Current clock, 14:03. On these winery days, you make calls, you clean, you walk around, you taste wine, you shop for wine online (if you’re me…), and do whatever. I’m refusing and utterly angry if the day chooses to move slow, and it does, but I don’t let self move slow. Nearly went to the Mexican place down the Road with which I’m utterly obsessed. But I walked across the pad and to the office where I try to dent my 3000 daily wine words. Tasted only the Pinot, Merlot, single-vineyard Cabernet so far. Last night opened a Cab from sister’s winery, and was daunted by how little it said to me. Can’t expect too much cosmic revelation and messaging from everything I taste. Rubbing my eyes thinking about how much I have to edit, of my own work, and if the wine writer wants to see a dime from his efforts then he’d better edit and start selling— cellar shelves chapbook 1, the NaNoWriMo book, and who knows what else I have in here, in this devilish laptop that makes it all too easy for a writer.
23 minutes left in break. Don’t think much is happening on the crush pad, as I can’t hear a thing out there. Know they’re set to do a blending or tasting trial of Sauvignon Blanc in a bit, seeing all the 375s lines up on a rolling cart just outside the reserve room adjacent to TR. Mind is everywhere with wine, right now, as it so too often is. Working at a winery, during the slow season, and when it’s raining, and when it’s fucking Monday, can play with your thoughts and principle disposition. I won’t let it. Not today. I’m remaining in control and keeping sights on my shop… selling wine in my office/studio/lounge/library. Don’t know where I am in the 365-day countdown. Doesn’t matter. I’m pathetically behind. Contacted a couple labels I’m interested in selling… My friend Blair’s Archival label, and Lioco. Since having a glass of the Lioco Chard at the Sonoma Mission Inn, night before Thanksgiving, I’ve thought of ways to speak about it, what I’d say while pouring it for people at my store and how it’s positive prompted my association with Chardonnay.
In TR, may open the Chard, the Carneros, if one isn’t already with removed cork. On days like today, you don’t want to open anything, not ‘less someone comes in. And I’m surprised no one has. Yes, it’s after New Year’s, and yes it’s Monday, but I’m sure there’s someone out there with a day off. Someone who’s retired and at home just watching the rain fall and thinking, “You know… today would be a great day to go wine tasting.” If you’re out there, come in. Please. I need people’s words, their reactions and facial expressions to what I pour. I’m writing about wine and being at a winery— and get a warning on my phone about flash floods. Heard that on radio earlier, and Mom texted me with the same urgency. Should taste the wines again when back, think of new words.. new scenes. Stay away from descriptors, and commonplace food associations, and “pairings”.
Lunch… break… winery day. Rain. When it’s slow, you do what you can to stay busy. I’m fortunate and with constant cognitive boon, being a writer. I see it all differently, the wines and the views just outside the front door. The stairs outside this office door and how steps sound going up, down, the view of the presses, barrels, crush pad floor. Will have about 2.5 hours remaining when back. Then what. To Oliver’s for dinner, maybe get a bottle to write about. Lost in my wine writing projects… so I consolidate. Conjure one BIG blend, another book. Why not. ’18 is the year of books— MY books. No more straying writings and wine notes, nothing that’s not bound.
Empty bottles to the side of the tasting room sink, no more life in them, just glass, a label, something tossed into the reclining bin. Tasters coming in and taking life from the bottle, swirling and syncopated interpretations from that sight, from me standing over them and wondering about my shop.. no empty bottles out. And not for cleanliness, or visual, but something else. The wines here today have me focused on my Room, my tasting room representing and speaking I don’t know how many labels. Assuredly, need a writing assignment tonight. Something red or white. Will look at and survey every label on every shelf at store, which is just down the Road from Roth.
Nine minutes left in winery lunch break. Hear some sounds on crush pad now. Will try to film and photograph what I can, walking back to bar. Who else can I call, I think, for my shop… what wines to sell. Have to shock my efforts into a more vigorous mold. So… notes on everything, from the appearance of the bar, to where the TV is on wall displaying winery and vineyard shots, to the reserve room’s polished redwood tree table, to the glasses and how whatever is displayed on the merchandise shelves. Where do the books go? How do I organize and advertise the music program? “The Feeling of Jazz” comes on, on laptop’s radio station, and I see people in my shop, tasting whatever they are, reading or not, but talking to each other about putting a mixed case together, looking at their notes and what they need at home. It’s more than sales, it’s connection.. it’s Art, people buying and taking home the pieces they want to be part of their lives.
With time nearly out, I ready self for winespeak. A new tongue, poetry— everything I taste and interact with.. translating and re-posturing the vernacular of what sensory storms me greet. Merlot… Cabernet… Chardonnay… Maybe I should look for a Chard for the night. I’m always out for red, I feel. Switch views and sets, directions and stances. Done. Wine is Newness, and tonight I pull something new from the wine section’s borders.