Finally did it. Up at 4. Writing and notes, poetry, music.

Just back from getting coffee, the sun not over that hill stretch to east.  7:26 now, back from getting latte.  Chris to be over at 9 I think.  Should probably check in with him and see.  Feeling tired but ignoring it.  Today has to be its own book, and decisive in my wine story, how Bottledaux will take its eventual and ever-evolving shape.

Normally on a Saturday I don’t have the babies I’d be up at 8-something, all those hours lost and not written.  Today no, something contrasting and beneficially elevating and proscribing told.  Friend telling me about her side business which changes in intensity given season.  She’ll only work in wine, hospitality, her catering business which particularizes in artisanal cheese plates.  And that’s all she’ll do.  Her intensity in her own singularization stuns me, and is part of what has me typing at this hour.

My relationship to my work, my LFIE’S work.  How do I denominate it?  Writing, health, thought… I don’t know.  But I find myself at the counter this morning writing in a way I haven’t before.  And not just because of the hour.  EVERYTHING….  The counter, the sky now, the sun struggling to wake and instruct us for the day.  Nearing October’s ides, time just passing like I always notice.  Ignoring time today, not letting it stick or hit in any significant clip.  Pinot last night, corked and on counter, bought yesterday while visiting my friend Erin at 4th Street Cellars.  She shared stories about being a bartender in Vegas for years, all the money in tips you’d make.  Told her I’ve always wanted to tend bar but I don’t have enough knowledge of anything other than wine and beer to a much more minor extent.  She told me that doesn’t matter and I said I wasn’t serious, just always wondered if I could pull it off.  Tasting only three wines there then went to meeting, which was odd to say the least with how busy it was on Railroad Square.  Uneventful, so here the paragraph dies.

Taking Glad Freedom the new Composition Book with me today.  Reminding self, as Dad urged last year, NOTES… avoid full sentences.  Every wine noted, logged.  Should I take my camera?  YES…. Go charge it.

Can’t find charger, so just using phone.  Goddamnit… will order a new one tonight.  This tells me something – to definitely hold off on getting that sext camera I’ve had my eye on, the Cannon 6 or something.  Can’t remember model number.  Texted Chris asking when he’ll be over… go to Oliver’s, get sandwiches for later, then the drive.

4am, can’t believe I finally did it.  Going to be earlier helped, yes, but it was more than that.  I’m simply getting tired of the repetition of certain day attributes… want difference, NEWNESS, to further be enveloped by my own thoughts and pages, Art.  Be more like the kids…. PLAY.  Why do I have to be an adult every fucking day?  

Why am I thinking about the wine industry?  No I’ll never go back, certain not in any past capacity.  To live through certain characters though like my sister, Jesse or Lainy, Chris or one of my other winemaker friends….  While driving to Starbucks on Farmers I imagined being in harvest, this vintage, getting coffee before heading to a pick in Russian River or Sonoma Valley where my sister is.  I’m out of the industry, I guess, but not.  Write it, then re-write it… make it mine, have it belong to the page.

Budget for day, set.  Not disclosing here, but OFFBLOG.  Moving money around for condo.  Petaluma more and more sings to me, but then Sonoma’s Square….  Simplicity in thought and budgeting approach.  Talking to friend Kyle yesterday over Rosé about investing and business tangents and connected directions, but we always came back to wine… walking into Craig’s winery Colagrossi and watching him punch down bins and he being nice enough to host a tasting for Kyle and I atop a bin’s lid.  I need to make wine, I thought. Or make it with Katie.  OR, she make it and I narrate from there.  Something.

Need to stop typing, get in shower.  Chris to be here at 8:45 and I need to get cash.  Shit.  See what I mean?  Time just evaporates, passes me like I’m not here.  And maybe I’m not to it.  IT.  It’s just an IT, Mikey.  Stop thinking about ….  Clock and its numbers, the calendar, do this then, then that on that day.  Obsessed, sickened, just getting old.