Finished letter. Now readying mentally for work. Will get there around 09:30. Or maybe a bit before. Have quite a bit to do in tasting room but don’t want to think about that now. Focusing on travel, going o France and writing about the Bordeaux locales and Chateaus. Just Letting mind wander and write freely, just what the wild wine writer needs this morning— thinking about my babies and what they see around them after the fires. Keep telling myself I won’t write about it anymore, and that I won’t talk about it with tourists who ask either out of concern or just putrid nosiness, “Are you okay from the fires?” Or locals that learn that I live in Coffey Park and when they find out I still have a house they offer a look of either confusion or annoyance that my story isn’t horrible or as painful as they wanted it to be. Voiced all this to wife this morning and, bless her ears and heart and eagerness to listen in listening, now have more sense of it all. But the collective story here in Sonoma County has changed, make no mistake. All I can think about is moving somewhere and not seeing Santiago, San Miguel, Hopper, Coffey…
Wine. Wine. Focus on wine. Wine will take me everywhere. Brought camera today and hope to be out in vineyard blocks taking pictures. Will take lunch before lunch so I can lunch on images, feast on what’s around a writer.
Police officer rises, grabs his coffee, leaves. I too need to be on my beat— this tired and hungry Beatnik inviting everything in and wondering what to do with all that’s gathered.
Old wine image…. White grapes brought onto crush pad, for their destiny, their storytelling. Me in this coffee shop, downtown Windsor, thinking I need more images like this, more Now’s like this. This whole book is a letter to me— embrace the natural photography, capture it, and go—