NaNoWriMosaic

IMG_5959Lunch for the writer, and already with so many tasks done, complete… one of them including moving huge towering pallets to their locations proper in storage areas.  Sipping lukewarm coffee presently, and thinking of what my next piece of material might be.  Winemaker asks me if I’d heard about Cellar Master, who recently resigned.  I said yes, nodding my head with a facial expression inferring ‘What else can one say?’ Then he saying, “It is what it is.” True.  That’s the wine industry, a constantly revolving door and also a door for creative and exploration… it’s like a door that welcomes you in with qualified grace.  Interesting, as two other friends of mine no longer are with their wineries.  I don’t want to live like that… I can’t.  I’m making this my own and am and remain expansively happy and inspired, daily here at Roth.

Just tasted a ’13 Pinot from Santa Barbara area.  Think it’s close to SB.  Anyway, interesting sensation and sense about its rhythm and general feel.  Just remembered I wanted to email a couple people on MY mailing list.  And, want to buy some of that Hirsch Pinot.  Should call her, can’t remember her name, later.  Wine has me everywhere today, after this morning’s thousand words, both in visions and dreamings, thoughts and jots.  Two of the three reds Brittany opened, not showing as formidably as they usually do.  19 minutes left in lunch…. Why don’t they give us longer?  Well, all the motivation I need to get self to office more expediently.  The coffee loses more temperature and I lose more focus… letting mind wander to vineyard and the rain I felt taking a short stroll to parking lot—  Keep getting interrupted by phone, business responses regarding winery and other.

The bottles of sparkling, still in front of me.  But no…. Need to get to gym tonight.  Somehow get in 7 miles on the tread.  Can I do it?  Sure I can.  See self running in vineyards all over Italy and Spain.  And I guess France.  For some reason my imagist circuitry has me in the former two countries.  Wine… wine…. Wine….  All the writer can think about.  What was it in that Pinot?  Why did it lack its life?  No telling.  I don’t think any scientific number-set or run panel can answer such a quandary.

Quiet… nothing in warehouse.  No clunking or clinking, banging or whooshing sounds, echoes.  Nothing like that.  Just a peculiar still.  The writer just up here on his winery lunch break with no lunch just thoughts to offer in this novel writing month.  The tasting room, today not with much tasting other than Brittany and I.  Want to talk about wines, tell their stories and emissions and emotions, dialects and speak in the wine’s respective and autonomously acute accent.

No much an lunch.  But I don’t mind.  Not at all.  This is what wine is— using what you have, and sacrificing, even if its a meal, or pseudo-meal.  No eating for tireless wine writers, that’s known.  Or at least I know it.  Far too well.

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