Check in. Made a fair amount of grats today. Will count publishing stash, and the novel will certainly have decent subsidization from the poetry vending. Sipping an ’11 Chard from my sister’s winery, then moving to a ’10 Rockpile Red blend from her op’ as well. Today was a fight, right from the launch, but smoothed with the mountaintop guests, the views, and the strange winds which I thought would be uncomfortable but only eased me, allowed me to meditate while holding dialogues with visitors.
This Chardonnay, forcing me to see what my sister has done with her career, and what I’m about to do with my writing aims, efforts and leaps. I’m a falcon, or some type of hawk, not necessarily hunting, just enjoying the wind keeping me aloft, with these views, above all troubles and angst. Another sip, hardly any oak override.. more of a harmony shove through levels of sensory shades. This is just what keeps a writer of my gallop quite motioned. Tomorrow I’ll be running after work, as the ‘half’ is a week from tomorrow, exactly, up in Windsor.
11:03, and the night’s cap has been mustered, a glass of the ’10 Rockpile. I can only laugh at what earlier stressed me. Do I jolly as Poe, no. But certain method to be soon implored will mirror his illustrative ilk. About to count publishing stash, and I find myself more eased, rational, level than I’ve been in some time. She would compliment me, as she won’t let her office frustrate or shake her. She has her sight on the wine, her wine. And I sip this thinking of her, how she’d react to it, and she’d do so without showing how much she knows, or how much she’s recently learned from her studies, her research, and what bottles she’s bought to deconstruct, searching for “notes”, as she notes. With this Rockpile Red, she enjoys the depth of current in the wine’s way, but think the impression, the impact, is a bit much. It’s a Bordeaux blend, from a hearty AVA, so that’s to be known, or expected, but that’s not what she wants. And no, she doesn’t seek to make feminine or gentle wine, she wants to provide bottles with an artistic feel to them, a certain painted grace about how they bow to sippers’ senses. She walks to the kitchen, sips again… Too much oak, she writes. But that could be from this as her third glass. She’s focused, she’s intent, she’s serious. She WILL get out of that office and make her own wine, sell it. She’ll pour her bottles and sell it and speak of it how she wants, not how They want her to. It’s wine, she tells herself, looking over some oenology website’s article, stating how Cabernet should taste.. then Chardonnay, then Carignane, then Sangiovese. She hates that.. ‘how it SHOULD taste’, what it SHOULD express, or deliver. Wine isn’t that.. it’s supposed to be expressive, Art, something for someone to sip and channel through which one making wine can relay his or HER belief in what comes from the vineyard, the vintage, varietal. It’s voice.. concerted code to sip.