inward jot

Day 43, 7/22/17, Saturday….  Last night wrote, “Wine is cinema. Cinematic. Gloriously erratic. Magnetic.” Going in and out of Zinfandel with my thoughts, now in the Starbuck on the Windsor Town Green, ready for my first official day “managing” a winery.  This, I’m certain, will afford and provide more managerial acuity across the spectrum of my business and writing life.  Have to be taking notes every hour, every minute if I can.  Been with this company just over two months, and last night meeting with uppers we reflected and shared the sentiment, “Already?” Wine is very much its own cinema, and life itself even more.  Everything’s a moment and a scene to be studied… written that so many times, but I had to agin re-iterate to me before starting this first day as manag…..  Don’t want to obsess over being a “m”.  I’m just going to work harder over the next 60 days than I ever, EVER, have.

More people in here now, and I watch more file in to get their morning ‘it’.  Wine has brought me here, so I keep writing about it in this wild form.  Not sure it’s a form, but I’m forming more as a character from it, as a journalist if that’s what you could call me.  Don’t want to obsess over that, either.  As the people walk into this shop, I think of all the suggestion from last night’s wine, that Sbragia ’13 Zin… its letter to me, its slow moving and musical communication of notes—  “Black Cherry Maple…fruit leather…actual leather…floral pepper…cinnamon…cumin? Paprika? Pie crust?…” I just started asking questions as the notes fly into my senses, in the same rhythm as these people into the Starbucks to get their needed particular cup.  Me here with my iced coffee and book of Plath entries, my notebook for the day, phone and keys.. quick office, this “MOCK SOMM”.  Can’t pause in my writing much I’m tempted to, just to look around and more observe my surroundings, as the writing act is more than writing.  And it’s not at all an act.  It’s an extension of wine’s show.. its compositional characters and codes speaking to me in a scurrying legion of lines and expressions, inner-climates and calls, dactyls and iambs, anapests, pyrrhics…

Now such a line than a man with a fanny-pack over his right shoulder nearly touches my table.  Feel myself tense and flex, nearly become a lion reacting to encroaching hyena.  But then the line forwards.  Don’t need a vacation as much as some separation from frenzy— or maybe I need more.  Wine, cinema… some think I think too much about wine.  And maybe they’re right, by their measure.  But it’s my book.  My BOOKS.  It’s the page and career in and out of the pages…. Life, every micro-anything is a mammoth something about which to jot, journal, write, collect and sell, or at the very least read at a reading (which by the way, I need do, register for a reading either in Sonoma or Napa, or even Marin…).  No one near the table now, and I become last night’s Zin, in a wild fire of wild written presence, spoken to everyone from the wines I pour.  Selling wine.. no.  Speaking wine.  Wine wrote me, re-wrote me, and now I read.  Let wine more me manage.

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