Home after dinner out with Ms. Alice. Sipping what’s meant to be night’s cap. But my wine writing on this Chris Donatiello project won’t purpose as much wheeled acclaim as something from a winemaker. Whatever a winemaker says is sacrosanct, where the writers are always suspect. Any I’m not talking those branded circuits and magazine wine sages, I mean us, we who are writers, actual writers, writers of not only wine but other others. Not sure where I’m sent to send self with this message but my motive is ascertained in this immediate atmosphere— Made coffee for morrow, and I have every telling of a writer who intends to run, but I’m full from dinner, and still swimming in this wine like a beatnik meant to climb some mountain. I’m at the point in my life where I know I someday won’t be able to acknowledge the points, so I point to the sky and say ‘I’m going there!’
Here, home, think… think…. I’m writing, I’m being a writer or so I’m telling myself and I know other wine journalists or “critics” or “”experts”” don’t do this, actually think before they let their tips race across buttons, but the wild wine writer-me is unchained and with no complaints. It’s just a thought, but the writer knows he’s doing the “right” thing with wine— getting tired of using marks so I just jazz across my page with a racer’s pace. Chris’ wine insists my rebellion, my literary separatism. “Who can stop me?” I think…. The writer is riled with a lion’s pulse. Watch what I do, I think, I say to myself like I’m my own coach, which is a kept danger.
Know I have work to do, deadlines to meet, but the writer doesn’t care. The Monterey Merlot has the penner more puissant than he’s been in years. Is this a rebirth? Is this 10th of the 2nd month telling me to maneuverer with differentiated acuity? Who knows…. I know that the ride is now, here, I already have a ticket. The more of this wine I sip the more I know where I’m supposed to be— I need the vineyard, I need the wine to write about it and the winemakers are only, well, I don’t know what they are. I don’t want to denigrate them, but they’re not writers. I love them for the wine they make but we, the reactors, are always looked down upon, as someone reacting— not that we take the time to write our reactions. I think.. think… think I’m overthinking. Just what I tell those enrolled in class not to do.
Home. Vino… Tomorrow in thought. I have to run, babies not here but with their grandmother… my attitude becomes rattlesnake-esque… Did I speak that right? I’’m making not sense right now. Merlot, thanks… but I’m writing. Not up the street at some bar, or downtown, or at some friend’s house doing nothing but socializing and drinking some shitty wine or thinking about how we should all go to some club. I’m old. I’m one of the old’s. Should just start hitting that coffee, now. What to learn from this? LIVE. Time only wants to boast its swiftness, but if we show we don’t care, that we keep our motions motioned, we win. Feel myself getting closer to 40 and just getting into that angry middle-aged angle. “Why me?” I think. How did I get this old? I’m old. I mean, I have to worry about the age, or this age, or at any time, where if I die my kids will be left with no dad. Not sure what I’m saying, but I’m still writing— thinking of my babies.