Mattering Ever

Had a thought about writing on this evening’s events, my presence at the dinner, on Olive Hill.  But, I didn’t feel too committed to such writing.  I’m going to write it, a 500-word piece, centered on the cocktail hour, seated dinner, threatening rain, the dark, what I could see of the surrounding hills.  Sipping an ’09 Merlot, Napa Valley.  Been wanting to open this bottle for some time.  And finally, we meet.  Love nights like tonight.. all the newness.  Still smell the trees from that part of the property, tonight.  At one point, Naomi noticed me inhaling the air, my capture of notes’ shift.  “You smell the rain?” she asked, obviously noticing right when I did.  I still wait.  When I left, noticed small water beads on windshield, car’s roof, door handles.

This wine, telling me to go forward with my ’13 Merlot.  Why does it need to tell me that, encourage?  I was thinking of not doing another barrel, this year.. that it would take from the writing.  But not if I make it a writing project, I said to self walking into tasting Room this morning.  And now, the writer sits here in kitchen nook, far too tired to touch too many projects, efforts.  One thing I want noted: met a couple today, part of my only group [8 total], that was married in Key West, in Hemingway’s house.  They used his typewriters, or some of them, as centerpieces.  Part of me’s disgusted, with them trivializing his tools.  Then the other, in utter awe.  Just went to a site, devoted to his Key West home.. feeling it’s minimized, too a tourist destination.  Pardon my cynicism, but that’s my reaction.  Even still, though, what a sight.  An experience.  I would just sit on that porch, the second floor, cross legs, open Comp Book, or newJournal, just singular pieces I’d gather.. even napkins.. an write.  Need mobility.  Just give me a week–

Can’t forget what I saw tonight, from that hill.  The houses in the above hills, off-property.. who lives there?  What have they done to afford such views?  What would I write from there?

No longer see the tasting Room as valuable scribble spot.  Too tired, there.. everything’s on circle.  Painful.  Want to repeat visits to hotel lounges, like last night, after class– that glass of SB, just observing characters encircling me.  And now, clutter on circular table, crumbled receipt on floor, the large bottle, think a 6L, that people signed on our wedding day.  2007.. seems like so long ago.  Hear the news boasting rain coming, “significant amounts,” they say.

Looking at a picture I shot at sight, tonight.  Thinking about the drive back, how the Estate is completely different in P.M. hours.  It’s like a different story.. the day, night, in that specific slice of Sonoma Valley could never speak to each other, as their languages are opposite images, flipping reflective folds.  Running out of words.  Time to edit.

Night cap open.  Finalizing–