NaNoWriMo, 5 Days

Next morning I’m up, shower, find what clothes I can and after one and a half cups of the Verona they place here in the room to a writer’s blessing and benefit, I go downstairs and get some eggs, sausage, and one of those biscuits to bring back upstairs.  Déjeuner for a tired writer… didn’t post to blog last night but it doesn’t matter in the collective of this containment.  Hotel, writing with the time I have, then work.. if I leave at 08:00 or shortly following, I can be to winery by just after 08:30, which means more contribution to book and moments and blog and…

Sun, right into my eyes a second ago.  But, it shifted.  To my chagrin, a bit.  Plate just sitting there.  Why did I get it.  I have to write, not eat.  Who has time to eat when you have no time?  Notes on the Colonel’s Vineyard Cab from last night, “…own climate and aggressively wooing sway… love in quakes and sped movements that slow when you don’t expect and become taken and smitten and enveloped…” Nearly finished the bottle but thankfully stopped.  Last night walking down to the casino, not to gamble surely (if you know me and my fear of gambling), and not even to drink (though, I did have one beer), but to observe that commotion again, on a night, Friday night, where all the frenzy and brouhaha is assured.  Definitely an element I could live without, but I found it more than engaging and educational… reminding me why I illimitably propel and excel in the vineyard, creatively and other.  Approaching the bar, in the center of the casino floor, I saw a couple people in front of me be asked for their ID.  Pulled mine out sure I was next.  He just waived me in, the bouncer.  I thought, “What?” I was offended, or not so much, but sad, or not so much, but definitely in a grip of realization that I’m getting older.  Now, there is no denial.  The casino, that bar area and scene, dynamic and stretch, is not for me nor any writer my age.  I hurried to finish mon beer, unable to wait for the Equilibrium of this hotel room, jazz, wined jots, my own selfish time-shape.

In a storm of non-sequiturs, ce matin.  Just what my thinking’s doing and what I feel in this room, unable to finish the eggs, even the two sausages… and why in the planet’s play did I get a biscuit?  Have to rise and run, soon.  Be in the Sauvignon Blanc block, take pictures and maybe just sit in the car and write right there… in driver’s seat next to a row.  I don’t know.  Though, I need make progress, some, some significant, on this wine retail project.  Hate that bloody word, “retail”.  Wine merchant, mercantilism.  There, I think.  My notes assume a mucilaginous consistency, with possibility and vision, plan and brainstormings, visuals in the tasting room and on the sales floor, how I’ll have bottles arranged and… everything.

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