Last Call, Then Another … 1More

Again, I’m taught the indiscriminately short nature of life.  A lifelong family friend just passed.  And of course, I start thinking about mySelf.  Is that wrong?  Shouldn’t I be thinking about him, his family?  Maybe it’s from the actuality of now having a little boy in my days, for whom I’m meant to provide, protect.  Then I start thinking of the blog, and how it does virtually [and I do mean “virtually,” as it’s nothing tangible, material, real; merely on web].  Then the wine industry, and how none of the stress, drama, elevations present in its demonic palms are worth any stress.  From this entry onward, I separate from all anxiety, especially from so much of what’s found in “the industry.” And, come to find, my old friend was an executive chef at a winery, working reportedly 7 days a week sometimes.  I’ll have a hard time being convinced that wasn’t part of my friend’s, Collin’s, concluding equation.

Maybe it’s Human to look at Self when something like this happens, to re-evaluate the element net in one’s days.  Soon as I came back from dropping off Jack & Alice at SFO, I flew to the keyboard.  Not the notebook.  Was that wrong?  Did I waste seconds of my life?  Like my sister said, I can’t second-guess Self.  And, given how temporary all this around me is, I just have to leap, act.  Move on.  Almost 1p, I realize, seeing 12:42pm on the laptop’s clock.  I do want to be outside, doing something.  Might do a little tasting in Russian River, as I earlier meditated.  Or, I could just go to Kenwood, Glen Ellen.  Or Sonoma’s square.  Either way, I just have to live.  And think of nothing but living, in my Art, what’s around me.  I still love wine, don’t confuse.  It’s the industry, even more so now, I’m targeting.  Preparing for collision…

Wanted to upload some past day’s writings, meant for the blog.  But haven’t uploaded the pics from my iphone, yet.  That’s what I’m talking about, with this blog…  I can’t just write.  There need be visuals, tags, categories, titles, URLs.  It’s not Art, I don’t think.  Not Artful like scribbling in a little notepad, while at work in a cubicle, doing so to keep sane, get through a hellish day.  There’s pain in that, the fundamentally elemental dependence of ink, paper piece.  There were no blogs in Capote’s day.  Hemingway’s, Kerouac’s, Shakespeare’s.  Going to break away from all I don’t need, like the Kosta Browne crew.  Maybe I should do a tasting there today, if I can.  Not sure they have a tasting Room.  Or even a place to taste.  I’ll call…  Found a way around my charging Flip Camera, in its USB port, to dock the iphone, retrieve pictures.  See?  How was that sentence valuable, informative, Literary?  If you’re to take anything from lines like that, it’s that I angrily scathe technology.  Social Media.

1:04pm.  Can’t “publish” this “post,” as I’m waiting for these pics to upload.  Enough.  I’m done.  And if people won’t read my material ‘cause I don’t have some florescent still in the session’s boundaries, the wonderful.  I don’t want that class of “reader” reading my work.  And those people, ones in wine’s industry, used to the glossy frames of Wine Spectator, or some other ridiculously conventional page collection meant for a magazine rack.  Done.  Now I need some wine.  Good wine.  Life is short, cursedly brief.  And I’m upset in that truth.

1:24pm.  Still uploading photos.  This is comical, honestly.  Moving on, just called KB, was given some valuable contact information.  I’ll email for an appointment, TASTING, later today.  Still reflecting on my friend’s transition, his mother’s voice over the phone.  I have to have my Art prepared at all times, just in case I go early.  Like 2Pac having several albums lined, I’ll quit with all that stalls my Craft; I’m just going to write.  Even as much as I’m seduced by photography, I’m passing.  Just penning.  That’s how I want to be remembered–  One who loved writing, his family.  Life, Wine.  But above all, his paroxysm for pen.


4:44pm.  In office.  Just posted again to bottledaux, then some Bud Break photos to 1Stop.  In a better mood, but still uneven from Collin.  How could that happen?  I feel only fear, now, realizing I need to keep writing.  Keep all Art stretches simple, unique.  Going to upgrade Pandora, finally, now that I have a couple free seconds.  Listening to Wine Bar beats, after my late lunch; the sandwich Alice packed yesterday.  Dinner tonight…  Not sure.  Something I want, crave.  Rosso Pizzeria?  Could be nice, that one new pizza I like.

Went to Russian River, stopped at a new winery.  New for me…  Woodenhead.  Did a Pinot flight, courtesy of the swift tasting Room being behind bar.  Her name, Melody.  “How appropriate,” I thought, with my revived connection with more musical writing, spoken word; reciting to Self on 101’s northness, River Road’s west-centricity.   Anyway, each Burgundy blew me away, and I was notably riveted by the Carignane, 2009 from Mendocino County.  Bought a bottle.  Don’t think I’ll be opening it tonight.  More than likely, I’ll pop one of the Hoot Owl Creek ’07 Cabs I bought yesterday, after tasting them at the AV gala Saturday night.

Typing with peculiar fury, speed.  Maybe I’m resurrected, in some way, by this new winery, its Pinots.  Could be.  Or, it could be this time I have2Self.  Just treated Self to more music.  And I’ll need it, as I plan on a page binge over the next few days.  Which reminds me, this is my last blog post for day.  Need to give more time, attention and Life to writing I can peddle.  Need the money, if you need know.  I want to click on the “Print” button.  Want to get another one of those ipod docks for my car.  Tired of listening to the same songs over, over.  Doesn’t help writing, believe me.  May be in a Pinot mood, after all.  Either way, going to carry Comp Book [of which I’m on the final page], and the new one, downstairs, playing video games while spitting poetic bursts, blurbs, bends & blends onto hopefully-hungry lines.

Yes, off in car, again…

(5/21/12, Monday)