At winery.  Have about 30 minutes

img_7280for this sitting.  Nearly forgot about pouring tonight at Mayacama.  Could be huge for all business dimensions of my life, my story, this story, this wined book.  Crush pad, horribly quiet.  Had that spooky feel I guess, or creepy sense walking across the dim concrete, tanks making random sounds and growls.  Have to pick up wines for pouring, and print menus, but as happenstance would have it I can’t get into my bloody email.  Today could go either way, I thought driving up here, then sitting down at this foldable desk in the middle of the cubicle office floor I thought… “Uh, no, it’s going to go my way and that’s just how it’s going to be.” Stressing when I know I shouldn’t.  It’s wine.  It’s the wine industry.  It’ll all work itself out.  Definitely caught myself overthinking things that shouldn’t be, lately.  Why do I do that?  Could be old age.  Could be my intensified ambitions with writing and selling wine, owning and running my businesses.

Want to taste something, but it’s hard with all the fruit flies in the tasting room.  And there again I go overthinking… what is with me, this morning?  Just have a good time tonight.  Be ready to recite and speak as she, wine, wants you to.  Wine… what have you done to the writer?  Why do I see myself sipping something white overlooking some cove off Italy’s coast?  Travel and more wild writing, more verse and music to wine’s stomps and sounds.  I look out at the barrels on the crush pad’s stretch.. the tanks and the art of no motion where there is usually more than just a surplus of activity.—  Sun touching one particular cluster of barrels and I can’t take my eyes from it.  No reason to be stuck in writing, or claim “writer’s block”.  Not here.  Not ever.  Not in my story.  Not only can I not afford it but I won’t allow it and I don’t accept it, really.  At all, never mind “really”.  And if I do become stuck, simply sip something and deliver to page what you feel.

Growing tired of my writing and the words I’m choosing so I imagine the white I sip looking down at the water from some high-up patio.  No idea what varietal, think I know the region but I’m probably wrong… bright melons and some dried herbs, a little coconut maybe… interstellar grapefruit, ardent apple…” I set the glass down, just look at the water.  Listen to the waves gently kiss the cliffs’ sides.  Think of that day at the winery where I couldn’t get into my email, was stressing about a pouring I had that night when I had no reason to stress.  It’s wine.  What got me here, to this view, to this glass of whatever Tuscan white was that stopped… I cut all nerve harnesses.  Wine taught me that.  Wine taught me to live and be wild and create, don’t care, just live and enjoy, sip everything.  Not only is every moment a standalone piece, as I say, said, still say in class, but every moment is a varietal, a type, something to sip.

Time to myself— like a whirling assurance that there’s more to my story, more to wine than I now measure and inventory.  Woodpecker on other side of the wall, right, nagging at me to type faster, I feel.  Only write wine.. the Cab last night and how she kept provoking more words, more notes and songs.. writing new ones in her tenure with me—  “…melodic chocolate, cubist and expressionist momentums of lavender, tar, vanilla shadows and peppered mazes…”

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