…re-echoing and punctuating what was in my head last night falling asleep on couch, thinking I was coming down with some cold or bug or something that would just love to slow a wild writer… No, I said… “Be more wild, be crazy.. edit less, just put it all to page. Fearless isn’t even the word. It’s lightyears past that.”
Love mornings. Mornings like this, even with the stress and the excess containment of the hotel getting to a writer I’m composed with my composition, compositions, books approaching— me just a wine drinker who’s not afraid to write what he sips. This morning accidentally spilled out that ’13 Santa Rita Hills Pinot I last night popped. Did that accidentally this morning trying to clean up, pouring older unfinished bottles to drain. Thought the Pinot was the Chard… “Shit.” I thought. Oh well. Have more to taste today. Yesterday in the cave during event, feeling like a soldier behind sandbags and only having open bottles of ’14 Carneros Chardonnay to defend myself. People yesterday, in cave and tasting room were unusually impatient, and somewhat aggressive. One couple sneaking around the cave bar, behind me essentially, nearly shouting to me “We’re ready for our pour…” After sneaking around the Jericho wall of people in front of me I struggled to keep with and keep wine in their glass to pair with those holiday cookies. So a morning like this morning is more than bloody necessitated.
Would love to go down to TR now, taste through a couple, but… too early, and I’m not ready to tussle with fruit flies. Not yet. Just want to enjoy my session here and see what else the morning teaches me… be wild, defiant. But how. What can I do? I’m in an office. Should I go write in the vineyard? Is that what the morning wants me to do? I think it might. I can write about the vineyard as I often do… or write IN them, all of them, in the Cabernet lot at hill’s top, or that hidden PV block overlooking that little valley behind the property. Be around wine, be wild, be in the vineyard and be part of it more than anything in the tasting room, or some bloody cave bar. Seeing the gem stash in writing madly… have to get out to the vineyard.. but have to use the restroom first… drat. What do I do. Time escaping me. No.. fuck time. I have to get out to the vineyard.
Cold out here, in car, the silence is not off putting as much as it is unexpectedly eclectic. Everything from the frost on the ground to the angle at which the sun dashes through the leaves… I’m part of what’s out here now and what used to be out here. It’s strange but it’s what’s always been my story and been destined to be my story. I remember right after Jackie was born, over five years ago, I worked a day at St. Francis Winery and walked the vineyard, wrote some verse, and just breathed out there with dormant vines all around me, thinking I need to do more with and for this, all this, every vine around me… more than just pouring wine in a tasting room.
Education. This morning, the thought last night on the couch, this staying in a goddamn hotel for who knows how long now. Life… wine…