We attend at a talk at college reunion about the future of publishing.  A word is bandied about, referring to writers as 'content providers.'  Fairly boring, sitting through these panel discussions, led by professionals.  Some facts and figures, some speculation, some talk.

Hmm.  Content Providers.  Not much of a ring to it, except perhaps to an ear perfectly happy with mass production and market economies.

I slip away from the Frost Library and head up a quiet side street, toward the Evergreens, toward the Emily Dickinson House.  The mind needs to process.  Emily Dickinson, content provider.  Or let's try, T.S. Eliot, content provider.

I get home from work last night, and I'm glad there is an open but basically full bottle of Corbieres in the fridge.  Being open two days in the cold has not been unkind to it.  I might rather avoid wine altogether, but, you know, it helps you process things, as my mother with her infallible sense of morality tells me, and I must say the next day goes a good deal better as far as capturing thoughts and a sense of things when you allow yourself that.

I always liked those courtly A Boy's King Arthur kind of stories, like when Sir Lancelot, the greatest knight of all would go out into the world incognito, as if he, too were a content provider, an unknown writer.