scratch track

This morning, much more intense than I thought.  And by, “intense,” I allude to all Self-educating tremors positive.  Everything from antimicrobials to “referm” [re-fermentation], to blending RS tanks with dry lots.. blending trials with citric and tartaric, then discussing symptoms of bottle shock, origins thereof.  Getting closer to my label, “whoso,” launch.  Was hard to concentrate on tasting Room obligation, duty commitment, today with winemaking–wine itSELF–on mind, in sight.

Met another writer/blogger today.  She was with her friend/industry colleague.  Always nice to meet another writer.  Especially one loving wine.  She reminded me that fun, genuine enjoyment, has to pour prominently in “the industry.” So many get stolen by sales goals, wine club signups, metrics, revenue challenges, marketing, branding, that ever-annexing interactive gargoyle opiate “social” media, that they forget about THE WINE.  Reminds me, totally actually, of what’s happened to books, publishing, music.. its industry.  Not me, nor the poetry I’m electrically galavanting.  Wanted to go taste my barrels, after meeting my new writer coadjutor.  But then I remember the sulfur addition that I–no, one from the skeletal cellar crew–made the other day.  Will have to wait a couple weeks, at least.  May not rack for another week or two, as well.  Or maybe I should do it sooner, let oxygen introduce itself gracefully.  Another thing I learned, in winemaking’s sermon: oxygen’s always there to help.

Have the ’10 Meritage open, here in condo castle.  Tasted it today, alongside a ’10 single-vineyard Cabernet.  Everyone loved the Cab, I nodded Bordeaux blend.  Again italicizing separated palate proclivities.

This palate amalgamation, ambient alloy, one pleasurably ployed, plying.  Romancing rain.. layered vision vein.  Need another glass, so I can further SELF-further into this book.  She summons, tempts.  And as Author, I can only answer, follow, hook snap.  Fish, me, freely.  How many of my wines will be moved by her reaction.. probably all.  She’s barely-visible comfort enclosure.. but immediate.  Hard to write about her tonight, from day’s stretch, trials.. blended or no.  Sipping ’10 blend, again, thinking further.  Can’t plan my sentences.. not my voice varietal.  My truth, held in id-inked inclination.  Spontaneity, whimsicality.. wonderfully warped reality.  From her, Kelly.. magically manuscript mayhem.  Only able to haphazardly capture my compositional cure.

Conspiring a run, early morrow.  Knowing I’ll only design, re-confound Self about her spell.  I know what she’s into, now.. her work, in her studio.. seeing what blends with– just like winemakers, but with immeasurably more depth.  She doesn’t stifle Self with social media, blogs, anything industry’d.  She’s SHE, solely.  When tasting from those tanks this morning, doing my cave tours, looking up at “the Syrah hill,” I only saw her efforts, travels.. primrose poetry, flown.. thrown.. from bristles.  She smiled–  No, saving for novel.  Tempted to work on it a little tonight, but I want to enjoy freedom.  In writing.  I know, quite the concept: FREEwriting.  Need to “revisit” that Meritage, again.  Starting to notice a salty dark chocolate note.  But maybe that’s from all the salted dark chocolate squares I today snacked.  Biased, barely believable.  […]  Just remembered, more grading into which I’m imbibed to 2morrow dive.  Why?  Why is this such a struggle with me, these paper marks, evaluations?  Becoming embittered.  But won’t let it print me receipt.  Fall, ’13, my most Literary term2date.  Anti-assignment, pro-learning/Literature/response/Human.


Hours watched, more dance.  He tired of his own paragraphs, forced himself into hallucination, her, image, revamp, recur, rampant realization.  There were three paths to her, maybe more.  He’d take them all.  In sipping his blend, he thought the character even more self-manipulated.  IT was playing with him.  Perhaps trying to message.. something.  He was too tired to decipher day’s details, responsibilities, even where he’d run tomorrow [alarm set for 5:15am].  Writing, only panel.

She was probably out-of-state, again, selling her work.  Mike envisioned himSelf in far’s bar, selling both book AND bottle.  Dreaming, what that mind would only allow.  But, sooner, never any type of later, would that center demand material.. much like publisher, winery owner, corporate partner in familial wine forums.  Struggling mental sidewalk stroll.  Nothing poetic in this, Mike thought.  He wished he had her for counsel, finding his own pages annulling.

“So what’s wrong, why don’t you like them?” she’d ask, sipping her Syrah, looking over at the manuscript of his she just set down by the small book stack, by the beige ottoman.

He noticed her concern, how she sipped her singular Rhône.  Thought involving wine, fermented his fumbling descent.  Stutter cover, all vocal cords–  “I.. I don’t…  They’re just diseased, to me.  I’m never going to sell this thing,” Mike said, lifting his glass, seeing it blank, drained, racked into his root.  He forgot his last sip, thought he’d ought to stop.

“I met some guy on my last trip, one of those critics, just mentioning everything he probably read on wikipedia.  Most annoying pig I’ve met so far on the road.”

“Did you say anything to him?” Mike asked, pouring himself, then Kelly, a little more.  “This is amazing, isn’t it?”

“I just listened.  What else could I do?  He then started talking about wine, then I thought of you, wished you were there to shut him up.”

“You thought of me?”

“Yes.  Why?  You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised, just…”

“Loving this weather, since I got back.  Must be beautiful at your winery, huh…”

“It’s gorgeous.  The vines are going crazy, so much to write about, so many people coming in with their questions, answers, stories, what they’ve read.  IT’s a goldmine for me, really.”

“You know what, I was going to ask you if I could come onto the property and paint, or draw, just for a couple hours, from that mountain spot.  Can I do that?”

“Yeah, that’s not a big deal at all.  You just have to give me credit, when you sell it,” he said, laughing, walking to the captain for another bottle of…  “What do you want?”

“You know what, Mikey, I think I’m okay.  I have to get up early and touch a couple pieces, then drive to some unknown gallery in Sausalito.”

She’s incandescent, iconoclastic to him.  Spangling, turning.  Not sure what this entails, now that I’m closer to book’s finish.  But I’ll find out, I’m sure.  She makes me want to edit, what I don’t exactly enjoy.  Everything I today did, with these notes in the little flipbook pages, for her, somehow.  I see that smile, I’m trampled by possibility’s elevating optimism stampede.  Observation’s lecture, stirring my curve.  But after three glasses, my passes blurred.  I’m pleased, a third, from Her.  IT’s fiction.  OR maybe NOT.  Either way, a writer caught.  Tomorrow morning’s run, has to rack-and-return thought.. like blending the RS tank with others more forward.  Bottling only TRUTH, in my books.  Booked.