trial [draft]

Liking the Moshin Pinot much more tonight, with its strong maple-y raspberry figure and chewier palate presence.  Wasn’t going to write tonight, but the Pinot’s making me do it.  Back in TRoom, 2morrow.  Need to finish this entry before I’m too tired.  About 3 sips left in glass.  4 if I’m unusually tempered.  Texted Katie about our wine, said she’d drop off a sample of 11MKCS tomorrow, at Mom’s.  Excited to taste my maiden project.  Sipping what’s in my glass now has me entertaining Pinot production.  But no.  I don’t want to be that kind of winemaker.  I want to enjoy Pinot as a consumer.  That’s it.  MY areas of expertise, at least to start.. Sauv Blanc, Syrah, Cab.  Maybe down the road, at some point, MAYBE, I’ll do another varietal.  But to start, I want to leap into the varietals I understand, pursue as a sipper.  Now, the 2010 Russian River Burgundy’s talking strangely, hitting palate with a wink of milk chocolate, or toffee.  Interesting.  This wine, more than most I’ve recently touched, very much alive.  With its own cognition.  Another example of where, WHEN, wine & Literature meet.  Oh, and with my wines, I’ll rack minimally.  The character I want to bottle NEEDS lees contact.. extensive, intimate interaction.

Another sip…  Smokey, coffee.  Smokey coffee grounds?  This wine, miles past fascinating.  Hope I’m not sounding too much like some transparent wine writer, or “wine blogger.” Gross.  I’ve just found something I very much enjoy, with this Pinot.  Moving on, Thursday’s sure to be a day tryingly long.  I’ll be working a movie night at St. Francis, from 6 to possibly 11-something PM.  Which, if I round up, would make that a 14-hour day.  Will need some of those Frannie Zins and Merlots to survive such a stint.  Need all the exposure to wine I can gather, absorb, if I’m 2B a winemaker with Katie.  Second to last sip, making me sad.  Almost gone.  I’m attached to her, obviously.  Off to dream, carelessly, irresponsibly.  Need to get another bottle, before they’re gone.  10:45pm, already.  Bed, not sounding that interesting.  I’ll be sipping this ’10, on whichever cloud I find Self.


7/18/12.  Mike sat on the couch, depleted from the tasting Room’s waves.  He was soaked in conversation, recital, wine speak.  He couldn’t get dry.  He wished he could swim more, and he would, with the open blend on the counter.  It had been open for three days, he thought.  Mike was pretty sure it’d still be good, since the last time it tasted a bit young.  First pour, little more than an ounce.  The bottle, by the way, seemingly exactly half full.  At first, he was timid to taste.  Not really afraid, he just didn’t want to know what was in that glass.  He was afraid his instinct was wrong, the one saying that it would still stand.  Glass tilt, small palate connection, letting it sit…  “Enchanting,” he wrote in the little pages of that miniature Mead notebook, the one he always took to work.  He sipped it on its own.  7:03pm.  He knew he should cook something for himself, but he was too into the wine.  He thought he tasted more of the Merlot than the Cab.  Its exact makeup was 64% Cab, 33% Merlot, then 3 PV (Petit Verdot).  Mike thought that maybe someday he, with his sis, should try a straight, meaning 100% PV.  But for what?  What would that do?  To say they did it?  Then what?

After a full glass, he thought of what Kelly would say about it.  He wrote her presence there, her response.  “Tastes rich, or deep, I think,” he wrote her saying.

“It does?” he’d ask back.  Mike sipped again, eyes to ceiling, for concentration’s point.  “Yeah,” he said, following sip, again swirling.

“So what do you have going tomorrow?”

“Working at the main winery, then working an event at another, 6 to 11-something.”

“Long day.”

“Yeah, but, you know, I could use the money.”

In bed.  Hate the fact I “need the money.” These wineries have a writer by his lungs, eyes, functions.  Time for bed.  Tomorrow, a blended party, from these two animated SV Wineries.  10:45p, time.  Tonight’s cap, two generous scoops of mint chip ice cream.  Makes me feel I need to start running again, crazily.  Maybe the sugar’ll force me to early wake, get 1,000 words in before getting behind that bar.  Here’s in hopes…

7/19/12.  Promised to be a long day.  Typing as I many times do in A.M., standing, hunched over desk.  Jack, going to bed last night with a little Stanford onesie.  Seeing him this morning, with that red uniform, had me in thoughts.  And I hate to this way it phrase, but.. Literary vs. Wine.  Have to get in shower, have to think.

On tap for day, regular shift at Kunde, then working movie event at St. Francis.  Yes, a long day, but think of all the material it’ll provide.  Have to keep pen in constant electric flip.  Novel.. Classes…  Oh, was contacted yesterday by the new Humanities Dean at Solano College.  He had “a slew of classes” that needed to be filled.  No singulars on my days off though, Monday and Tuesday.  Was flattered he called.  But that’s a long drive, and I like my current Kenwood commute.  Now, driving to Stanford for a class, or 2…  Wouldn’t even think.  I’d just head south, wouldn’t care (even a little) what that would jeopardize.

Out of shower, thought of academics, what it means to be “academic.” I remember sharing with students, “sometimes not being what they say is ‘academic’ is the most academic step you can take.” Why does it need the title of “academic.” I have trouble even writing that word.  But, there is a place for scholarly thought; a linear deconstruction of Literature.  Inside class.  And even more especially, out.  That very conception embodies deconstruction; an examination of polarity.  The wine world could never provoke such from me.  I know where I stand, where my pen’s going.  And as I more recently wrote, “Knowing when you start, is when you start.” Or, realizing I rewrote it: “Knowing when you embark is when you embark.” If you can’t realize the significance of embark vs start, then, well, that’s regretful.

Already past 300 words for A.M.  Need coffee.  Didn’t get a mocha from the capitalist mocha mansion down the block.  Made my own.  Do I want this morning to mirror yester’s?  Need to think…  8:22a, with mocha.  Oh my, 8:22.  How did it get that progressed in morning hours?  Time, cruel.  That’s why I write as I do, in condensed, concentrated bursts.  Why I’m 4ever Literary.  12hours from now, I’ll still be on a clock.  Mine.  Writing when I can.  And again, that’s what I want readers to at least gather, a little, from this log, is that I am ALWAYS writing.  Drizzle outside, overcast.  Are the grapes mad?  Or do they need it at this point?  Not sure I really care, right now.  But, when my 2012 fruit comes in, and I have to buckle down, make my wine, I will.  How typical of a writer, his fair changing moods, shapes, aims, priorities.