Having the last of the Pinot from last night, the Willamette. Not much to record from day– a vineyard tour, then merely regular routine from the room. Tasted the wines a few times ‘round, and no new notes that I could share with my character, what she wants to impart to her bottles, her future projects. Battery still low on this device, but then I just noticed I have the charging cord in the plastic containers for papers, right here, on table. But I haven’t poured the first glass of the Pinot, yet… There, right by laptop devil. Have another glass in that bottle, so thankfully. Finished another short short, right before I came home, on a makeshift notebook I made with scratch from the winery.. those same little paper shreds kept behind the bar, just below the register (reg 2). I see mySelf again sipping a random bottle like this in some hotel, in Florida.. or where my sister is, now, Las Vegas. Thinking about home, yes, but appreciating that I’m finally on the Road, seeing Newness for all it has to offer. And postulating what I have next before me.. what I want.. realizing, truly, that I can write the rest.. that what I wish can come to fruition– it’s not a wish-list, but a target sequence, one logical, attainable. So I’ll drink till this bottle’s dead. Till the contents meditate in my circulation like a quaint reflective assembly. I remember writing a short about someone being stalked in a cellar, the “Cellar Master”, actually. Where is that piece– See? That practice, of writing and forgetting.. done!

9:17PM. Tired, but I’m thinking of something to do which shoves truly tangible my intent. MY novel, nearing its dock. And all the short stories, flash pieces, vignettes, for its jingle. I won’t slide into dismalness, ever. Not with these characters. And the next Pinot glass, soon poured. And it’s needed. Now, anyway. I’m wandering on and in thought, which is just what I want. What I need. The characters at work I’m thinking of now, fellow workers, or “pourers”: C1, C3, C5, and 6.. all with different motives, fragmented conceptions and grasps of what the winery wants them to do, how they’re to appreciate what they have there, if anything. A sailboat, my own, in the San Juan’s, if possible. And I’d write there, a story of a man who always went out to catch fish, whatever he could. One day, he gets lost, finds a small island, lands, walks around.. he hears a subtle scale being played on some type of wooden high-octave board. It sounded like something island, something tribal. He loved its drama, that’s why he followed it so clumsily. But I just write, play with my character, genre.. happening in and out of genre, whatever I want to do. Now I need another sip of the Pinot. Actually, I’m just going to sip the rest in one shiny shop… And now I’m rambling.. but doesn’t that give some insight to character? C—— wouldn’t do this in her notes. She’s more to the point than I.