I’m prospecting, networking, doing everything from this fucking chair. I can’t speak to people anymore. I can call them, but no one wants a call right now, and no one’s in the office for the most part.
A beer will help. I’ll help self to one in a moment, and the rest of last night’s Shannon Cab from Lake County I think after that. Wine, the vineyards… taking myself there. That novel I want to write, or started taking notes on the other day.
Jackie putting away vacuum. Can tell he’s annoyed. I am as well. But then I’m encouraged. At one minute thinking the whole ‘what do I write’ pit of thought then I’m into a full yell of self-knowledge and know in the Now. Almost 5..
This new journal is from a new state, new sight, sense of everything around me and with all the updating, none of it ever good, I try to compose composition when my character’s assembly and composition is threatened. So, I’m in a kamikaze state. Write, write about wine… this new journal, the regular journal… letters, and the novel about Eric and him leaving real estate for wine. Starting a wine community, a family of wine-loving people.. no more pressure to transact, to go to those stupid fucking conventions or galas, or whatever they are….. Tonight writing on the legal sheets, what he sees, the wine he sips that first night, at the hotel on the tasting floor with over a hundred small producers from everywhere in California and a small circle of Oregon and Washington houses. With a beer finally open, 4:51, I celebrate the realization that this ‘stay in your fucking house’ stage that’s been set by a dystopian spell is giving me a book. A couple, actually. And a new end-aim, or sight. Writing about wine as I don’t even know how many people have told me to do. Still need to post the Desmond Pinot page. Write about the Shannon from last night.