journal, Sauvignon Blanc [6/24/12, Sunday]

Two tours on mountain.  First, ten people.  Second, three, younger, more my speed.  Hard to ever desensitize to views up there, the feel of what’s around you.  If only I could just scribble a single line up there, in between pours or something.  That’d be enough.  Or at day’s end.  I could wrap everything up, up there, by mySelf.  Pen for five minutes.  Has to be one of the most inviting, tempting, seductive, magnetic writing spots with which I’ve ever interacted.  Even rivaling Paris.  In some respects.  Now, in home office, sipping a Lagunitas “Little Sumpin,” before more verse in the neglected Comp Book.  Feeling more than musical today.  Confident.. Creative..  I just want to keep fingers in type, pen on line.  Always.

Oh, and new ideas for 1Stop after meeting a guy on tour 2, also Mike, in terms of elements enveloped in DTC approach.  More later, just know that wheels turn for the other blog.  Autonomy, not far.  Closer than I before measured, actually.  2010 Lancaster Sauvignon Blanc in fridge.  2nite’s Wine.  Miss the crew at my favorite AV winery.  That cave, its presence.  Wish I did more writing in there.  Run planned for tomorrow.  Have to wake at five.  A.M.  Failure means I fail.  Can’t afford that.  Especially as a writer.

IDEA:  Chapbook, 35-39 pgs, to fund touring; verse & entry only; quick, in-moment.


10:17pm.  Night’s cap.  That 2011 Lancaster Sauv Blanc.  Haven’t tasted this in a while.  The acidity’s less fluctuating than I remember, plus the tropical element has more tenor.  Lovely wine.  But I’m getting tired, so my ability to valuably appreciate this bottle’s diminishing.  Now true tiredness hits, sinks me with Lusitania vehemence.  Listening to Wine Bar beats, skeptical of the blog, even though I know I don’t have much choice to hug it passively, in submissive scuttles.  Sauvignon Blanc, the one I’ll produce this year with my brother Kazzy…  Can see it much like this one from LE.  However, I’ll like it’s voice with a little more melody.  This bottle’s volume’s a bit elevated for my sight of an SB.  Meaning, it’s a little too loud.  I still enjoy it, but it lacks the subtly that I see for my SB.  I’m fine with the nose being as tenacious as it is, but the mouth feels confused, aimless, as if its intent wasn’t made clear.  Either way, all contrived analysis aside, I’m sipping.  Envisioning mySelf in Costa Rica, writing of course.  “Go write,” Alice said, as she watched one of her programs.  And so I do, flapping expressive wings till I’m a s horizontal as I was on the 21st.  That poisoning, still on deconstruction’s table.  Am I writing enough?  Need to start organizing, in case something happens to the writer.

As for Kelly.. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to write her.  Just want you to know that I did have a character–a young female painter, one drawing always; a true ARTIST; 4ever curious, never wonder if, just leaping; enviable.  On a night like this, a Friday of sorts, I see her not painting, but reading.  Sipping her favorite Rhône blend.  Not as worried, rushed as the writer.  Writers, most days, need to not be such writers.  I’ll keep saying this:  Sometimes the most Literary act we can throw as writers is not not write, but actually LIVE.

Another SB sip, please.