12:41 on Wednesday the 16th. Feel defeated and useless, like I’m incapable of getting what I want, career-wise. And this new baby is even more blockade, more impeding surge. What do I do. Have to further singularity, let things go. Invest where I know I’m strong. No more falling for cult tongue and faulty and deceptive encouragement. Tomorrow I make a list. Well, I’ve made it in my head but tomorrow it gets tangibly penned.
It’s not over for me. I refuse to accept anything like that. And stop with this promissory note writing. On daughter’s bed, not tired and note sure I’ll be able to return to any sleep. Thinking of wine, the winery, books on it… I’m 41 and I need to not just make a statement but detonate. And with a shocking setting and percussion.
1:14, going back to bed. When I wake I’m a write et rien d’autre. And nothing else. Not a business or wanna-be business person. Just a writer. Call after call, page after page, entry atop entry.
Some of this stems from realizing where I am at 41, some stems from the three day old baby in the other room. And the rest from this Me, the one here, seeing things, thinking of the next vineyard walk. Thinking of my winery, me pouring each bottle and explaining, telling a story—. Another idea. Will I be able to sleep tonight? I don’t care. I don’t need sleep. Didn’t have dinner last night. Should have it now.
751.. up with baby after I got in a nap, some sleep I think after taking him to the ER. Nightmare place that is. What made so hellish was the waiting and the retched doctor with his arrogant attitude, and the nutjob nurse with her loopy attitude and the way she’d talk to baby. Calling him love child and sugar boy.
Need mods sleep. No coffee in the …. WAIT. In the fridge. That cup I had to-go with our skillets order on, what day was that… can’t remember.
Baby is in a swinging chair, swinging automatically. Thought that would knock him out, but he keeps staring at the drawings of branches and leaves I think they are on the sides. He yawns, eyes closed, maybe I can somehow sneak a power nap. Am supposed to be watching him, but he’s not hopping out of that thing, I’m sure. His eyes now open, concentrating on everything in the swinging half-oval. I fear he may be smarter than his siblings on day, and may already be more adept and in-code and step with his surroundings than his writing daddy. He makes a sound, vocally, indicating interest or a response to something. Interesting, he’s interested in things around him already.
I want to make a wine for him, like Glenn did his granddaughter. 2021, willing it’s better than this bloody year.
He makes another sound suggesting displeasure but then changes his mind. Yawn. Please sleep. And another. Kid, go to bed.
In these two weeks I have off, I need to do something. What did HST say? FINISH THAT GODDAMN BOOK. I have to. Write more.. share more notes. Just be a writer. That’s it.
Thought he went to sleep but no. Made a sound that he thought something was either funny or uniquely intriguing. Not sure what. He just swings now. Silent.
Maybe this little life form is the savior I needed. Staying up later, waking earlier and having more wineless nights. Last night being another.
Think he’s starting to get annoyed with the swing. Great. Then what the fuck do I do?