Or at least pause. Have been working on mmc since I walked through the door, after watering the lawn as Alice requested. She in Monterey with my little Beatnik. didn’t touch the novel today, but I will in the morrow. Bought a bottle of my favored sparkling lemon water, large size, to rid my system of this wine before bed, or at least thin or dilute it. Just opened a bottle of the 2012 Mikey Merlot, or Cuvée. Pretty sure it’s the Merlot, as Alice took the unlabeled bottles from the labeled boxes and put them indiscriminately on the rack int he downstairs closet, my new mockcloset. The house to myself and I don’t know how to react– my first night alone in this castle, this new abode and safeplace but I’m unsure, and uneasy, so I sip more wine and plan more prose and not in my journal or type– me the write, in love with wine and all the vineyard stories and calls, like today when Andy and I walked the Two Birds block and looked for veraison and didn’t find as much as we estimated would be there, or at least I didn’t, even at one time saying, “We should come back in a week, this is bullshit.” The vineyards are everything to me in my story and my relationship with what I sip, and my Beat and musical qualities as a wine scribbler and torrential terroir typist– on my Road, on my hike to equilibrium, and all through wine, should ask my sister how she came to where she is and her character and wine is to her now, which might seem like and obvious query with an even more estimated response but it’s not to me–
So many quick shot from after work and right before, the vineyard, where I should be writing after work. I’m sure Al and Janice wouldn’t mind– sweet people like them and their sons would and have only encouraged the Beat and his writing about wine and where the grapes develop their stories and flavored ferocity– The wine lowers in my glass, I sip and pour more and think about the days at Sonoma State, studying under Bob Coleman and coming home to my San Carlos house in the hills, Bayview, and sharing with Dad and Mom my new knowledge. Only reason I could go there, and am here, in the Autumn Walk safe, because of them. I must do the same and more for my children– yes I’m a dad with worry and with vision and with the story, a story of one wanting to rewrite his story. So much on this kitchen counter again, the tightrope I walk, wait, careful– slow and rightly ridden.. slower…..
A writing retreat. But there’s no retreat in this writing warrior– ever. No, my beat is one of high bpm and spoken word and confident recital looking down at the audience while I whirl rimes and songs and talk my convictions whether political or wine-coded. Another sip… Whichever it is, of my wine.. pretty sure the Merlot….. Has me deciding the next path for mmc, my little boutique ad station. Me, in advertising and marketing, sales and PR– who knew. Definitely not me, a novelist.. but this will allow me to do just that, finish the Massamen proyecto.