Short poem done. Not sure what to do now. Go upstairs and check on Jack, or stay here. Go mad. Let the quarantine symptoms in, all of them. Stay at this desk and just go batshit fucking crazy. Writing like a madman, like I’m confined to a cell… solitarily solitary, playing a form of prose solitare. Am I winning or losing.
Imagine self to my tasting room, having people over and talking about wine, nothing else. No business, no if they want to join my allocation list or fucking wine club if I decide to have one which I more than likely won’t. Just wine… wine…..
11:59. And into the afternoon. Already the day slows down. Before covid I’d notice the day start to slow around 2, or 3, 3:30. Now, around noon you notice a bit of a halt.
Pulled Coelho’s book. The first paragraph, the tree, new growth… Newness, in the church. Belief in self…. I have an idea. Write it down. I’m Santiago, today. No herd other than my thoughts, sights, the possibilities in this quarantine. Read more books. After this one, I’ll read Irby. Then, Sedaris…. Then, of course, Kerouac. Going to read differently, more participatorily. Asking characters questions, myself questions. What is Santiago’s sight on this first page?
Another idea. This one I don’t write down, saying to self “If it’s to be part of the story, you will recall and sow it into your character over and over, the story will move…”