Looking out at the hill, pouring wine, just wanting to go for a run. This morning was Alice’s turn, and well-deserved. She had a reviving jaunt around the A-Walk Studio, now I want to go out for a bit. Maybe after work, for a few minutes.. maybe fit what I can into 40 minutes. Love runs like that, where you just cover as much ground as you can in a set time, and don’t go beyond that time, for even a second. Today, I’ll do 45 minutes, head to the vineyards on Coffey then head back. Planned, decreed.
Taking pictures all day so far on phone. Building “content” I guess you could say but it’s more than that. Today so far’s been like a day-long meditation, and I’ll continue such tenor. My other thought for this “lunch” was to walk the vineyard, but I’ve already done that. My thought was to walk around and narrate, but that gets boring, no? Just me talking panning and tilting around the same vines in that huge Chardonnay plot. Yes, it’s gorgeous, but the challenge to being a creative is that Newness, the constant streaming of stimuli for readers, or “followers”— ugh, hate that term, never using it again.
In front of me, wine bottles from a tasting the other day… Pinots, a couple Chardonnays from the same producer in Oregon just different blocks. Makes me want to spend a day tasting, collect images and notes, all the weird words that hop to my head when I taste wine, taste and consider it as a writer, poet, which I feel like I’m the only one that does honestly. Too many of these wine writers, or bloggers, or “serious journalists” just list descriptors, and they can list anything. Where’s the writing power or prowess to that? “Okay… in this Pinot I get forest floor [Wow, so does everyone else.]… strawberry [Huh, brilliant.]… and smoke [What the fuck?].” I want to know more the story to the wineries and their winemakers and owners, and even more importantly than them, the Earth they “own”. The vineyards I’m always so tempted to walk, talk, speak to and let speak to me. Again tempted to go for a walk.
But I stay in this chair in the office, staring at the bottles and thinking of the time Jackie and I spent downstairs this morning, throwing stuffed animals at each other, then him showing me new ways to organize them, organize his cars, cover the pillows with blankets so it’s “so cozy,” as he’d point out. Hate being away from my babies, which makes me wonder how I’ll do on the Road, away for them for days at a time. Not sure how I’ll manage and reconcile that. Will worry about it when I get there.
Glad I ate before getting here, and again right when I arrived on property eating that microwavable breakfast sandwich I brought yesterday. So far today’s only be a lovely and inviting story for me, told to me and then for me to share with readers. Looking at clock, 17 minutes left in break. Didn’t know I was writing so fast.. more story to collect, pocket for me, for the books, this blog— everything’s a story to be told. The candy atop the file cabinet to my left, story to that (how so many here, including me, need a sweet fix every-so-often).. a story… these wines, several stories.. the law outside and how people always want to take their glass and walk around it, stare up at the Bella hill.. story story story… I can’t write fast enough. But I try. The pictures help.