At the Vine Street Starbucks, one of my older but still frequented writing spots, stops. Cinnamon-raison bagel and 4-shot mocha… planning for semester ahead, writing next wine move. Closer to store, my shelves, the books and music. Having trouble starting session here… just write, be writing… wine and everything in its grip. May do one tasting on way home, after this… asking, “Would I sell it? Of course I could sell it, but could I speak it.. narrate it, recite it?” Thoughts everywhere now like they were last night.
Mocha still hot, nearly too much so to write, type… odd man right, waiting for bathroom— but who am I to call him odd? I’m the odd and wild wine writer here in a coffee shop trying to have this year not be like every other. Wine… just a song-set… a concert, but more.. poetic and verse this morning. Time telling me 11:32, but wine telling the writer something else. This coming semester, I’ll offer the idea that it takes time… never dismiss growth, and ‘the process’, any process… time isn’t forever, yes, but there needs to be ever-present composure if you’re ever to have composition.
Everything from now, this second day. Baristas working their crazy motions and magic with what they stuff in cup. And I with my many projects…. One work at a time. You can’t have grapes before planting the rootstock, graft, care for the block, watch it, walk it, be there over time. Wine reminds me, even though I don’t it now sip, that I need to finish one act before braving the next.
Readying to look through camera’s photos, so many in there I have’t used as I’ve told you before, but who cares what I haven’t done. I have now. Now I do it. The metaphor of wine and a vineyard, more so the vineyard, riles me radically… We’re in Sonoma County, I am, right now, remembering all the vines I saw driving from Roth to here.. ultimate consolidation of musings and sights, observations, character growth. This one photo, the product of caring for the vineyard. It’s more than a ‘chicken or egg’ thesis or address. This is immediately personified in me, and what I see, how this writer’s a product of what he sees. The verisimilitude of Now… the sleeping spurs and soil, waiting for this season’s growth. What will it say? Only day 2, maybe too premature to entertain such.
Vines…. Books, poetry… this jazz. It’s more than consolidation, or my story bottled, me the ox in the story, bottle, it’s Now. This new year. What’s ahead of me. What I can do with this new year. The distractions pull me away from my tasting notes review… yesterday, me and that Cabernet, the Pinot, Chardonnay, all characters speaking their languages and vowels and crazy consonants with newly embossed confidence. “Do this!” They tell me. And to stop thinking about this so much. It’s wine… a life of wine and literature, photography and art rooted in the vineyard blocks. In Sonoma, Napa, any and every-where.