Lunch, finally.  But no lunch. 

Just the quiet in this estate cottage, away from the thirsty crowds and seem to never stop.  Everyone’s convivial, polite, but still it can get exhausting in that room of tasting.  From this morning’s brief vineyard meditation, I thought about the run tomorrow through wine country, just around here in Dry Creek, and  my thoughts became aimless, transient and freer than they usually are.  Not sure what it was, but it was something meaningful, something meant for me and only me.  Hungry, but nothing brought. Goddamnit, why did I again fail to bring lunch.  Hunger’s good discipline, like Hem said.

Writing on a lunch break just to write, or with purpose?  Not sure.  Maybe writing just to write IS the purpose.  Free in my own thinking, away from noise and intrusions, audible obstructions.  Would go for a walk in the vineyard, but I’d then hear the people.  Right now I only want to hear the fingers dance and trot across this keyboard.  I’m not even looking up to see out the glass doors to the vineyard block.  I’m too into my own universe, unbridled and uninterrupted meditation, like this morning but even more aloft.

Having trouble thinking and/or concentrating and I’m quite sure it’s from how hungry I am.  Know this will cause frustration and concern in some, my mother for one, but this is the setting I’m in— write at work, exposed to characters and what they say about wine but he’s too inundated to take any notes so he remembers what he can…  “This is a real tannin-y wine, why is that?” she asked, looking into her glass, swatting away (or trying) fruit flies with her right hand.  I gave her an explanation she’d understand, just telling her it’s the grape and where it’s from, Cabernet from a hillside.  She’d buy that, right?  I think she did.  She didn’t ask anything else after that.  Or maybe my explanation wasn’t sufficient.  Maybe it pissed her off.  Oh well.  Not thinking about that now.  I’m on “lunch”.