Odd quiet in the house. Everyone gone. Only me here. Distracted by kids earlier, and willingly. Playing with them upstairs, reading books, and playing some more. Waiting on two contracts, now. One of them requested this morning and sent shortly thereafter.
Sipping coffee. Had eggs for breakfast, trying to skip lunch. Only write, record ideas and wait for the return on some things. Made a couple calls earlier, but nothing materializing. Reminded by one that they’re not in the office, obeying the shelter order, or suggestion.
Digital Marketing, Web Design, Blog-based Marketing and communication, all giving me ideas but nothing I want to act upon just yet. Gather the ideas in journal. When this order is over, I feel like that will be it. That is when I’ll launch, be aflight.
Quiet outside as well. Hear wind chimes. A couple kids playing off to right, up street. Thinking of going to get some wine for tonight, some red. Tired of drinking Chardonnay or weird white blends like the one from a couple nights ago. Was good, don’t mistake me, but still weird and not something too much worth writing.
Sitting here in long-awaited soundlessness, I imagine my vineyard, and what’s needed to get it. The wine I’ll make eventually from the rows. Don’t think too much, I remind myself. In fact, not at all. This in-place prose, seeing myself in third-person as I wrote the other day. Me and wine… this is all for wine. All of it. All my ideas with marketing and business narrative, design, tech, internet-anything… this whole AE story, is all for wine. To write it, her, and for other intentions. Some of which, most of which, I have not discovered.
She tells me to find more story, to write more freely. Don’t work, just pen wined prose. Or is it poetry, poetic. Who wants a category? Not me. Not her. So write more freely, I see. Wine is not bottled, certainly not bottled poetics. It’s free verse, it’s music that continues flight, to be in-flight and flying, telling us things about our stories and where we’re from, where we’re going.