Cold in the tasting room, and with intention to kill the fruit flies. Glass doors to crush pad/production area wide open, too cold even with this sweater I took from the stack atop the counter by the other open door to let more cold air billow in here to rid us of the little buzzers. Rain, I sit at the tall table, somewhere I’ve never before written. “In A Sentimental Mood” comes on, and I love the morning more. Quiet, coffee, rain outside I don’t have to drive in, and a lesser population of fruit flies but as soon as I think that one comes flying around here, then another to see what I’m doing and enjoy the sessions with me. Driving up here, white-knuckled on 101, I thought of my business efforts, where they’re going, where I’m going, and how to intensify them, expand them… somehow surprise myself today. And I thought, write down descriptions of the wines right in front of people. Sell conversation on the wine more than the wine itself. Like I told the couple yesterday I took around the property and into the cave before leaving for Mayacama, “Come on over, let’s taste some wine today together, let’s be friends… let’s chat.” Sharing such after telling them, after they asked what my end-game is in wine’s business, that that’s how I’d market myself, my winery, how I’d “sell”. Coffee relaxing me and making a writer work quicker, try to forget about these bloody fruities.
I focus and re-focus on the jazz. I’m going to shock myself and my life today, more than I did last night with the beauteous pouring at the club and all the conversations and people I met. Wanted to taste through a few wines, but as I think I noted, I had to drive home. Safety, always. If I’m dead or jailed I can’t sell, create, write, support my babies, wife. How often do I fantasize about sittings like this… watching rain, jazz, coffee and composition. The wines can wait.. so can the sales, the business. Right now is my Now and I take it in for me, for my character’s intricacies. Quiet tasting room, that time before a business opens, planning the day a bit I guess but more so collecting self. Business plan for the day is simple…. Conversation. Talk. Kindness. Meet people, listen, talk less, talk when you’re spoken to. And if it’s slow, find yourself with just you and your co-worker, talk to her (Brittany, today—). What wine she likes, what are her end-aims— Think a fruit fly just bit me on the neck. Little bastard. He won’t be biting much, any longer. Surprised how fervent and determined they are, even with all this cold air.
Not overthinking my sitting looking out at the rain, and how much I need moments like this. I have one. Go with that. Business plan in place…. No excess thinking. Just acting. And no more wishlisting or promissory notes. End of the semester, and I push the throttle further forward than it wants to progress. All these thoughts in this morning’s scene, vibrant viands. I taste each one and speak of them as others would wine— eyes out window and not in here with me, the cement wall as it’s doused with atmospheric result, the cushions ten times heavier than usual, the ground reflecting its past and current composition, me here in room trying to have some prophetic postulate to offer, but I swim in circles, just admiring the moment for the moment— quiet tasting room, cold, barely able to see tanks in dark…. If you’re in bed, get up. Move. Write something. Write out a plan, a business plan, for your day in one word. And just fly at it like these fruit flies fly at my screen.
Wine has always been a meteor metaphor, for me. For so many reasons many of which I don’t have the time to elaborate on or expand into, upon. Everything’s there. Life, Death, narration, character, trial, weakness and strength— Wine reminds us that our stories, collective and individual and purposed in polarity. That’s where the gems rest, wait for our discovery. So quiet in here I nearly don’t want to see anyone today, not even my co-worker. Of course, that won’t happen, and I don’t want it to. That’s not what the story intends. But this void is precious. Only movements filling the air, sounds, the jazz and my fingers hitting these keys. The rain speaks to the Chalk Hill grounds with gentle aggression. Nothing overstated or too voluminous. Just the fancy melody I now need.
What is it in rain that does something to us? Why do we stare at it? Why does it help us sleep, write, relax, be more composed than when we have “perfect weather”? This, is perfect weather. Perfect for a writer, perfect for writing, perfect for redrawing some of the items on this business bloke’s slab. Each drop, something said— I look at this one little province of concrete on the patio… barrage of drops, so tireless I can only envy their results, their tenacity and general activity, conversation— yes, they speak directly to me, ordering me to work quicker, harder, don’t think at all just act. You only have so many hours, and who knows when you’ll have a quiet sitting ini the tasting room like this. I don’t question those micro-splashes even minutely. I type faster without thinking, hoping we are busy today and that more people walk through the doors than we can handle. Not only that were do excelled business today but that I the writer get a heaping hand of material— the words and descriptions, silly questions and remarks and more questions that make me laugh aloud and I make it seem’s though I’m laughing WITH them, but…
09:12. Already. See? You DON’T have time. Create… write something down. Ten words to begin he chapter, today’s business, today’s story, today’s YOU. There’s no such thing as ‘no story’, or ‘nothing to write’, ‘nothing to create’. Those are all decisions. So, today, decide to be mad in your creative, your conversation.