3/17/20, Tuesday – Hi. I’m still alive.
And so are millions and billions of other people. Not making light of anything, just my attitude. I thought this morning driving here to the Sonic office about style, and about influence, how lately I’ve tried to be more Sedaris-esque, or Lawson-y, rather than completely Mike Madigan-ish. In fact, no -ish. Just all Mike Madigan. Either way, here I am in the nook. Have a call at 9am. Just want to sell something. I know people are slowing up, or down, but goddamnit I want to SELL. I know this goes against everything I wrote and posted yesterday about going back to the drawing board. Shit, still need to edit that restroom piece. Where is it?
Quiet. Saw one employee walk in. I should take the day off. And quarantine. There’s that word again. Quarantine. Maybe that is the right idea. I could finish a whole flippin book. Right? Couldn’t I? I mean, I think I could. This new journal, not sure what’s so new about it. It’s another journal. Maybe that’s what I should’ve titled the doc.
Didn’t hit ANY of my homework aims for last night, in terms of wine writing, or …. Anything. Who cares, I tell myself. This is a crazy and crucial time, just the right excuse I need to be dismissive or lazy, or not get certain things done.
That was a joke. A bad one, but still with joke intentions.
I’m just sitting here, sending emails back and forth. May email a prospect some numbers in a minute. Two prospects, actually. Then wait some more. Yes, waiting… waiting for what. Godot.
Just sent a quote to prospect, the one I was stressing over this morning. Wished someone well, a good day and to stay healthy and safe. I guess that’s what you do in these times. What times. I don’t know, the times you’re told to do something like that. I meant it, just noticed that everyone’s doing it. Not going to say anything else. Cuz then I’ll be that guy. Vocal commenting clown. So, I sip the latte.
Third estimate out, and it’s not even 10 o’clock as my Sales Engineer pointed out. At least I’m being productive… why do I say that, I’m always producing, moving… need to give self more credit. Not too much though, don’t want to be that guy either.
Everyone telling me there might be a “shelter-in-place” order for Sonoma County. Trying not to cuss, but I so what to say that word right now. Would feel so good. PIG-LICKER!!! That’s instead of. Too lazy to look up Shakespearean insults graph. This quarantine could offer an interesting opportunity in terms of writing, I’m seeing. Think that might be selfish. Is it though? Look at what this thing has done to me, to us. I could pretend I’m in some dystopian film, one that wouldn’t attract many ticket sales. Or maybe this is a blockbuster. I will write this… all of this.
Don’t want this new journal to be all COVID-coded.
to go back to music, speaking words.
One track by day’s end.
… through love of wine, the vineyards, walking in vineyards as I do. I opened the blend, red blend, from Inspiration last night when home from Mom and Dad’s, and she forwarded in random beats, spoke with curiosity and certainty, helixed in amorous shape and tone. I know I’m home on this page, with her, I knew I was last night. The red fruit syllables sang in tandem with terrestrial chords and peppered curvature. Again music, again poetic. What is was was time and me in that time, right there with her. That’s all I knew, know. That’s all there need be. When wine is overthought it’s forgotten. You’re at that point not into the wine anymore but whatever thought stream you’re on for whatever reason…
Couldn’t fall back asleep and yes I tried, so I’m up just a bit after 6. 6:07 to its point. Right before 6 is when I made the call to write, to sit here at the counter as I did last night. Still have to edit the short piece I wrote yesterday, the tasting room fiction which now accosts me with ideas and character directions, and how the main character wants to know more about wine and not how most do. He won’t read a bunch of figuratively factually framed how-to books or anything like that. He doesn’t see wine that way. I, don’t see wine that way. Never have.
Thought about going for a run, but writing, wine, the book—but should I leave the book idea alone and let that happen? What I mean to say is, and I’ve been here before, in this mode. So I jettison and move on. Still trying to figure out that red from hours ago, the ’11 Rioja. Wasn’t flawed or bad, just, I don’t know, oddly ambient. Seemingly agitated that I opened her. Should I have waited? Inner thought troupe cascading in reverse, to that wine. This doesn’t happen often, when some bottle I go out and buy to write about gives me some time of composition coma, stills me, has me irreparable meditative.
Coffee waking me. Can’t wait for the drive over the mountain, but then I can. Time passing me too fast so why do I excessively deliberate and stomps in thought swamps which are circular and produce no composition? Book’s name, no longer thought. In fact the more I think of any book I write being titled such I cringe, curl, become demonically agitated.
6:21 – I’ll start readying in a bit. First, more music. Poetry. Clean office tonight, revisit the Rioja but dig for any answers or understandings. Hunt more inquiry, move with the wine, with her, for purposes of just that. Keep my patience and sight on their own rhythmic track, and at least try to act apt.
She defines a new
rile of closeness, that kiss, view,
room, rues ado to.
And ’11 white, and ’16 red. From Spain, bot. In the quiet kitchen consistent with my vinified vision, speaking in poetic tongues and abetted stuns. Character compiled in this sole presence and thought lot, caught in wine’s promise and spell, she tells me to stay, be still but keep in my truest move.
Haven’t touched the red. Letting her wake as she wishes. Shouldn’t say let, rather inviting her, hoping she wants to me as I her, after the week, this day, the introduction to a new story at work, learning a new style of business in a new way. All narrated and keeping self in that vineyard block, the one I now see, the 337 Lancaster block right by the parking lot. As the clock moves in its knotted ticks and tocks, me here with more sight. Tomorrow in Napa which I haven’t done in too long. On drive, notes hopes, talk to friend Chris while he kindly drives. Expect nothing. Plan nothing. Write little Paginate the experience and story when it’s done. Feel the early wake, just before 4 technically, speak to me. Urging bed, urging rest, urging early wake for a run prior to drive over the mountain.
This could be one of the more agreeable and interesting, seductive and capturing white wines I’ve had in some time. Why am I just writing about her, why am I not penning, noting the notes. Don’t want to be like Parker and whatever that one guy’s name is, and then the other twit I always see posting about his attendance at events hoping to be taking seriously or as something of a wine something. I don’t want to be a clown. Am I calling them clowns, no. Or maybe. I just don’t want to resemble anything they do. I’m present for the pages in the puddle, what’s transposed from and to the character by the alchemical atmosphere, right here, what I just sipped.
See clusters in a bin, in Spain in certain corners of this contemplative vein. A light, airy beat of sea and cliff, some sort of sand and trees by a boulder. Never seen it, but it’s on my out-of-body shoulder. Letting the glass be, the wine, she, with a freeing frolic of echoing chords and singular notes. Each, its own anecdote. I’m not the writer du vin I was when I started. I know that. I’m older. Shit, some days I just feel old. But she assures me I’m fine, encourages more recital, more music… Only write music, musically, she pleas. This ’16.
Now for the ’11, reckon. Last couple sips of the Albarino. Technically misspelled but this goddamn laptop won’t let me insert the symbol. Fighting the tired, telling it to be gone or face a fight. Nearly done, the red over there looking at me and reciting poetry I can’t hear till I sip, fully engage and stay embraced. Wine, educating me as she knows I need new Newness in this Now. 8:44, just minutes before bed possibly. No way to know. And that’s what wine is, not knowing. Letting time find you, and you drawing from the confines of the presented page. Sip, scribble, learn, live.
Went out on my own, “Feet on the Street” as they say in this part of the company. Just introducing myself, as I knew there was a chance of running into current clients. And I did. No deterrence. This whole day thinking about selling and why some get anxiety when it comes to selling, and the possibility of conversion, that you might or might not sell. Again, I learn on wine ideology and methodology. Everything is from wine, for me. Talk to people as you would if you were having a glass of SB with them on a desk in some warm weather, or sipping a stainless Chard on a dock somewhere in the San Juan Islands, or on a boat around the islands. Do your job less, I said to myself walking up to that first corporate building in on of the Fountain Grove business building spots.
Department head sent out an email saying, basically telling us, that early departure at 3 is fine. Told us to get the heck out of here and enjoy our weekend. Which I more than appreciate as in the wine industry that rarely happens. Every last dollar, every last dollar the mentality rather than making sure your sales force is satisfied with everything from day-to-day to how they see themselves in their role. I’ll leave in a bit, I guess. Go write somewhere maybe for a bit before meeting family in Windsor for the baseball game and whatever else is planned. Looking around my new desk, and my place has already been punctuated. Wine… wine… don’t fixate on the overwhelming population and propulsion of new terms and products and surrounding language. Just see the person in front of you, I tell myself and offer to anyone reading this in any kind of sales post. Just talk to as many people as you can, record everything, follow up, and don’t stop moving. Not sure what else to say other than that, and I don’t want to talk about sales for this whole piece but narrating who you are and what you’re doing is nearly the entirety of what we think of as “sales”.
Wine taught me all this. And the industry having forced me into disgust with it instructed me to gut-trust and find something else. I did, and here I am, but still with wine-wound principles and sight, the Road to my Equilibrium purveying all the poetry and prose but more so poetry and music this writer ever need. What will I have to do when with my own wines, but go door to door, just handing them out not really selling or even narrating anything, just saying hi and saying my name a couple times and handing a bottle of wine to whomever’s in front of me.
Office getting quiet. I can tell people have left. Think I’ll send my EOD in a minute then depart, myself. Get a glass of something, somewhere. Why does Sauvignon Blanc always sound good, and always sound like the most optimal and appropriate, optimally appropriate varietal and style, feel and song and vinified ride? Don’t know, but I can see the glass in front of me, and by some odd extension see myself rising in this department far faster than anyone before me, and even faster than I now see myself ascending. Why? I’m not selling. I refuse to sell. I’ll only connect, talk, educate, create. So many overthink sales and talk themselves out of it and into some undeserved low self-estimation. The creativity and conversations will illuminate opportunity, and renewing zenith.