6/19/19

Starting day slow.  Can’t wake up truly or get into some loud creative stride as I want to.  Meeting at 9, then after that literary lunch around noon.  No run today.  Everyone around me talking distracting and disrupting what I’m trying to write but only ‘cause I’m allowing, I get that.  No word from possible department of transfer, and not holding my breath.  And I don’t write that with malice, at all.  I write it with praise, praise to self, and herald of this character I’ve arrived.  Computer keeps doing funny things, I act in defiance by simply writing through it.  Coffee taking a bit of a grip on my sitting and structure as character, but I’m still moving slow.  Has to be the sun exposure yesterday in Brentwood.  Has to be.

Keep self working and writing and working on writing efforts, the book, ‘thought’, till I clock out and even after.  Last night opening the Zin from Foley Sonoma, and I’m more or less convinced it was partially corked.  Not fully, or maybe not at all, but there was something TCA-y, if that’s it, about the wine’s flavor and communicating body.  Have no idea, but it said nothing to me.  Not many wines have been saying much, not much to write, no much to reflect upon.  Just not me, not for me, not for the page.  So what do I do then as a writer of wine, one who says he writes wine and is a wine writer.  I guess do just that—write ABOUT wine, itself.  About her, her SELF.  What wine is in my life, how every time I walk the vineyard, I’m more me and more alive than I am anywhere else, with anything else.  Everyone associates me with writing and the writing act, yes, but wine as well.  And it’s no surprise to me now that I’m waking, that wine IS writing.  The writing movement and sight, composing something to be read, to be studied or at least mildly considered.

Someone yesterday, or the day before I believe, said how much she enjoys my vineyard videos.  How she enjoys them yes but actually looks forward to them.  That my words wake her in the morning when she’s feeling slow or low or doesn’t know how to go about the day.  I thought again, that’s what I am… a wine writer, but still a teacher.  I’m here, I’m listening and present in the vineyard.  Even now, in the office, I’m in the vineyard.  And if I am awarded or granted this new position, I know how I’ll approach it.  Like wine. Sell everything and write everything, speak everything as I do wine. Now I’m awake, and what did it, like the co-worker from Monday who complimented my camera work, MY words and wined thoughts.  This.  Just writing.

Thinking I’ll go to that café down the street—oh shit, if it’s open.  Not sure it is on Wednesdays, now that I think closer.  So where can I…. OH, one of those thinking pods.  Those space age looking chairs or seats by the multi-purpose. Done.  Decided and decreed.  Should start prepping for meeting…. Looked over notes and I’m essentially ready, far as I can see.  40, and learning certain corners and angles, ROADS, all over.

Also at lunch, read more of Destiny Thief.  Book Mom and Dad gave for Father’s Day.  Love the title, and what I’ve read so far is not only very much ME but what I want to see, where I want to go as a writer, how I wish perceived by not just other writers, but anyone really.

The office gets quiet, and quickly.  What reason.  Don’t know.  Why.  Today and this morning, me here thinking of the vineyard and what I want to grow on my eventually vineyard.  Looked in my cash envelop this morning and thought it could start with just that, couldn’t it?  Journal the journey from that envelop to my first vineyard walk of my own blocks.  Cabernet or Chardonnay, or something else maybe I don’t know.

8:33 what the clock says and finally, finally, I’m falling into my writing form.  What I want from the day… to feel more like a writer. Lately just been noting notes in the Kerouac journal or elsewhere, and not collecting them. Just posting them.  And yes… I could return to later, but I haven’t been feeling how I want to feel as someone who shares he’s a WRITER.  Of wine or whatever else.  Write everything I tell myself.  Someone just walking by my desk and outside possibly to walk along the front of the building to get to breakroom, walk in and get coffee or something form the market.  Which reminds me I should put my sandwich in the fridge, there.  Now the latte’s 4 shots are speaking to me.  What are they commanding.  Focus on the vineyard, on that envelop. Don’t take ONE bill from it. Nothing.  See yourself pouring your wines, but more importantly telling and sharing the story of how you got to that table pouring the wines and telling the story of your vineyard.

10:38 and meeting having finished a but over 30 minutes ago I’m ready to go.  Ready for not so much an easy day but one of personal production and precise productivity.  Again I note on the Road to my own wine room, tasting my wines for and with people, the language and story around my wines and their story.  Everything for that Room…. Three wines to start.  Chard, Merlot, Cab.  Or a blend maybe, no Merlot.  Or maybe then my label, tentatively dubbed whoso cellars, or whoso wines.  MY life’s work and story, from that envelop to that Room.  My interest elevates and intensified and even though I’m done with the latte I type like I’m still hitting the caffeine quite fired.

Money.  More.  From writing, blogging… this.  Writing about wine and what wine tells us all to do, and only now at my old age am I listening. Quicker, more purpose and poise, passion and composition.  MY narrative is not just ABOUT wine, but actuated from and for and toward the wine, it vineyards, my Room.