Not sure how I want to approach the day, honestly. Have a couple leads I touched, but now I’m at coLAB not sure of what to do. How much longer can this perpetuate… certain dimension upon which I’d rather not elaborate.
Still no sales for the month, and my mood is like a rock balancing on a string that somehow stands straight. Have a cup of coffee made here, but sipping slow. Committed to fast till dinner… access different parts of thinking. Not stopping in my typing, my assessment of self, of the room I’m in, of the Now in its entirety.
Two journals out…. What do I write to self. A note… but about what. Music. Changed station on my phones, now in more of a beat. Just remembered, have on more lead to contact after getting approval for some arrangement… my mood, fragile more so than I estimated. Tired of the weights, imagined or actual.
Took all writing off Sonic computer. Meant to focus on a project this morning but woke too late. Know why, and that adjusted. To bed too late. No one wants to read this, I realize. And you know what I don’t either. Pretty strong chug of coffee, and now… in my novel. The Mike Madigan traveling, writing about wine… isn’t that what I should be doing anyway? I can’t go door-to-door, I can’t really call on businesses, so what the fuck do I do. It’s a tough time, I know. Sick of hearing that reminder.
Already temped with leaving coLAB. NO, I tell self. Stay in the fucking chair. Put this on blog then go to book. The book about wine… wine I sipped last night, the Caddis Zin. Excited to be in his little tasting room this weekend. Out of the house, away from the kids pulling at me from all angles, asking for this and that, that and this, and the first this again. Quiet…. And around wine. Tourists. Sonoma’s Square which more and more I’m thinking I want my office.
This beat, putting me in that office, in the tasting room. Not doing a tasting but just writing about wine, and if not wine then the people that come into the Room. Taste the wines and offer some assessment. Everything they say, noted. Everything they ask for as well. Have to pick up a case of wine today at some point. Maybe I should leave now. No… stay a bit longer. Have to be somewhere at 12:30. Stay here and write till then… write self to the wines, the travel, to Germany, to Spain, my city Paris, and anywhere else. Adventure, but more than that… LIFE. No constrictions, now moods, only curiosity. Wine begs wandering, the myriad of myriads. No blueprint, no plan, no equations.. but lawlessness of narrative.
Feel like I could use a glass of SB right now. Only 10:44 so obviously I won’t, and never would as that would disrupt and obstruct the architecture of this sitting, my intention and skirmish with this strangling sentiment wherever it came from. Whomever initiated it.
Freewriting, freely typing in this room with the accountant in the bigger office behind me. Feel the caffeine working. Fuck this coffee here is strong, I say to myself over this easing quietude in the sounds and rhythm of track current. So here you are, Page…. Looking back at me and telling me to keep writing, write about writing and write about wine… the seat you’re in, the walls around you. The production of the blog and books, and finding out how to get to travel. One day in the tasting room I remember watching a guy build these monoliths of soil types. I’d never seen them displayed like that before, or soil shown to the public as an exhibit at a tasting room. This was at Arista. Not sure if they’re still up, but I was fascinated at how he hung them, display them in such a way you couldn’t ignore them. I saw wine differently form then on really, not seeing wine as wine or even as a literary entity but an expression from the planet. Something holistic and musical.
Keep writing, keep writing wine…. Page helps me, in the way she looks back at me… telling, romanic, encouraging void. Just space. May have lost a bit of my sentence strength. Not sure why. Don’t have time to investigate. Just write about wine, the tasting yesterday with Bill at the production facility on Coffey Lane. Tasting two Pinots and a Cabernet from ’19. Bill a retired construction and concrete guy always in love with wine. He was, is, kind and inviting. Doesn’t talk about the wines excessively after thieving them from barrel and pouring some into my glass. Not sure he said much other than how he liked the way the wines were developing, and how oak was complimentary if place int he proper volume. Watching him look for specific barrels, climbing up that ladder on wheels, then balancing the glass and thief in the angle of his arm as he walked down… just write wine, I told myself. My favorite was the second Pinot, in its slightly thick and more assertive demeanor.
Have to leave in a little under an hour. Starting to feel hunger. Ignoring it. Sipping the coffee slow, and it fending off those tremors, the rumbles and yells from core. This laptop Dad gifted me, now the solace place, the oasis for composition, where I gather my wine thoughts. I remember him telling me, or not telling but gently and urgently urging me with a tone of obviousness to write about wine while at Monti’s one night years ago…. Written this account a hundred times I feel, but I have to re-write it again… and another memory of a man telling me that I should write about wine the same way I spoke it in a private tasting in the Roth cave. Wine is my topic… why do I ever stray? I’m telling myself, and you Page… that such straying is the cause of most moods.
Tell self about wine, or any writer or one wanting to try…. Write about that one thing, that singular entity you love. Cars, flying, surfing, running, meditation, tech, WHATEVER. And don’t be tempted to tangent.