Noticing the nerves and how they more frequently surface. Fuck them. They’re lying to me, I know. In side office at Sonic, counting down to 1pm call. Will delay gym visit, and in fact probably work out at house. Bike then weights. Settled.
Stress or nerves or angst, tension, whatever one’s to call it, I’m just not listening. Not giving so many fucks anymore. There, I said it. Dinner plan popping up on calendar for tonight, and like that another clock ticks. Ten hours into fast, big truck drives by, me listening to uptempo electronic chill tracks and not into it. Need Mr. Coltrane… need to email students again. DONE.
Missing the kids, all three of my little Beats. 10:06, could have sworn ferociously that it was later. Here I am though, battling nerves still, this uneasiness which now I translate as a forwarding current, light, music. Perform within it, from it… speak freely and write even freer.
Mr. Coltrane, oh those certain notes. Friend texts me from her first day at a new winery in Napa… vineyards, long table set for larger group. I miss it, I won’t lie. And I don’t have to… it’s obvious. The new conversations and questions, the people, sipping with them… the pictures.
Posted to #vinovinevin, more energy into that story. Looking at the pictures again…. Wine, her definition and speak, occasions framed around her. When I think of anything wine-related or sent any nerves are muted, put to sleep. Catwalks and tanks, barrels and glasses, barrel making, dinner last night with Taryn and everything that went down, the industry having literally NO clue about some attributes of everything associated with wine. Frustrating.
T and I having the Hawley Viognier, not finishing the bottle and me sending the rest home with her. What do I do from there, from that conversation, from realizations about wine and her industry… finish the goddamn book, I know, but then what. What now. What tonight and tomorrow morning….