7/10/11, Sunday. After the Anderson Valley mission, I’m back home, holding pattern before NewWineGig return. I should be quiet, not carve my qualms with this “industry.” But I can’t keep quiet, just ‘cause I’m given a check. We EARN our wages, so why should we lean in discretion? And this isn’t an obsession with ME, an overt focus on this author’s still. I’m not keeping quiet. Wine, should be like this day. With family, scenery. OUTSIDE. Not enclosed. Not capsuled. Dad warned, reiterated, the other night, “If you don’t think for yourSelf, others will think for you.” He also showed me that all that I have been lecturing to students, has now fallen in my forward’s channel. I’m not concerned with consequences, pond ripples. I’m abreast “the industry” has a certain nearness. But my pages won’t halt. I won’t crouch. All discrepancies I observe, warrant reaction. Isn’t that what the wine would want? Freedom, aloft spiritedness? Wine’s traffic antagonizes Literary figures like I. Containment, not nearly. I’m going to spend this night’s concluding clock hops with pours final. 2morrow, Comp book at side. I’m a writer. Fanatically loyal to what Dad, Mom, Bob, and roles of paralleling folds impressed. This oenoPoet, nevR adjusting. I’m Human. Actual. Present. If that’s a fault, then I toast to potential penalty.