6/13/19

In house today.  For some reason.  Keeping self busy with projects and note-taking.  Writing plan for day.  Plan to run at lunch, taking lunch early, hopefully.  Not too hot, I checked.  People around me talking, wonder how much work they’ve done so far today talking about movies as much as they are.  Makes me want to write a script.  On working in a tasting room.  Didn’t I have a project on that, at one point.  Yes!  It was called Tasting The Room.  What happened to that?  I remember I started writing it while at St. Francis.

Opened the Tin Barn Syrah last night.  Not bad.  Certainly not impressive or inspiring or convincing of any new Beat or Road, in any way.  But I did have a couple glasses.  The Syrah in my tasting room will be far more expository and loud than the Tin Barn.  I can taste it now.

Plan for day—Run at noon.  Write notes throughout day.  After clocking out go to nook and write, a thousand words for no specific project.  Post it all to the bottledaux blog.

But what about a book.

What about one.

Just keep writing.  Everything in this office this morning and for the stretch of the day will push me to my There as that’s what I demand it do.

Sparking water, latte done.  Everything is to be written.  Everything is something on the Road, in the book.  THIS book.

9:33…. Need a break, soon.  Sooner than maybe I’m perceiving and formulating in my A.M. head.

10:04, and I’m in a circle pattern, holding pattern, some pattern where there’s no real pattern being established or reiterated.

 

2:36.  After run.  7 miles.  Not hungry, but a little tired.  Thirsty again.  What’s the next thing in the day…. The next… thing.  What’s happened so far.  Not much.  Make something happen.  I know…..

3:25, coffee.  Didn’t do what I wanted, the ‘what next’ dilemma.  I know now, though.  So… here I go.

Started a new haiku stream.  Just wrote one, but will write another soon.  Maybe in a minute.  All work done.  So now what. One of those things, thoughts, sip the coffee that’ll help.

 

3:58 and two haikus done.  Will type later.  Or I’m hoping to.  Coffee absolutely helping.  Will revisit that Syrah tonight.  Not excited about it, but I will do so and write about her and the Pinot I had… Raeburn?  Is that how you spell it?  Feel my mood getting rattlesnake-like.  Hunger, hungry, could use something.  What.  French fries and Pinot?  Warriors game on tonight.  May watch with Alice and babies. Know little Kerouac will want to see game, his favorite player Mr. Curry.

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6/12/19

Today, interesting feel and pace.  About to go to speakers group, which I haven’t been to in a while.  Been in the Field much more.  Writing notes to self, on sales and selling, and sales philosophy, and other ideas that pass through my head like wandering herds somewhere.

Smell something.  Lunch.  Getting hungry. But will speak on no fuel.  Will speak from that deliciously delirium and madness that sets in when you get hungry, when the hunger passes a certain point.

Promised son I’d get him a basketball jersey, a Warrior’s one with his favorite player, Steph Curry’s name on the back.  He’s so excited with the prospect of having that jersey.  I need get it for him.  I will.

Shorter sentences and paragraphs, my current thought and pace map.  Getting up.  Restroom, water, or coffee.  Something to sip.  Cut back on caffeine.  So water then.

 

4:47.  Soon to go to mall, get presents for Jack and Emma, have a glass of something while there, at that microbrewery or bar or both, whatever it is.  Love the idea of writing and sipping wine in a new spot, or even better some spot I haven’t been to in some considerable time.

Going to check on new hire then come back, finish this entry then leave.  Thinking of taking home this birthday bottle of Tin Barn Syrah, possibly popping tonight.  Possibly.

Putting Syrah in bag.  Backpack quite heavy, now.  And here I go, into evening.  Needing to write more, needing more time to write, taking more time to write, and in bed early so I can in the morning run. Hopefully.

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6/9/19

Starting bills, with day, or day with bills.  Budgeting the winery in my head.  Am I getting serious about this, about having my own little label, or wine shop, selling and talking about wine, writing about the Road there.  Yes.  No need for question marks.  Question rhetorical, or if not rhetorical then antagonizing.

Paid credit card, which is all but done.  Money aside for tasting room, the Merlot I want to make this vintage…. Two barrels of Merlot, same everything, just to show how each barrel is its own life, voice, world, “ecosystem”.  Its own beat.  And what better than with Merlot.

Pinot from last night, still some left.  Thinking about bringing in, but would rather keep here for my own experiment to see how it lives, survives the 24 hour rest, any oxygen sneaking in through sides of cork and bottle’s neck’s inner face.  That’s what I’ll do.

 

Getting in shower in a bit, then up to Jimtown to write, walk a vineyard…. Start my wined day.  Take notes for meeting tomorrow with sales exec guy.

 

Back to money doc…. How money just flies away, as Dad joked with me long ago.  Joked but wasn’t joking.  Have always seen my dad as sort of a money master, and he’s proven to be such, as long as I’ve known him.  Wanted to move us to San Carlos, build house, he did.  The Sunriver home, made happen.  I’m 40 now, time to be more stringent and lone with money, singular projects.  Why not just have one, be lone.  With my wine Room….  Thoughts and thoughts, watching my babies on the couch watching Sandlot, a film that rewinds my mind so many years it makes me harshly realize where I am, at fucking 40.

 

Wine gives me a second start, a re-start.  Focus on her, what she wants, what she’s drawing, what light she discloses and words put to page.  Nothing can hurt you with her songs playing, with her scenes queued.

 

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1

A stop light is thought.

Someone’s. I don’t agree. So

What now. Action, thought …

6/8/19

*Written over a series of red lights on Park Presidio/19th Avenue, San Francisco.

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6/7/19

Coffee, I mean latte.  Feel something with today, and that’s the decision to re-write ALL negative presence, sentiment, tell, pulse, anything in my story.  First sip confirming.  The book, my book, from wined thought and wined possibility, my eventual bottles, telling my story and having my babies and family help with everything from the wine itself to how it’s told, narrated, not sold.  Part of my message, as wine teaches me, is to be about dispelling naysay.  Or, re-writing it.  Using the existing momentum to reach what you see for self.  To be free, as I am with this write.  I’ve definitely assumed such an act and walk more so getting older, with writing and everything.  To just create, act and move.  Be free in flight and when on ground.  And those bringing that scowl and lowering tone to your standing, accept it and love it, wildly embrace it.  Then, you RE-WRITE IT.

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Something I’m working on…

…like, “chocolate” for a Cabernet, and “wild berry” for a Sonoma Valley Zin but I thought it sounded so lazy and effortless, like I didn’t care about the wines I was tasting.  Like the wine deserved more than that.  And she did, does.  I do, too.  If I were a wine right now, I’d be not exactly engaging, inspiring, or even drinkable.  So I continue to play the game, first changing the music I’m listening to, some Lo-Fi Hip-Hop instrumentals on Spotify, some playlist I found.  Actually I think it’s more trip-hop, or ambi-hop.  I don’t know, but it’s not helping my temperament.  Ugh, neither is this new track.

There.  Thievery Corporation.  Much better.  What I see playing in my eventual wine room, MY tasting room, pouring MY wines.  So… the descriptions, I’m still there, wanting to play with them, yes play the game but be more playful and not in any dote predictable with what I write about wines I’m tasting. The other day actually tasted a bottle of DuMol Pinot that a girl I work with at Lancaster brought in from the night before, an even she worked at the Mayacama club or whatever.  The wine was realized in its identity, with busybody cherry and berry layers, promises of cherry and mint, some rich and compact rain-told soil.  Not like “forest floor” as so many of these rusty bot wine “writers” put to page about Pinot, but with a nearly palatable terrestrial seduction to her.  The DuMol reminded me what I need to be doing, and differently that all these others assembling paragraphs about wine.  If you could call them paragraphs.  If you could call them assembled or coherent, convincing or even alive.

I have been advised, told, suggested, even taunted to write about wine.  Only wine.

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