Woke tired. And still am. Not much time in this sitting so don’t expect 1,000 words and a poem. You’re probably thinking, “Oh thank god.” I know, I get it. But know I’m here with the time I have, writing, with a sausage and egg sandwich and 3-shot mocha at the Hopper spot. Alice out running while her friend watches Jack and Emma, bringing her own daughter to the pen. My inner wanderings yesterday, on wine and destination, still poking at me, telling me to write a book, a real wine book, on wine and us as people, as thinking beings. Wine is a thought-sewn piece. More than just a consumable. The stories and people and new experiences, the views from whatever tasting room you’re in. Walking outside that room and just staring at the block of whatever.. Chardonnay, Cab, Grenache…. I more wake just talking about it. Though when I think of the day I have ahead of me, I feel tired. Only really two of us behind bar with a flurry expected, with this gorgeous front over Sonoma County. Just have to breathe, write in head as I go. That shot of the vineyard wakes me further, as well. One day, soon, in some Italian hut or villa, small house overlooking a stretch of terrain from which I’ll have to pull Self… sitting there, just writing, scribbling about how the air tastes different, sounds different. And now I know, I’m writing a wine book. Or a book, with wine as the tower, the tell, the promissory.
Only sipped that SB last night, and glad that was it. Wasn’t in the mood for any red, the rest of that cuvée I brought home Friday from new assignment in Alexander Valley. Still tired… solution.. write internally, jot if I really need to on pieces of scratch paper by register. State mentally alive, stick with caffeine, re-translate everything in vineyard-tongue. I still see the vineyards as the mammoth metaphor and symbol of and for everything. How can I not, much I walk around out there on my lunch breaks. Probably won’t today. I’ll wait till day’s done, and how much more rewarding will it be, meditating out there after all that’s about to hit the tasting room. Have to stay composed, force Self to not at all take it seriously. Wine is about whim, not excess work, or stress, or confinement. That’s why when people spew that quote about wine being “bottled poetry” I always, now, respond “No it’s not.” Wine is anything but bottled, or contained, confined, and the wine itself is just the page, the sheet of paper the poetry’s written on. The truest poetry is the vineyard, the vines, the dirt.. how those vineyards are treated. And if I had one criticism of the SB I sipped last night, it was/is that I tasted too much winemaking and not enough wine origin, not enough earth. Not that it had to taste Earthy, just the sense of rock and soil genesis was absent.