Sonic is not just a platform or bridge but new translator of everything, everything I want.
Back in Berkeley/Albany, today. I will NOT fail in lunching with words at either Peet’s or Starbucks. The 8page project, first issue, done today. Submitted to friend for her opinion and reaction.
Hungry, now. Will have a couple snacks, or fast and see how my character reacts. Desk, a bit messy. Sip coffee hoping it quells hunger. Still no word from that dimwitted winery. I just laugh, at this point really. Supposed to be on property Sunday but no offer letter. What business has that kind of incongruency? Not thinking about it. Team gets here in office in just under 30 min.
Aims for day, just one—8page. Write rest of it, edit lightly, then submit. Driving on Stony Point to office thought about writing retreat, writing a book in one week, somewhere, somewhere… why not here. The book on thought I’ve been cooking for … how long? Nevermind.
Wine senses my frustration, that’s why the Claret last night tasted differently, more comforting and with more a caressing and loving codification of language. I knew she was trying to tell me something, something…what specifically I’m still unclear but she communicated with me, from color to the smoke-sown form of her chocolate and berry architecture. She told me to keep writing her, about her, all wines, and don’t stall, don’t allow self to slow, ever. I won’t. I know I can’t stray or vary in my momentum.
How I wish I had the whole day to write, I say to myself. Then I realize I do. I very much do. We all do, if we choose.
Sonic then tells me to write more wildly and with more crazed shape and blaze, craze and philosophy phase. Free self through creative, through and in and from this journal, and all journals in the writer’s possession.