Wine.  At desk.  

Will send EOD tomorrow.  Bought a new wine, and hoping it says something to me.  No sales today.  One possible small contract tomorrow.

Told a white lie, or some color lie I don’t know, that I had to come in here to do some work stuff.  Well, I guess that’s true.  Work for me.  For the blog, blogs.

Going through old wine and vineyard photos later.  WINE… WINE…. wine.  My beat.  I’m in a crisis—yes I use that word to be funny—of not liking any wine I taste.  Wrote a 500-word piece earlier.  Will edit light and post to Bottledaux.  Later.

Hurting from 4-miler earlier.  Tomorrow on bike.  Wake early to write, coffee to be made tonight.  Two books to be finished in the 365-day stretch.

So many sights and scenes in my current sight at this corner quarantine desk paired with this wine called The Pairing that I have to collect.

Kids crazy in other room, while Melissa cooks.  I tell them to calm, they don’t listen.  They play.  The wine agrees, telling me to stop thinking so much and so goddamn hard about wine.  Have fun with it… play… play with collective and individualized envisage in me writing wine and traveling everywhere writing more filling notebooks ravenously and thinking only books on wine.  Questions, stories, questioning my own story and finding new characters.

If I’m bored with wine, it’s from letting myself get bored.  On all notes that are honest and forthright, this wine is much more evocative and round tonight.  Feel nearly bad, guilty for prejudging.