13 minutes left. Goddamnit. Time doesn’t care about anyone, but especially not writers, and not me. The tasting room, frenzied and scattered, but as well formed and succinct. So there is an odd harmony there. I am hungry, but as I just wrote in the trente jours journal, I’m in Hemingway hone, and it’s adding to my prose-fire. Making it more poetic and musical, metric and metered, personalized and bottled— sent to see with the other me. Which me? The one that’s orderly. This Me is crazed, all suffocated willingly in words and reciting to everyone and everything, and himSelf.
Taking a second to breath and enjoy the quiet of this office. Love. Lovely.— Shit, just remembered, I DID bring some food. Should probably put something in stomach.. but that would cost at least five minutes, five minutes I could devote to noting in Carpe journal for Monday, first day of Summer Term— already, wow. Office, this office, thinking about my office and how I want it to look. Would I have wine bottles on my desk as I do now right in front of me, other side of this screen? Probably not, I’d have some bar off to the side, against the wall. I’m closer to my office, I feel, just off the Healdsburg Square. Hopefully one day where I’ll have my own tasting room, all themed in words and crazy wine personifiers, bringing wines to life in a way that tired publications like— well, you know— never do.
Can see a couple people at the end of the bar, through the class door to this office and in through the doorway of the TR. And I think about what people find in wine, what they look for, what they think they ‘have to’ look for. And I just note, note, and note… what do I want? Not just in wine, but in and with everything. FROM everything.