I guess I felt like it was necessary to go off in an opposite direction.  The talk was economy, technology...  But none of it enthused me.  I held fast to a job of physical labor, service, face to face contact, conversation in a meeting place.

But that path, it turned out, was very very old.  And if largely ignored in the daily struggles of the worker bee life of the city, working hard, playing hard, driving places, going to fitness places, the path was well-worn, omnipresent, just over there, and good tales about it from those who had gone on that path.

Just that it felt awkward.  New.  Contrary to the interests of one's best comfort and survival...


Jesus, the poet, the writer, the man who knoweth labors and the miracles that come out of them...


Eh.  Rough start.  It was slow last night at the old wine bar.  Two high powered regulars sitting in the corner, discussing the legalities of the impeachment trial, having a quiet dinner.  And two ladies at the bar, one a local librarian, one the owner of an art gallery down the street.  They've been to the sister restaurant, the new one, up the street.  They order a cheese plate, adding a fourth cheese, the Societé Roquefort, in addition to the Ardi Gasna from the Pyrenees, Cantal from the Auvergne, a cheese that dates back to Gallic times, and Sandy Creek.   And it turns out that one's ex-husband has passed away, two weeks ago.  Yes, I remember when they used to come in the two of them.  Tanqueray Gin martini, I say, yes.  We nod.    Yes, crying is welcomed at the bar, this being an Irish kind of bar, I tell them.

But anyway, slow...  I get out not long after ten, and end up making the walk home.  I reheat some chicken stew, take my meds, skip the wine entirely, and off to bed.


My poetry, metaphors, parables, pale in comparison, to the Lord's.

The story of the Lord, Jesus Christ, master of poetry, is concise, rather.  Compact.  The writers of the Gospels do a pretty good job, from what one can tell, recording, editing, putting together the anthology of Jesus, his life as a sort of writer, along with his "writings."  Actions are not far away from writing.

In our own lives, this match is not easy to achieve.   Our own actions, unless one were to put a lot of spin on them, aren't so great, nor so earth-shaking, nor memorable, easily fading into insignificance, in this, the great age of The Insignificance of the Human Soul, where nothing happens unless it is referenced by social media and a nifty visual to catch the distracted eye.  And we've made travel difficult anyway, even as we feel we've made it easier.


I suppose there was a time when I believed in my own acts as a bartender.  People would note my Christian kindness, my open table fellowship with all sorts.  I don't know what went wrong.  I was steady.  I listened to people when they had something serious they were going through.


And then, one wonders, you are moved on into a form of professional advancement.  You're to become an expert, a consultant.  All well and good.  Come on, move along, work your way up, you're in the wine world now, salesmanship.

But part of you holds back from that.  Wine is wine.  Even Jesus may have famously made a point distinguishing the good new wine versus the previous offering, but it's deeper than that.

In pursuit of wine knowledge, and an aura of professionalism, my energies were spent just so.

What I liked most about the wine service and the restaurant industry, besides the thousands of people I came across, was the good vibe of hospitality, the joy, the smile that comes out at the simple pleasure, satisfied curiosity over wine.

But I wondered, what was I actually doing;  one should know what they are doing, at your age... right?

And same thing with the writing...  "Where are you going with all this..."

You need the help and guidance from the true professionals in your field, your true work, your true profession...

And where does one go, to get all that?



In the end it was all the political, the willingness of people to take offense, to put to death not the criminal Barbaras, but the worst offender who spoke words...


On the radio, the typical cultural war squabble, God forsaken in identity politics.  I turn it off, to preserve the calm I can manage.  What was reduced by the world of technology to be, out of habit and daily practice in the world of sped-up information and distraction, to complete irrelevance turned out to be the only thing to save me.


There are a few things in the world which facilitate the creative process.  The Beatitudes...  By saying, "happy," as in "happy are the meek..."  Jesus is describing for us the true nature of the human experience, and in particular that of the creative, the artist of thoughts, who will experience such things in their truer forms from which others are more insulated against.  But the author is served better by looking at the truth rather than the escapism of the condition...

Such is the diet the artist lives on.  Poor, mournful, poor in spirit, meek, etc...

There isn't much to cheer you out in the real world, anyway.  One asks himself, do I have the right to be happy anyway, given who and what I am.  According to Jesus, the answer is yes, hopefully.