I’m starting to think I SHOULD make wine this vintage. But a small batch. Maybe like 30 gallons, just for the assignment–writing assignment–of it all. Be a winemaker. Show winemakers that they’re not as smart as they think they are. But where would I store it? — I have a better idea! Put yourself on a project with them, the winemakers at the estate. Follow them closely.. do what you WERE going to do in ’13. The difference between C and I is that she can store in her garage. I don’t have a bloody garage. I have an under-bloody-sized condo. And I’m not taking the trite position of ‘I want to get more into the LIFE of wine’. No. I’m using wine itself as a subject, and I’m entering this assignment with more of a neutral mind, for my character’s sake. Yes, I love wine, but I’m going to piously try to shed that feeling. It’s an assignment.. this is Gonzo Journalism– no, a new journalism, writing style, that I’m lamenting. And it can’t be defined, read, seen. It’s all mental.
Quiet in the condo. Not a stir from little Kerouac. As always, I’d love some coffee right now. Wait.. get onto the second page, I tell myself. Still have no idea what wineries we’re hitting. And yes, budget is set at $100, not counting gas. Need to charge my camera. And now that I think: I’m hoping to take home a nice SB, and a bargain Napa Valley Cab or Merlot.
This is like the page that won’t end, but I shouldn’t think like that. Should go back upstairs, think I heard little Kerouac cough.
And now we’re downstairs, watching one of his movies. Coffee for the writer now. Right now. But I’m having trouble with motivation down here, even next to the little Artist. Looking at National Geographic pictures, areas I’ve never seen, and many I probably never will see. If I could be where this man is, herding sheep in a blizzard, it looks like. Many of the sheep fleeing him.. wonder what’s going through his thoughts, and if I were him, but still an obsessive writer, how would I write my frustration (if he’s at all frustrated). Actually, he appears to be running with the program the sheep set in front of him. All puns meant… This was taken in the Altay Mountains, Mongolia. The terrain looks more than harsh. It looks punishing, but somehow scenic. The color scheme: white obviously, but a couple patches of an odd white, then black, grey, light brown (what the man’s wearing). The quiet in a remote place like this is addictive, giving off an audible palate unto itself. Of to the man’s left, off-trail, there’s a tempting void. And I say tempting because I would love to just walk around out there, have total peace, removal. Nothing out there, just from what I thrive, my Literary Shape.
Starting to realize that my writing needs to come from such strolls. No intent on writing, just living, absorbing the moment. And that’s my attack plan for today: for characters, tasting rooms, the traffic, views of the mountains from 29.. all of it.