Posts Tagged With: wine


Today, slow, was hoping driving up here that I’d get to write and get ahead on a few ideas while in TR, but no.  So I sprint from now till 5.  I’ll open the Dutcher Cab when home.. pair with … not sure.  Something.  Run scheduled in morning.  And I won’t fail this time, don’t care when either of the babies wakes me.

Here, wines corked, everything in closing position.  May have a beer at Barndiva, check the place out.. never been, should have more a focus on food, and Healdsburg’s general and pervasive flavor, for people visiting.  Hmmm… idea…..  Forwarded.

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Wine tasting to start day, Dry Creek, seeing all the controlled burns contributing their expressive and atmospheric visual about the valley, coupled with the roaring mustard rows between varietal rows.

Now here in TR, off Square, first chance to write, walking around to other TRs, saying hello and tasting a couple offerings.  I’m in wine, realize I have to do this on my own and not be contingent upon anyone, and check-givers.. all these other entrepreneurs make it work, and why not this professor/writer/wine-wielder?  4:12.. should pour myself a splash of something, stay in character

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We talked about closure, and why we need it.  And do we want it.. other directions as well.  Then I thought and wrote more.

And the direction I’m headed, more and more I think, is into wine.  Something with wine.  Meeting tomorrow with a winery, who knows what that will do and where that will go—  I have to stay in the ‘yay’, try in any way to deter a ‘nay’.  Sipped the remainder of the Boekenoogen Pinot, and I feel defiant, like I shouldn’t have to apply, but that’s just a mood’s voice.  Or is it.  HST on brain—

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Finished thousand word article.  Didn’t go back to campus after bringing SS card to Sanglier office.  Came here to Hopper sbux, enjoying jazz and I think a tutor’s lecture to his young JC clients.  This morning’s talk with that one student, ’S’, and her writings and xfer to UC Santa Cruz.  I AM a student again, I wrote in the Carpe journal.  Wrote a lot in the CJ, this A.M., before and while students were in 1610.

Have to edit article.  Don’t want to, but I have to.  Those words on wine’s industry MUST be read.  Sip again.  Mocha.

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As the wine thoughts upon me fall, I just think of the Road, long ceaseless skyways and clouds, what seat I’ll be placed in, what isle, row, or whatever (been so long)…  Should see my buddy Scott, the wine bar owner on RR Square, what he’s up to..  More wine content and story and characters, wine for me, completely.

Wonder how sister’s wined trip is going in Philly, how much she’s sold, how much wine has sold itself..  Should message her, see what I can learn from text.. reach out to Glenn, try to get out to vineyards with him.

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Should title today “Re-Wined”.  As more and more I’m seeing need and obviation of me in wine’s world, make it and everything about it my own, and more Literary, or for me, and the consumers that see and sip wine as I do.  Nothing pretentious or competitive, or cunning or underhanded about it.  Going to get a white for tonight, sip and write about before the red from coat-wine closet.  Wine has to be conversational, part of a conversation and conversing with those who invite.  I invite, eagerly.

Back from closet.  Found white and red.  I’ll shop anyway.

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Keep wine on the brain, in the sight and scope, get Self closer to the tasting room, MY tasting room, sister as consulting winemaker (contract permitting)—  What am I opening tonight?  Red.  Something I’m not supposed to.  Something with a voice.  Something that pushes me to the most expressive and expository of words.  What.. in that closet.. my cellarcloset, my smalldarkcellarcolony of wines.

Winemakers never sleep, ever, and especially during harvest, and so should continue this Wildly Wild Wine Writer.  Wonder what photos, these storage drives on the desk; old vintages, vineyards during dormancy, barrels, crush pad— everything I hope.

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MOCK SOMM: quick sips

Ridge Winery, 2000, California, Montebello

img_1080Fading a bit, but no slip of color or engagement.  Diminished grip, slightly, as well with the fruit, but the general palate placement and musical nature of the wine is there, with violets and chocolate, rich raspberry and plum, a little blueberry.  Again, impeccable dark depth on visual and interactive texture; soft, euphonious, a piano riff with a light symbol tap.  Flirtatious echo as the sip finishes.  Still with life and its intentions, but if you have this in your cellar I wouldn’t wait much longer.  The bottle wants to be touched.  The wine demands the sipper’s senses, this year.

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excerpt 2/7/16

…the Cab we dubbed MKCS, citing how the chem numbers look good and she tells her coworkers in production, after being teased about the timespan in bbl, “It’s an experiment.. we’re making the longest-aged Cabernet in history,” she said, or something like that last night as we tasted the ’00 Montebello.  And that wine, having me think is so many directions, defying Philosophical linearity and geometric convention, anything from the textbook, and this freewrite’s meant to be free and written but not, typed yes but more a meditation getting me closer to the desired Wellness place, that place where I write better and deliver to readers my dogmatic adherence to my word counts, standalone pieces.. my students and wined visions, this laptop and the Carpe journal.

No wishlisting today, just doing.. and now, COFFEE— for the growling beatnik here on Plaza Street, watching tourist across the street walking then going down that alley toward Bravas when equal with this building.  And this building— French bistro attempted aesthetic with dusty, grimy, dingy smatters in certain corners, and a bit on main floor (always making me pull the broom from that musty abhorred closet).  Thought about igniting some music, but decided again, love the sounds of zooming cars I can’t see and horn blares from the Avenue, that smell of rich Mexican dishes next door at El Farolito—  Still no coffee but I feel’s thought I’ve made vanish several liters of it— okay, now, finally coffee.

The cup, smoldering, angrily, dumped an orchard’s worth of cinnamon, see the dusty puddle atop when I remove lid to equalize temperature.  Walking back to the tasting room, I’m reminded wildly of why and how much I vocally love Healdsburg.  My new Paris— my Sonoma-Paris.  In the gazebo at the Square itself, man playing violin, people enjoying coffees on benches in front of the bakery/creamery, the other shops.  “Is Sunday becoming my favorite day,?” I thought.  Healdsburg shows and instructs me on Zen more purposefully and pervasively that a textbook or website.  These thousand words, my instruction to Self…

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I WILL finish the thousand word effort I started last night.  And last night/early morning, a skirmish with both babies, refusing to sleep and Alice and I trying to convince both of sleep’s boons there was no correlation in language.  So I sip coffee now and focus on the keys, the wine I tasted last night (the Ridge), and bottle of my ’12-something once back home.  My story is wine, my voice and patois.

At the kitchen island; brush, flattened cereal box to be tossed into recycling, pizza box… need the Square.  My Sonoma-Paris.  My Oakville table.

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