7/2/12.  Monday.  Mocha down, now to compile page by page.  Have several quotes from winery visitors, but plan to save all for project, off-blog.  Have a verse cooking in the little notepad that I’m afraid to finish, want to just keep it motioned.  But I can’t, I know.  Have to end it, eventually.  Add it to catalogue.  So much clutter on the desk.  Seems to grow like the vines, these curious piles.  Last night, tasted an ’11 Sauv Blanc before an ’09 Red Blend from a nearby producer.  Both spurred ideas for bottled approaches.  See what happens.. should probably make some notes in the little black winemaking log I started.  Need music…

Know people are watching, on this “blog.” And that’s fine.  No fear in me.  Only aim.  As for the “social” media element, I use it when I have to, if at all.  It works for me, not opposite.  Can’t think of sentences, suddenly.  Hate when this happens.  Almost tempted to type the lines from yesterday’s sippers, and the two ladies the day before, one of which whom just kept repeating everything I pointed out.  “Acidity…structure…balanced jamminess…” Was a bit annoying, especially when she started to turn my words into criticisms of every wine I poured.  By then, though, it was just amusing, humorous, useful for the writing.  But I’m saving it for printed page.

The little notes, proving more and more useful in that tasting Room.  That area, where people come from everywhere, to taste wine, creates a career for me.  As long as I’m there, or on the mountain giving tours, pouring, talking about whatever character’s below the cork, I’ll be writing about it.  Not to say I can’t write about other worlds, I’m simply writing about where I am.  The corkscrews, corks, bottles, glasses, spouts, spills, questions, grape names, purple-touched napkins, pour buckets (what’s in them.. gross)…  All mine.  All for manuscript.  This entry, the only “post,” to this infectious blog [and I don’t type that, “infectious,” with Self-indulgence or any type of raise, or praise].  Off to write what I hope to retail.  My “merch.” My releases.  Jackie, to my left, in and out of sleep for his morning snooze.  Time, 9:53a.. want 1000 words in project b4 sleep.  Scurry to scribble.

fantasy – handwrite novel, like in “Crashing,” think King does that with most of his work, or at least that’s what he said in an interview [think he said that]

Croatia – [fantasy 2, for morning] write novel in 9 days, like Bradbury, only sessioning with water view, from cliff; after, to Hungary, for next novel; road novel from Europe, then to Africa

These fantasies, not at all fantasies, really.  My genre.  I’m the genre.  Well, eventually.  Have to be mobile.  Can’t write novels in an office.  Or maybe I can.  Maybe I did, when working with those pigeons, those muddle-headed marketing monkeys at the box.  Offices are death chambers for writers, Artists.  Studios, too, to some extent.  Well, for me anyway.  Need another coffee, for whatever I put into this book, or project.

note – Yesterday, a large group in tasting Room upset when they weren’t poured more.  Typical.  Do you want to taste wine, or just get drunk?  If latter, I would have said, “Go to the nearest liquor tent and stock up on ALCOHOL.” The wine I represent, I see as Artful.  When it’s trivialized, I get agitated.  And most with my wine scope do as well.

2pm.  Run in a little over an hour.  One as well tomorrow.  To save me from predictability, POETRY.  Started to print and compile works, for mySelf [recital].  From this “blog,” various files stored on monster, Comp Books, stray sheets.. wherever I find verse.  The goal: mere collection.  Organization comes later.  Beautiful outside, can’t wait for my dashes.  These Wine Bar beats, again sending me to vacation, travel.  Writings abroad.  What would give this penman more rhythmic balance.  Needed.