Successfully evading a mood earlier, my first sitting at the winery— notes on the outside setting and view of blocks, promising Self to transfer and type notes later.  Didn’t write a thing last night but rather dove headfirst into Chardonnay and Cab from Dutcher, scribbling some notes in the Carpe journal.  So many papers to grade over Spring Break but I’m not even letting it skip across my brain’s scape.  Need to keep typing and noting while here in the Dry Creek grip, emulsifying my energy to pen or key-push.  The wine only taunts me further, making it and tasting it, reacting to it in verse and syllable storms—

Cabernet more than anything, momentum in vocality, musical climatology in what I write as a result of the wine, wines, vines and visuals— thinking about the music that’s seen on this property, what I taste and how it orders I react.  A couple people leave the office, lowering volume but my spirits as well.  Wanted to hear the winemaking team speak more about the wine or whatever they wanted— to listen to the winemaking characters exude their charisma how they need to—

Just tasted two Pinots with the winemaker, from other wineries, bringing tangible the contrast better visible and tangible, furthering my conviction in wine.  So now.. I write with the time I have left on “lunch”.  But there is no lunching.. only writing, the hunger feeding and nurturing the discipline to write and talk about wine for another two hours or so for those walking though the doors.  And the writer need type with a galactic speed, no time to visit or consult or converse with a thesaurus or dictionary.  My thoughts are clear and image-driven today, a vine, thinking like a vine; what I need versus what’s wanted, the imperative ingredients in my page, for my pages and any book I’m working on— the wandering thoughts making me more wonder what I’m doing in this sitting and with wine.  AND, finally, at right before 37, I know.  Wine, music and narrative poetry in my habits, 3,000 wine words everyday for the rest of my story, even when addressing or incorporating the characters of my son and daughter, wine will be present— envisioning Emma and Jack greeting people as they walk through the door or just playing in the office.  Or washing glasses.  Or helping their Auntie Katie clean barrels, or glasses, or whatever winemakers do to keep busy when they’re not tasting out of tank or barrel or sipping when bored in the lab or sick of staring at a spreadsheet.

I’m empowered with this new wined mood.  Ever transparent and transcendent, self-reliant more so than just one-dimensionally defiant.  This new writer, whispers and loud internal orations that will be read by everyone.  THREE. THOUSAND. WORDS.  Everyday.

And forever.

Wine opened as soon as I get home.  May stop at a store to get new bottle, something to write about.  The tasting I just did with Nick the winemaker urges me to taste as many different bottles, get to know as many varying characters as I can.  That’s what true writers, be it of wine or anything else, should do.

Need to run tomorrow, somehow.  The gym?  On the tread?  I don’t know.  Want to taste something else.  Find single word personifications.. play with words as I used to as an undergrad.