IMG_9636This morning I know I’m not that prepared fro class, but that’s just what I’m intending… to present ideas in the moment I’m in— like this sitting here at the 12 & Mission Starbucks.  Can’t remember when the last time I wrote here was.  Thinking a year or…. doesn’t matter.  Not as many people as I thought I’d see in here.  Nowhere to park and for a second I thought I’d just make the U-turn and head to campus.  But not this morning… needed this, this sitting and this quiet with a more than busy morning, going back to the hotel for the bag then to Mom and Dad’s where Mom and I talked about a few things and my mind now completely focused on work—

For class…. Talk.  Hemingway.  Writing.  Reading.  Read with them.  Only keep them an hour, each section.  Tonight, have a wine chosen, and am going to buy some bottles, just a couple from my friend up in Washington, also a wine writer who perpetually insists that she’s amateur.  I get frustrated with her but from adoration and endearment, nothing malicious or truly spite-sown.

Iced coffee, this session.  Haven’t had one in a while… all I want to do with this final day of novel writing is write… not sure I much want to teach, even.  Then don’t.  Just offer ideas.. write as you go, in the little pages.  Still have to post last night’s wine reaction, sketch.  Or rather, yesterday’s but I wrote it last night as babies were falling asleep.  Me on the bed with Jackie typing on phone and hoping he wouldn’t get too distracted.  He didn’t.  Fell right into his little scale of dreams and I was about to jot, or thumb, what I could.  Not as excited about tonight’s wine but Jesse gifted it to me yesterday, stopping by the winery and tasting through a couple whites, all the reds.  I envied his day off.  I need a day off— No you don’t… you need to work.  You need to keep moving if you want to see what you want to see.  Just thought… can stop by St. Francis and get a couple bottles to write about, or maybe just one, or taste at the bar while they close if they’ll let me, if it’s not too much a bother.  I have this obsession with SFW, going back to where it all started, re-acquainting self with the wines and the counter, the tasting room, how now they have that T-Rex sized tree.  Plan confirmed… finish 100 maybe 50 minutes into, then head to “The Frannie”.  Now I start to feel the engine go, the ideas about their wines and all the notes I’ll meet, be greeted by.  Yes, I should be prepping for 1A, 100, but I can only see hear wine in the music I have in these little jelly-belly-ish earphones.  “Intro”, by The xx.  Love this song.  Puts me on a plain, plane, plan, while in cruising altitude, thinking about  where I’ll land, which wines I’ll taste, be coerced to write about.

The café— not much a café— essentially empty, but one chap to left on laptop.  Definitely not a writer.  Don’t ask how I can tell.  Will make me sound more judgement-beat than I already do.  So…. The Viognier I’ll be sipping tonight I opened before leaving the hotel.  Thought, “I haven’t opened a bottle of Dutcher this early in a long time.” Brought back to thinking when I’d go for my lunchtime walks and either write, take pictures and video, or all.  That time at Dutcher told me that Creativity will solve any occupational or professional problem or block, hiccup I experience.  These pictures I look through, so many of them from Debra’s property.  My vineyard… all I can think of.  Well maybe not all but certainly know it’s dominant in my vision, physical, temperament.

Leaving here in 7 minutes, 1 hour.  Have to make what worded dent I can in my day… wine, wine… my shop.  Day five.  Have a floor design in mind.  Much of it pragmatic, the rest just what feels right, from my experience selling wine.  Like I intoned Mom, I don’t sell.  I write.. I speak… I recite.  Wine should never be vended.  It should be gently communicated, oui, but gently, convivially, like you’re writing a love letter to that person or just a friendly note right there, when you’re on one side of the counter and the guest stands where they do.  Communication… now I can’t wait for class.  These ideas overlap.  But I can’t tell if my wine life influences the professor life more than the opposite arrangement.  Peut être (perhaps) it’s a realized harmony.  Maybe there is no distinction.  Maybe when I’m teaching I’m “selling” wine and when I’m at the bar or on property I’m more a “professor”, or educator, than anywhere else.

Answered a work email, now back to keys.  Not letting self raise head for another ten or fifteen minutes.  Writing about wine is much to do as I said with things you think have nothing to do with wine.  And you’re right.  They don’t, and proverbially do.  Shots from when I stopped in at Kenwood Winery, saw and old friend.  She poured me across the flight I thought I was so familiar with.  But hadn’t tasted there in so many years, even when I used to work at Kunde I never went next door on my lunch to taste.  Went to Deerfield once, but that’s it.  Wasn’t like at Dutcher when I would often visit close-by TR’s and see what their offerings said to me.  Guess I wasn’t as serious a wine writer when at Kunde.  Well of course not… that’s when I began to get a bit disenchanted, envenomed, by “the industry” as I called it, as so many called it and I hated it when they would.  Like when people in academia, community college or some university call it “the profession” like it’s the only profession.  When tasting at Kenwood with Betty I could only hear music in the wines I tasted, them begging me to keep writing about wine the way I do and to never stop— that THIS was my “calling”.  More than a vocation, or avocation.  More than passion.  More than religion or a sweep of beliefs.  I was me. It is me. I have to write ME.