A character on her first ever wine tasting sprint, my new friend Stephany, from San Jose. What did I impart, or try2teach? Nothing. Just urged she find what she likes, know her palate, try as much as she’s able. Wine, often is elevated beyond reason. But, Kunde doesn’t attract that crowd, and they certainly don’t pour such ideology into their bottlings, or any Literature, hospitality practices; It’s what Wine should be: Human, universal, available. Here, in my writing retreat enclave, on Yulupa, I sip this Bob’s Red, 2008, wondering not only about writing, my winemaking turns, but as much my Artistry’s stretch, its quantum continuum. I envy Stephany’s introduction to this world, experience; what’s in front of her, should she sequence in sipped steps. The Merlot, to me, in this blend, muted by the other Bordeaux plumes in perpetual pummel for palate priority…
Tomorrow morning, rising early. 5am, hoped. Should I set my alarm, or just, simply, hope? I know me, this Artist’s ways, tendencies late.. Putting that alarm on duty entirely active. Will I get out for a run in the morrow’s harsh earliness? Probably not. Last Sunday, something I’ve never before done, and not sure when the next time I’ll pocket all I’m out to gavel. Might be too hard on Self, not crediting enough [mySelf]. So what do I do, tomorrow morning? Write. If nothing else. For this “blog?” Yes. But more importantly, for project. ProjectS. Something salable. No more writing gratis. Do winemakers offer any bottled effort for returned silence? No. Never. And they shouldn’t. So when these wine publications contact me for content, I have to laugh. I’m in this to do what I love, support my son. That’s Literary; That’s Artistry.
I want the Newness of wine’s world, again. This disenchantment does nothing but mold me into a syllabically lined, rhymed, wolverine. All day, when with free seconds behind bar, scribbling verses, targeting the corporate ignorance, greed, profiling procedures that contradict all said to be “hospitality.” I’m the wine writer who’s not in any way a mere writer of wine. Me, nothing other than a journalist; speaking in metered moseys from his journals; speaking into mics, from Self-sculpted trails in his Composition Books. Speaking of, I just finished two verse for a piece I started over 3 months ago, in an old Comp Book. Need a mic open, locally, soon, for vocal. But what will it do, in that notebook? Nothing. Need release … “Tackle the hassle, then grapple with gavels; sequestered recovery; the jester is hunting me…” About to clock out, reading these pages, hoping for more newness; wined, otherwise.
As the writer ages, he envies others’ newness, naivete, discovery. Stephany, her character, her plot, scene stream, only hope I someday soon sip such. The Newness, coveted Unknown covet: in travel. Me, need be on plane. To anywhere. Croatia, Austria, Ireland [after meeting a gentleman, his wife, from “the old country,” as Dad says, today, towards shift’s end], Spain [anywhere], Paris. Just need a Traveler’s pages. Otherwise, the books breed nothing but the stale, stagnant, stoic. That won’t sell. And, that’s simply not what I enjoy writing–what I’ve been writing lately. So, Kelly paints my Life. As I write hers. Sip the red blend’s rest, hoping for espial.