“It’s like we’re in another world.”

5/31/13–  Finally at table, at keys.  Today’s run, more of run/walk.  Was chased by a couple squads of bees coming down Lawndale, ran so fast that I put mySelf considerably far ahead of Carmen’s and my pace.  But, approaching Hwy 12, I was without steam.  Had to initiate slightly speeded walk.  But in all, 1 hour 20-25 mins of taxing activity.  Was warmer today than I thought.  And on Mountain, more scenic than I’ve in a while scene it.

First tour, a young lady, probably about my age, from Dallas, with her Virginian Mother.  Anne, Sue, respectively.  Driving back, Anne couldn’t believe how beautiful it was on the estate.  And I mean, in COMPLETE disbelief, many times remarking on how she could so easily relocate to our state, to Kenwood, anywhere with vines, a view, inescapable wine.  I told her I’d heard that many times before.  Many.  Times.  Almost daily.

Last tour, with wine bloggers.  All three of which I’d been eager to meet, actuality’s plate,  face2face, for some time.  Sipping a COLD Racer 5, here at home.  Was tempted to take the Rockpile Red from collection, the one I last night took home from St. Francis event.  But beer sounded better.  Tomorrow morning, printing.  Looking for ten pages.  Of anything.  Not letting pieces go over 4 pages.  Shouldn’t be a problem, with this new coffee machine I took home, for birthday.

Book, nearly done.  I promise.  Will be selling it before June’s end.  Again, PROMISED.  I don’t want to be looking for work the rest of my life, hoping there’s openings, available shifts at wineries.  Those days are done.  I’m 34, going after what I want.  NO, not ‘going after’.  Just bloody taking it.  And with all this material around me, in the Wine World, it shouldn’t be a problem.

Going in early tomorrow, to taste my wines.  Blair said, as soon as I touched down this A.M., that he was going to pull the oak chain from the barrel.  I tried a last week, the week before, but couldn’t get that stubborn thing out.  Hope nothing’s volatile, reduced, or otherwise.  Need to start thinking about this vintage.. as I’ve said before so many times, as you know.  ’13, last trial vintage, to be sure.  This, promised.

TV off.  Tonight, only Art.  Sparking music.. where’s the Comp Book?  Oh yeah, in my backpack, that the lady from that marketing group gave me a couple weeks ago.  Love that thing.  Perfect for days like today, when I have to bring/pack running gear to work, for changing after clock-out.  This morning, though, couldn’t find the black & white CompB, the one with over a year’s worth of writing in it borders.  Ran downstairs in search, asked Alice where it could be, if she’d seen it.  “It’s on top of the TV, isn’t it?” she said.  Sure enough, lovingly yes.  Not letting that thing even inch from writer’s sight.  Ever again.  I swear, my heart leapt from chest, this morning, waited on desk, told me I could have it back when I found the book.  Surely–no, THANKfully–I did.

Now that I think about what Anne said, this IS another world.  This valley.. all the others…  All of it.  Wine does that to us, this place.  Now I do want a glass of wine.  Will wait till morrow’s latter clock portion.  Still haven’t turned on music.  AND, I need to see how far I ran vs. how far I walked.  Those hellion bees.  They won’t keep me from that course.  I’ll be running it next week, actually.  And I hope to see them again, whereupon I’ll ignore them.  The don’t have the gaul to sting a writer like me.  OR, they shouldn’t.

Just found out Grandma’s in the hospital, with serious condition.  Not sure what to think, feel.  This is the part of Life that I don’t get– well, I do, I just don’t particularly like it.  Mom said she’ll let us all know when she learns more.  But my mood falls.  Grandma’s easily one of my personal icons, with her energy, wisdom, storytelling, insight, tireless love.  I honestly don’t know how she is how she is.  That’s how I want to be, many her junior, and am struggling.

Just did rough calculations.. looks like I ran about 4.9 miles.  Those devil bees.  Was it the cologne I put on this morning?  Ugh.. so angry.  But Grandma always tells me to let it pass, that life is too short.  She’s right.  She always is.  Next run, I’ll do better.  And I need to time mySelf, use that application Carmen did.

Almost forgot about the verse I wrote last night.  I’ll post it tomorrow morning.  OR, maybe I’ll rack it into book, print it for my little sis at work to read.  She, “Kenzie,” appreciates Literature, thought.  So rare, for characters her age.  Most are seduced by the pervasively terminal clouds pop culture garnishes in collective consciousness pots.  Actually, now that I think.. I will rack it.  I’ll do that as soon as I pass 1k, here.  I know, told Self I wouldn’t go past 500 in posts.  But you know what…  I’m.  A.  Writer.

Not a “blogger.”

Not a social media scullian.

Was going to attach a picture to this “post.” But I just want to write.  Why is that so awful, or at least odd to some?  I’ll never get certain behavioral tendencies in “the industry.” People deify, worship winemakers, but dismiss writers–and I mean REAL writers–thinking we’re self-absorbed (which of course winemakers never are..), weird, immature.  I just laugh, as I haven’t even began to start.

Air conditioner on.  Music, low.  In my wine café, the one I’d write about on my Literary Lunches, when working at the box.  Miss the Roasting Co.  But not that brazen-faced cubicle.

Writing with these notes.. grace saving, a late taking.  Optimal.  Optimum.  My opaque opiate.  This must be the Racer, taking stage.  Thanks, Healdsburg.

Need to ditch this keyboard, actually write.  Separate from the wires, buttons, applications, digitized dope.

Grandma, what is she doing right now?  Wish I could be with her.  Went on about Self, this entry, to get mind away from her.  But I should, shouldn’t have.  This is Life.  How do I write, when Life is always here?

This all, some other world–