Know exactly what I want to accomplish with it. Home now, sipping a Cab I took home from work. Babies asleep upstairs, Mama taking a quick snooze with little Kerouac. Feel good about today— posting to vvv, tasting a Rosé after work. Interesting for a Rosé, in that the wine showed more symmetry and structure, voice and and form than most I’ve tasted. I’ll post on that before I go to sleep. Teaching-Mike, tomorrow. Then to client’s for some consumer-direct marketing. Just have to keep with my tireless trot, never stop, keep creating and know I’m going to be there soon— ‘there’, my office and the Road and anything else… signing books in some store in downtown Manhattan or Portland, OR, or wherever.
Tired and sipping the Cab has my mind wandering around like a famished fawn, looking for anything to feast. The downstairs here looks like a bombed city— toys everywhere, shoes, ripped envelopes, empty toy boxes, coloring books, and the tired papa blogger. Tomorrow’s set to be taxing, but I’m more than ready for it. The same way that vines show their toughness and dexterity, so doth the writer. Sip of the Cabernet… not as much moxie as I remember. Seems somewhat coy, evasive and excessively polite ce soir. And a strange brushstroke of chocolate dust upon sip’s end shuts me up, orders me to rewrite reaction.
Wine has always been there for me. And not merely to sip, or drink, but to study— vineyards to walk, people to love, new people to meet in the tasting room, stories to share. Wine’s world and industry have answered everything. EVERYTHING. I wrote the other day, I think Saturday, that the book is in the tasting room. Yes. But the pervasive contextualized boon is what surrounds that room. The drive up Dry Creek Road, the vineyards on all sides of me, those houses in the hills I stare at as long as I can before realizing I’m over the yellow…. All of it. Sipping again, note of truffle, and possibly mint— embers and rain-patted asphalt. Or maybe I’m too far in reach. I blame the wine, and its world. And me in it.