Meeting cancelled this morning so I’ll have about an hour to write and collect, enjoy my coffee and the quiet, sounds of the crush pad, and whatever else. Should have headed to vineyard. Guess I still could, but I need to keep on my path and pace and writing rate. Don’t think about anything but the wine, I tell myself, and the travel ahead, what I have ahead and what I want to do— see self in shop, today day 4 of brainstorming. What do I have to do to get closer? Get out there more, I guess.. out to the crush pad and vineyard, in the tasting room. This is more than about wine and I see wine as not so m much a metaphor or analogous thing, but a teller, a reminder, a teacher. I’m trying to think of what direction to take that but I have no idea. Well, I do have some ideas from this morning but I don’t have time to now them here develop, and honestly I need a free write to clear the writer’s head, second to last day of month before 2017’s last month. Need a new year— or maybe I need more Newness, period. I need more new ways to talk about the wines in the tasting room, mention the specifics of what’s around me here in this goddamn office— should have gone to the vineyard, written there. What would a Hunter S. Thompson of wine writing do? Is that me? Or am I still in the dreaming stream?
I hear that forklift raising barrels up and then down again. Romero on the lift with more accuracy than I could ever have. Whole day ahead of us all and there’s no way to tell how it’s set to progress. Making myself revise the image of Emma sleeping next to me this morning, with not one light on in the room. I’m doing this all for her, her brother, wife, family. None of this is for you, Mike… so stop being so selfish with your thoughts and sentences, what you inject into these paragraphs.
I break from my mood… imagine the wines all set out on the counter, open and ready for pouring. I have my little pages and pen I took from the office desk, the one that’s supposed to be mine, and ready self for notes— What are the wines saying today? What I repeat to self as a prompt for my tasting, before anyone gets here. The wines want to say what they want to say, and they will, and I have to translate it into my boring human blurb. So…. Pinot Gris, a tropical atmosphere augmented by texture and motion. Chardonnay, Carneros…. Californian in style but contained, expansive and persuasive, convincing, colorful, coherent. I stop there and look outside, through the glass doors right in front of me. Don’t taste any more as I can’t think of any words. The wines don’t want me to write but instead just think about them, be connected to them and listen— Just started my “reserve writings”, an attempt to get a little dribble of cash into my life from wine writing. Have to stay wild, I remind myself, and the wines remind me that if you want to be that kind of writer then there will be times to just pause, think, collect… be. That’s what I’m doing, in this vision, which more than likely will actually materialize in just over 30 minutes.
Can hear the guys out there moving stuff, moving something. Every echoing warehouse, metallic thump and thunk you can think of. Wine Wednesday… I’m thinking of nothing but wine, my words, the wine’s language and deliveries, multifaceted and multitudinous in their sped sway and patterned but non-patterned way. My prose with assistance of all that’s oeno’ wrapped in a pose of polishment, changing my overall discourse and course. I approve. I welcome. I feel welcomed by wine’s invite this morning— no stress, no overthought in any act, just act. Just write. About wine. My job is that simple, she tells me. May go down to TR early, open something, or open everything for the day and go through them… need new words, though. Adjectives, yes, but any speech form, type, tell, fold. I don’t care. Wine needs all of me. I feel like that police officer, getting up with his coffee to hit his beat, to patrol, to look for something. His job, without needed elaboration, more demanding than mine. But I see him differently than I did that morning.
Phone ringing, phone for winery. Not answering. I’m still on this beat, know. Shit… done with coffee. Need more but I think I took the rest of what the winemaking blokes have. Could walk down there and check… get a couple pictures with phone. So much I want to document and do, write and record.. get up, get down there if you can’t go to vineyard.. or maybe I can after this morrow’s thousand. Maybe. Hear the forklift horn… what are they doing?
Went down there and no coffee. Winemaker John didn’t know where coffee was, went on hunt to find Chris who purportedly’s the one who makes the coffee every morning… I couldn’t wait for him to come back and didn’t want to be a bother so I rushed back up those loud, steel or whatever stairs to jot more notes on this 4th day. “Bury $1,000”, scribbled. Not sure where I’ll get the money for my business, but at least I set aside 1k and pushed it as far from sight as I could. I do want there to be a phone focus, but not like you have to make 250 calls a day like that one scutty place I interviewed.
Took one quick of the floor, where James was doing something, couldn’t see what, just said to him from across the floor, “Say ‘what’s up’!” He raised his arms, I pressed the button and back to keys I’m kept. Writing about wine, what happens here, not just throwing scores on a fucking page, or in some 75-word “review”. I’m anti-wine, but all wine.. so wine that wine learns from me, or at least listens, reads.