9:44 – After an online class meeting that not only showed exactly where to go with my writing, about wine or whatever, I’m sipping a Zin.

Yes, a Zin, one I’ll write about tonight or the wine blog.  Just checked on my daughter, and she’s still not asleep. I can’t blame her.  She doesn’t know the entirety of what’s going on but she knows something’s happening.  She keeps saying “coronavirus”.  I’ve reasoned and rationalized staying home, going to the store one last time after seeing that the next two weeks, or even two months, I don’t fucking know, could be… well, bad.  Not sure what they’re basing this on, or from, but I’m committing myself. To here. No more store, no more anything.  Going to do a wine order from K&L for wine writing assignments, and just stay here, write, finish this fucking book, the semester, and not worry.  About anything.  Lately I’ve been catching myself a bit unnerved about what could happen to me at Sonic… why.  What REALLY can I do from my house.  I have two outstanding contracts, one with whom I communicated today and giving in to a request or really inquiry he had about contract length (3 years versus 2, he wants 2)…. I’m not worrying.  Prospecting for example… big part of the AE’s life, but what can I do here besides connect and “network”, makes a list or lists of businesses to hit.  I’m doing all of that.

                Like I think I wrote earlier this week or maybe even today again at one point, I’m in a bit of a kamikaze skip into this.  I’m not running away from COVID.  No fucking way.  In fact, you know what… this is the wine book grant I had a dream about years ago… this is where I do what I’ve been suggested by SO many I do.  Just write wine, write about it, HER, and personify wine in ways these other wine “writers” CANNOT.  Zinfandel in my kitchen, formally in my glass.  Need another.  From Dry Creek, Dry Creek Vineyards… high ABV, no surprise, but an eager and connective, romantic and animated personality.  Deep and dimensional, intricate and communicative.  Why can’t all Zins be like this, I ask myself.  Glad they’re not, really.  ‘Cause then I wouldn’t recognize what I’m recognizing…. Writing about wine and speaking of a singular bottle as I am now makes me miss the tasting room.  I need to dive so far into wine that I embody the principle shape and place, atmosphere and complexion of wine… her ideology and expressive geography.  See?  Nothing makes me write like this.  Only wine, only her.

Imagining that first day back in the TR, at Lancaster, with my book already done, and out in the world doing whatever it’s supposed to do.  I’m not concerned with my position, anywhere.  Not at the JC, or at Lancaster, or anywhere else.  I’m not fearful of this weird bug that has everyone in hiding.  I have a book to write, and now I have NO excuse or escape in explaining why I didn’t write it with this ordered shelter.  The new journal, as you’d see it, or as I do, is for HER.  Wine.  What she’s done for me, what she’s shown me… how the story is to be written till my last page.