Different today. See self in a seat, on a plane, headed to New York for a talk, a book signing. Time pulling my thoughts forward and me forward with out and I don’t want to stop writing.. but I will to walk the vineyard before officially starting the day. Need to touch the grapes, taste breezes that me pass and envelop.
So quiet here, before the day starts, antithetical to the past three days— parties and large groups coming in demanding tastings and customized flights of all forms and flurries.
At lunch… just sent out letter. Not one wine tasted today. Distance, heart growing fonder, something like that but I just want to be an observer today. Don’t even have much inclination to smell, or survey aromas or some micro-suggestion in the “bouquet”.
Typing fast as I should, always do. No one in tasting room yet, which partially elates me after the wonderfully and horrifically busy past three days, but as well lowers my energy and creative ardency as I need people and what they say about the wine to write about wine the way I do.
Just over nine minutes left. Smoky outside, still, and I want another vineyard walk. Could never do that too much in a day. So yes, then. Another. Wrote one poem earlier but my energy falls. Need coffee. Soon as the cellar guy, or cellar master actually, David, leaves I may just have to pilfer a k-cup of some roast, something to keep the writer going.
In the part of the building called cubicle-villa. Or ‘ville. I named it that right when I got here, reminding me of that horrible job in ’11/’12. Now I do need a vineyard saunter, slow, after thinking of that place. The vineyard always heals and transports the writer, heals in the transportive process and potential— freeing and dialectic—