so much about wine?
Really… the writer wants to know.
so much about wine?
Really… the writer wants to know.
on the wine train…
Forever with Pinot in a slow poem throw. This bottle, no aside. Altogether continuous and contiguous with my chase of Burgundy… light but not passive, and formidable, in no way invasive or overstepping. This character shows and tells what Santa Lucia Highlands holds and is bold enough to play for us. Each sip a new track and in each track a new octave set and key colony. Light and beat-driven, with its separatist raspberry steps and solicitous clefs. A Pinot to not let be disturbed. Why pair with any food? She’s artful, autonomously. And she continues with her playful nots and random, light percussion.
Backpack to right, having its own chair, and me in this chair writing for the next 40 minutes or so, centering self in a tasting room, before a day that could do anything, and I anything in it. Jazz… prompting me forward like those Tubbs gusts. Wine, all around me in the tanks, barrels, wine I tasted last night, not moving me any one way, really. Looking for the most seismic, cosmic, significant and instrumental inspiration I can pin. Today, especially. I need it. Yesterday telling me how close to the shop I’m getting, but when I woke this morning I was thinking, “Why can’t I really speed things up?” Not that I’m in a rush, not that this writer’s impatient, I just want to be there, behind my counter, study wine and everything about it, everything the people drinking it, or tasting it, in this room and on the patio, in the cave, have to say about it. Wine… wine… wine… I write about wine and everything it does. To me, to everybody coming into this room. The TR is a different world, this early, at this hour, at this long polished wood table with the glass all around me, sound of the heater actuating its spell, making the atmosphere more cozy for a writer.
In this quiet, the backpack and I collect, yes meditate, but envision MY tasting room, the shelves, seeing myself there early to count, inventory, move some bottle displays around. The act of this, writing in the silent meditative cove of the tasting room is my meeting, my meeting with self, to start the day and only think of what I can do with the day. Wine’s stage, its intrinsic and definite anatomy establishes in me a new rile, and centeredness as to what I’m to do. With this day, with my wined life and with my wined books. Singularity, diversity… the diversity and the array is the singularity, with wine. At least for me. Pinot, never distracting me from my Cabernet luminosity and joy, but always seducing me into and oddly intense attentiveness.
Writing about the tasting room, before and after people are in here, scurrying and hurrying to the counter to taste down the flight and then use the all-too-famous beg of “revisit”. We always pour again, whatever it is they want. But the room is my focus… as I try to define wine I the same attempt to conceptualize and wholly grasp this room and what it does. Building my business from that, I guess. Or maybe not. But coupled with the writing act, writing everything I see from the front glass doors to the tanks in the room to my left, stacked barrels the people can see as they sit and talk to each other, asking us always if they can walk around in there and of course we tell them we can’t, most of the time pulling from their face-shape a scowl or minor mope. Day continues, though, and they easily distract from what they can’t do and then subscribe to what they’re actually doing— tasting wine. Wine they’ve never had before.
Tasting room. The quiet. I can see, though, the day ahead of me. People walking in and looking around if for the first time they’re walking through those doors, and then if returning buyers or club members, they walk into their other abode. I participate and observe, intimately and closely harnessing myself to all expressive facets around me— people, wine, the view, the wind if any and how it pushes the patio umbrellas from one side to other. In the tasting room, I taste the room, over and over… one sip then reflect, don’t let self react yet, then sip again— the atmosphere and visual of characters surrounding the writer. I’m here so early this morning not just looking for propulsion or some edge of “inspiration”, but more definition, understanding.
Backpack just looking back at me, wondering what I’m doing with the simplicity of the idea of a tasting room. Where people taste wine. It’s that simple and singular, I guess you could rule, but there’s more here. So many in the wine business and industry quickly exhaust from the tasting room. Not just from standing on soles all day, but from the constant front-and-center of it all, always talking to people, always talking about wine and explaining winery history and the property, what’s neighboring, and all else. They surrender, utterly give up and become disenchanted and disconnected. A writer, me, sees each interaction and moment and Newness. A standalone piece. Something contributing to my book. It’s more than a yay-say disposition, but then that’s all it is. I don’t know many that arrive to work as early as I do to write about work, work on own projects, work for self, and obsess so loudly in what’s around them, what they’re about to do for the next eight or so hours. The tasting room, I’m seeing, now, a commanding symbol and thesis to my book jog, jaunt, life.
No reason not to write, and to not have a book done… and mine’s been done for a while, my first wine ms, I merely keep adding onto it, never collating. But now, this wine industry penner has something, from this sitting, this sight. I’m managing myself with clear objective, clear project delineation, making notes on calendar what I want done and by when. Wine book, by EOM. End of month. Then another by May’s end, before this writer’s life-day, 5/29. The tasting room, my classroom this morning, telling me to keep writing, write about wine more wildly and when of shortage for page presence, look around you. Three girls yesterday coming in, with skittish and adorable pup, tasting wines and talking with me about what they liked, what the sipped outside of the room they were in. Story intersection, education and material for me, in awe, in study, to embrace now in this page hike.
Not stopping. Trapping everything this morning, in this room, this canvas, my stage and visual tablet.
watching everyone around me. What they said about the wines and how they saw it with some dish a family member always makes, how Chardonnay would “go so good with that pasta that Amelia makes…” By myself in the room, just the observer. Now home, sipping a Pinot, Sonoma Coast, yes from Roth, taking a minute in this quiet. Home. No one around me… no jazz playing, just me and this Pinot and the syncopated pulses of verse and embracing confessions she lovingly throws at me. The shop is closer, after today. Not that I can feel it, like you might expect me to say, or even see it. It was confirmed, plainly… metaphysically cemented. Today, the tasting room and everyone walking in promised me my shop, where my family and I will elevate our story and framing of wine, our present and time, stand and story, stories.