Hours and hours and HOURS later, the writer finds himself at home, about to begin a new project in writing, book taking an address of management. Am I a manager? Well, kind of, yes, what? What I am, though, above all, is an educator, sharer of ideas, I’m a presence. Sipping this Sbragia Zin I think about everything that I’ve seen before today… my first shift in the St. Francis tasting room… the days at Mayo….. That one Dry Creek Winery that was a total flop, then Kunde, Arista, Dutcher, and here I am with a closer tie to wine’s ide and side than I’ve ever appreciated. This morning I woke at 5-something, looked out the window to see that orangish-blue, light purple and white animation to everything. Thought about dressing and going out with my camera, taking pictures on the east side of 101, whatever vineyard I could find. but I resigned. Went back to bloody bed. Why? Why the fuck did I do that. Sipping the Sbragia slow so I can rise earlier and drive to the John Ash vineyard and shoot, or go across the ‘way …. I know, Shiloh! That’s where I’ll go, what I’ll capture. 21:12, now. Should put Self to sheets and pillow before 22. Yeah right, how many times have I vowed the very same?
Started new journal. 60 day stretch. Not going to tire you with micro-information, but know I’m into this new assignment like nothing ever before, never. Need a sip of wine… watching the Giants play the Padres, in SF. 6-5, SF, bot’ 5th. Told myself I wouldn’t be watching TV tonight but the game was on at the grill where I picked up dinner and thought it something I should do… huh, wow… baseball, my first love, passion. Well, after paleontology. Loved dinosaurs growing up, when really young. Like, my single-dig’ years.
Now my mind flies to wine… everything it says. On vine and in bottle, in and about senses and in my vocals when. I write. So what’s writing right now, me or the wine. I’d say a tandem. Next sip, that cranberry cherry tie with mint or eucalyptus, or wild herbs and pepper, spice, something loud and playful, but contained and composed. I hear jazz in the wine and am prompted by the purple puddle, but slow. This Zin tells me, warns me to be tempered. It is a Zin. ABV on label promised 14.7 I think, but either way I think it lies. So I heed its caution. Glass empty… need to be in bed soon. Why aren’t there enough hours in the day? I feel like five minutes ago I was talking with the Roth winemaker, or one of them, about re-ferm’ and racking, blending and pH control/management. But I’m here, at the end-day. Time assaults, and all the writer can do is write and wield a glass, type and tip that glass, let the wine swing at his composition and character and he either gets further from Personhood, or closer to something close to Personhood. Either way it shows me to creative thinking, some useful poise.