mood. Write your way out of it. I’ve said this before, but today I’m in some sort of attempt to practice what has for so long been preached. How does wine get out of its mood?
Back from errands, fixing myself a sandwich here in home, much elevated a spirit the writer has. Finally going to write my Joseph Phelps piece, on my visit whenever that was. Have to stay in wined character and log all— OH! I’ll open something of note tonight to celebrate the submission of the Solano grades. But it’s still not over with Solano, and I have to send an email or something, to someone. Not going to think about it, not at all.
The rain today, impressive and intent with its soaking intentions. My mood begins to fall again but I think of the winery idea, selling my wines on the road and writing about them with my imagist and narrative knots. And more music, more music in my pennings and vino musings— I’m in the mood for a Pinot, I’m thinking. Maybe one of those Arista Pinots Ben gave me a while back, something different, and I’ve accumulated so much in recent months I’ve forgotten some of the new bottled residents in that closet below the stairs.
Time most certainly a concern, or an obstacle, but what I realize is that Emma’s teaching me to be more proactive with my projects and writings, more concise and contained. That’s what will bring me to my writing office and the Road, to my winery, or wine shop, or a little of both. I’ll keep this laptop open, do touch-and-go’s to use Dad’s language, or syllabic drive-by’s. But everything will be connected to what I sip— Emma going down tonight around 10, I’ll stay up with her and make notes on phone, post to blog, expand from there, more of those scenes fictionalized and one day soon made into nonfic’ with the building of ideas and deepening of my cluster-codes hymn.
The rain, giving all these Russian River and Sonoma Coast vineyard blocks what they need in terms of, well, everything. Hydration and nutrient, the color and sleep, you just stare at the rain and watch it hit that rich dirt like a brush over a snare. It’s all musical, its own character and travel, traversing your thoughts and if you love wine like I do you become more harnessed to the wander, the wonder, the poems and forms of story in those vineyards and the producers all over Sonoma that bottle what they do.
As you sip, you read. And what you read is truth, if it’s produced intimately, with integrity, or just truth. Like Kerouac in his letters, not editing too much and just putting everything to paper wine should be made the same way. Of course, if something’s too much a miss, then yes, correct, or edit, revise or delete and altogether re-write. But the moment and the vintage can’t be too diluted. Otherwise you lose IT. And what IT is, you have to sip, read, and just see — With openness and waves of humility.