This Racer 5 tells me to pick up Plath’s entries. Deconstruct, evaluate. Appreciate. I would, but they’re downstairs. Not an excuse, I know. And, no excuse for not running 2nite. Well, I did taste some ’07 Oak Knoll Cab with NWG co-workers. After, across the street for a beer. So I’m to be charged with inaction, right? Had an idea on the way back to Sonoma’s nearness: What if I went on a solo mission to Mendocino, or Lake County by Self, “wine tasting,” as tourists spew, brought nothing but ink? No cameras, still nor video. Someone recently asked me, “So, how’s the wine blogger life?” I retreated in annoyance. Why? I’m not a wine blogger. I’m a writer. Confined to no one topic, theme, existential constituency. This sitting, a true consciousness stream, as there’s so much I felt, in that cube 2day. No virulency, animosity. Just me, connecting with a contemplative core. Scribbling on yellow glaciers. Stanford, still, and 4ever, in my sights. I want to reconnect with students. And, I promised mySelf I’d do a little lecture writing tonight. But, I think I deserve this sipNscribble. Dad, Mom, have always said, “You have to have fun.” And this is how I unwind. No outings to filthy nearby neighborhood bars. I’m here, just Mike with his words. That’s all he wants. Needs.
This night’s Notes, not at all cubed. Me, remembering flavors from lunch hour’s melodic whisks. Tina, Lisa, Jamie, mySelf, intermingling lines under reassuring sun sheets. As I age, I’m more obsessed with trapping others’ words. Too useful for my book. BOOKS. I’m a writer. This, how I feed. Listening. I remember feeling relived at the arrival of Jamie’s husband, Jason. He offered subtly accurate humor, forcing me into chuckle every other word. More than lucrative for dialogue lines, for my pages. He left, isolating me, again with femmes. I eagerly returned to a cube. To dial, tight-talk.