a new Cabernet from Napa, from a small but beneficent label. One of those stories I only want to mimic. Would have written earlier, but I thought it the need and the optimal for the writer to speed to vineyards, walk around an take pictures. Be a photog’… or a writer that loves photography which is more the case. I have thoughts in head and Mom told me not to be too wordy with my reactions to these wines so I won’t. And she’s astute, my amiably-set mama. She urges, more than her assertion of not being “too wordy”, to just be me. More conversational about wine, no so syllabically analytical, or at least that’s what I read into and from her speak. So these wines, like new characters on the stage— unexpected and theatrical, but not overstepping. A Chardonnay, which I always have trouble listening to, no matter how it’s crafted and cared-for. Then the Cabernet, which has that flex and broadness, but with unexpected Victorian angularity— romance, and a dactylic disposition you wouldn’t forecast for a Cab.
Tonight the writer’s in his wine mood and mode. Wish I could play some Hutcherson, but the babies are asleep. And wish I had the energy and concentration to get to a thousand words but the wine’s catching the writer. Still, thought, this beatnik writeth. I’m like Dean as he parks cars. Sal, as he observes everything around him and listens to the jazz with Dean but doesn’t quite know what he’s seeing but looks anyway and writes about it later. This is my maison, this book, this story, told in wine’s accompaniment— a movie and just a moment, not so Hollywood or theatrical but if you spent a couple days in a tasting room you’d see the stage, the act, the interaction, the dialogue that begs to be captured. Yes, I’m more than liberated in this sitting with my Cabernet glass, here at the desk with barely any light above the writer. Just the way I prefer it— like I’m in some dark bar, overseas, writing while everyone else connects to conversations that go nowhere, conversations I capture and use for my book— people in the corner playing pool, talking about what to drink next, but I’m writing, sipping wine and digging in my own brain for ways to make their speech more seraphic.
Evening, this, sovereign. Still with a bit of Cabernet in glass. Surprised and a bit proud of Self for not drinking it too speedily. My book, narrative, begs wine’s involvement. Stepping slow in that vineyard block today made it more than clear. I’m under the lights with wine, in front of an audience, talking back and forth— wine trying to categorize me, me just sipping it but trying to sound like some expert or critic or voice that should be heard. We frustrate each other, but can’t stay away from the other. Odd love whirl. Not so much wind, but ink from my urges rescinds. Why. Why need there be a restart? Refocus on moment. Look at images. No act.