Blame Self for not having time to write this morning. Woke at 5:54a, only to fall back to sleep. And I didn’t that much consider waking to write, or staying awake to get a little character collection to page. Getting tired of the expectation to blog. How is that Art, responding to that expectation, request? Hate this rushed feeling… Tomorrow morning, I’m getting up from those devilish sheets. Not sure how much I’m going to edit this note, but… Thinking of how the vineyards are excelling in their stories. This vintage, this issue, this volume. Lately, and it’s hard for me to understand this, I’ve been one of Zinfandel. Think I left its arena too quickly, with too much momentary mood haste. Today, goal in tasting Room: taste, notes for each wine. Already have character scribbles for that Century Vine Zin. But, the others, need reflection. How else would I be able to speak of them passionately. Which reminds me, I received a compliment bluster, that lasted the full day, on how I speak of the wines. One woman, from Italy, expressed relief, saying “You don’t talk about wine in a phony way.” And that’s exactly what I’m targeting. Not just that reaction, but that shape of consumer mind, one not Spectator-adhered.
Leaving for work. Still haven’t charged that phone. Don’t need to. Hate how I have to attach all these ridiculous tags when I “post” an entry. Can’t get over it. For this entry, I’m only using a couple of these limp “tags.” Did Poe attach category to his work? No, it was its own. It spoke for itSelf. Me, as a varietal, any more: a Petit Verdot– Dark, formidable, Romantic meanderer; Artful, atmospheric; timid of criticism, as people don’t often see my solitary step. And just before 9a, I hit my word mark. Need to stop announcing such. If anything, it lets you know I’m aware. Of time. What I have to do, fighting its tentacles. [8:57am]