Tonight’s Sauvignon Blanc, barrel aged, fermented, where last night’s was stainless. Had an idea to start a newsletter, take subscriptions. But, there’s a conflict. Primarily, it being that’s not what I want to do. It’s too virtual, too technological. Like Kaz said, “Stay true to yourSelf.” And I will. A newsletter? I want to write books.. That was a silly thought. 2nite, Saturday’s eve. Not sure what I want to do, in way of writing. This journal, exhausting me. I again had not a second to spare for poetry, prose. My day, in the wine club room, much more manageable, today. Mostly on account I had colleagues at side, aiding. Sold over 2 cases. 2 wine clubs. Had me thinking of my Wine Shop, how my club would be crafted. Confined to page, for now.
Kelly, my character… All I’m thinking about. Mom and Dad in Sunriver, see mySelf staying there, on a touring trip, for a book, or some project. Where would my appearance be? I guess, Bend. Eugene? Getting ahead of Self, dreams. Speaking of dreams, I’m not too far away. This SB, more passion fruit-grounded than the other ’11 white Bordeaux. This manuscript, the one I’ll “sell,” taking a different shape, getting further away from wine. And it relieves me, honestly.
10:22pm. Regather. But I don’t know what for. Tomorrow, Friday, for me. Today, one gentleman, from Central Oregon actually, thought the Zinfandel I poured tasted like salty berries. I’m not saying he was wrong, but I did think his reaction was too reactionary. Plus, I think he’d been to a few other wineries before landing at ours. Evidence: it was just before 4p, his arrival, with 3 other people. Never get tired of responses to wine. And, day before yesterday, a guy from Norway accused one of our wines, also a Zin, of lacking “zip.” I think that wine confuses people, even “experts.” No, ESPECIALLY “experts.” If it’s a living thing, which it is, predictability’s not plausible. And I don’t know why it interests me the way it does.
Mike wrote verse for all minutes till bed. That’s what he ordered himself to do. They barely made sense, he just followed whatever rhyming trend was below nose. He couldn’t believe how much of the white wine he’d sipped. What was it saying to him? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to. He just wanted to enjoy. Kelly was on her way over, and he had nothing to cook. So why did he think he could finish anything tonight? She made him foolish, often. That was his plan, believe or no. Maybe he still could, accomplish something. Maybe a page… So what would he cook? Something Italian-ish. Or Mexian-y. He couldn’t do either, he knew. But he could pour wine. And when he did order in, when Kelly found he didn’t prepare a solitary calorie, he’d just pour more. Wine always solved.
The night slowed. He wished he could just fall into his sheets. But it was only 6:39pm. How would he make it through dinner? He needed another sip. That would help, he thought. And anything other that writing, he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t even want his success visions. He just wanted her voice, her there.
Knock knock, knock. Knock.