6:03p. Home, empty. Not in the frame to scribe. However, I'm in keep of sharp surveillance concerning a winery/tasting Room's operations, obstacles. Will write my way to my Room. Also, going to media less. Meaning, more confined to the page. All but ALL confined to the page. More than anything I can conjure, I wish for my book on a shelf. A guest today asked me why I didn't want a traditional novel. I responded, "What is that?" The line between fiction and non is thin, if at all discernible, much the way certain Cab-rooted blends present themselves to a palate. Looking through a slew of past entries, I see a focus on Picasso, his defiant stride. Self-publishing, entailing the like, I think. What if I’m wrong? The day’s shift, a torpedo to my Equilibrium. Need to toughen, with five more at bow. Less time to write, but I’ll scribble sneakily. Covertly. Spy write.
The travel bug, reproducing in my imagination. I returned to Paris today, while behind the counter, doing “quality control” with one of the Pinots. I miss the language, the food, all unknown, unfamiliars. The mise en scèn of it all. I will write my way to that, as well. I’ll write any reality I wish, to be frank. I’ll produce my own ethereal existential blend.