Seven minutes

left in time to self and I see my plan for the day, and the lesson, the lecture from the day itself.  The chair I’m sitting in, this office, the tune that now plays from the laptop but I don’t have time to stop, see who it is.  Keep learning, keep observing… the gems in simple moments and objects like this, this scene, this room with that desk over there, the one that’s supposed to be mine but never have the time to sit at, do ay work, or organize.  Anymore it’s more of a clutter station, dumping ground.

Run yesterday on treadmill… want to do more, more running, especially off treadmill.  Nearly woke this morning at 3-something but of course feigned back to the anything but comfortable pillow, hotel bullshit-comfort.  The wines today.. they need to speak to me.  I need them to more than merely inspire me or move me to write some odd, quirky or humorously creative descriptors.  I need the wines to tell me what to do for sakes of the next 5 to ten to 15 years of this writer’s life.  I need too educator, I need to be more willing to be educated in moments that I deem boring, where I wish myself away to Monterey or Paris.  I need to wish myself further into my moment.  And not wish, but materialize.  Just act.  Jump, sprint, skip…

Three minutes now.  All is poetry… all’s to be spoke.  The wines will speak to me as they already love speaking to a wild wine scribbler like this writer.  The Pinot Gris to the Zin.. all in notes this morning.  No stopping.  No slowing.  No halting or pausing.  No measuring or brainstorming.  Just a sped running wine writer in his Room.

Sounds from the crush pad echo and hop into this room for my decoding.  But I can’t right now… not yet.  Maybe at lunch.  And for lunch… words.  Pages… reading and re-reading.  Everything has to be written, everything has to be read and re-read, and re-re-read.