And then after you write, time enters a lonely phase.  Administrative tasks to attend to, health insurance renewal, laundry, a few bills to pay, ho hum.  No real desire as energy to go out on the town, would feel pointless anyway, except for Betsy, a few old friends, but most of my friendship time spent at the old Dying Gaul, and not up for that, certainly.

And really there's not much else for you to do than to pour yourself a glass of wine, after the little bit of inspiration you had earlier.

The phone calls, the phone calls, on the one hand they are distracting, on the other hand they are life. Yes, Mary came and took care of some things, good.

People ask me at work, how's your mom's cat...

Drinking a glass of wine relieves some of the monotony.  It will also bring, potentially, some exuberance...  A creative freedom of feeling...

Without the wine, this time would be too difficult by myself.  The night needs a little magic, a foreign touch, a sense of novelty.

Get the laundry ready.  Down the stairs.  Guitar tonight, maybe later...

Bob & Lynette comes by on the fucked up big party downstairs night Wine Tasting, when I have to parse out the St. Veran, they sit there at the bar, hi ted, and I don't feel much like waiting sometimes, but I hang in there.  Lynette pipes up, as I get him a Kronenbourg, and ponder what she might like as she ponders too, ultimately deciding upon a Manhattan, I read your Facebook about Kerouac...

Oh, yeah...  Yeah, the anniversary, 50 years...   And I lay out how I'm torturing myself reading On the Road, which comes to a boil for me...  "No, don't go down and see William Burroughs...  That's not a good idea!"  I reel from my own irresponsibility...  over all the years...  Why are you hanging out with such people?  Don't you have a plan?  (But unfortunately, artists never really have much of a plan, but that of creating, however they might fall into it, sometimes, like me, my art the humor that comes out spontaneously from dark places in the form of a magnificent and humorous hospitality... as I have found, time and time again, only rarely being unable to feel so burdened by the events of a particular shift that my powers of circumspection and wit deserting me...)  So, somewhat jokingly, I lay it out for them, the only two here at the bar, trying to catch up as we should...  Burroughs wife is a benzedrine addict...  It's just going to be weirdness.  They get it, they have kids who've turned out to be artists.  Chef.  Musician.  Writer.  Great parents.  Solid.  Responsible.  And I'm feeling low, but rise again to the occasion.  I admit my own lacking as far as planning, but Lynette dismisses the notion, and yes, I have been showing up here for years, to work, to work, to the bar, to wine tasting night, to many an other kind of a night...  And up comes Tombow, he'll be two at the bar for dinner, him and an old work colleague, Brian, I make him a French 75...

The fancy older couple is brought upstairs by L.m., sat at the front of the room by the windows, but then she of the couple decides she really likes the table in the back, which is of course the hardest to get to... why?  On wine tasting night, you do that to me, Jesus Christ...


The problem is not how little there is to write, the problem is how much there is...