seeing the vines as more than vines, more than some plant, more than a grape-providing forum.  I separate for a second, from the photog and the images therein… just think of what wine’s done to my life, what I have in my glass— yes, I confess I poured the rest of that CH (Chalk Hill) Estate Pinot I opened two nights ago when Mom and Dad came over.  The spiritual yell from this wine tells me to relax, not think I always have to write— then we tussle, slight fight— “Who are you too tell me when to scribble and type?” I cannon.  No response.  The wine’s smarter than me, not interested in nor having time to quibble with an agitated Beatnik like Mike.  My moment assures, poised—