Couldn’t fall back asleep and yes I tried, so I’m up just a bit after 6. 6:07 to its point. Right before 6 is when I made the call to write, to sit here at the counter as I did last night. Still have to edit the short piece I wrote yesterday, the tasting room fiction which now accosts me with ideas and character directions, and how the main character wants to know more about wine and not how most do. He won’t read a bunch of figuratively factually framed how-to books or anything like that. He doesn’t see wine that way. I, don’t see wine that way. Never have.
Thought about going for a run, but writing, wine, the book—but should I leave the book idea alone and let that happen? What I mean to say is, and I’ve been here before, in this mode. So I jettison and move on. Still trying to figure out that red from hours ago, the ’11 Rioja. Wasn’t flawed or bad, just, I don’t know, oddly ambient. Seemingly agitated that I opened her. Should I have waited? Inner thought troupe cascading in reverse, to that wine. This doesn’t happen often, when some bottle I go out and buy to write about gives me some time of composition coma, stills me, has me irreparable meditative.
Coffee waking me. Can’t wait for the drive over the mountain, but then I can. Time passing me too fast so why do I excessively deliberate and stomps in thought swamps which are circular and produce no composition? Book’s name, no longer thought. In fact the more I think of any book I write being titled such I cringe, curl, become demonically agitated.
6:21 – I’ll start readying in a bit. First, more music. Poetry. Clean office tonight, revisit the Rioja but dig for any answers or understandings. Hunt more inquiry, move with the wine, with her, for purposes of just that. Keep my patience and sight on their own rhythmic track, and at least try to act apt.