In all of us. Driving here, thought about how many dreams there are in the wine industry. How many visions that became tangible and . Sped to their horizon and just actualized, making it the real, the Now. Today I’m in that mode, with wine and writing, and everything in yesterday’s frantic richness that still me steers and motivates. A group of three girls, out from Washington, DC, talking to me about their love of wine and what wines they drink back hoe, how amazing the weather is out here, and how they can’t wait to go to the next place, taste more wine and see more of Sonoma County. All of them commented on how I spoke about wine and I tried to get them off the praise train, and I did. But, I know that’s where my focus need be. All day today… every wine deconstructions and narration, to be recorded.
Last night opening that Rioja I bought from K&L, finally. Not that I wasn’t impressed, just not moved, not commanded, certain not coerced to write. Now that I’m here at the Windsor ‘bucks, on whatever street this is, right ‘cross the whatever-street from the Hampton Inn & Suites, I’m writing but not about the wine. Now, this Now, speaking wine, empirically, intrinsically. Everything that wine is to me and why I’m here right now… why I’m spending my Sunday morning at a winery and here before the winery, before the tasting room and all the customer types I’ll encounter and talk to, be talked to by… why am I here rather than with my wife, babies. For the definition, that persisting song of the Cabernet, the Pinot, Chard’…. Even the Pinot Gris, one yesterday I continuously touched and re-touched, kissed and let speak to me. Not much said, but I in my act of habitual visit, re-purposing in the strange varietal, I saw something. I was there for wine, for the exploration, for that language… the definitive exploration and explanation of her immediacy.
Seeing more this morning, like Emerson after a walk through the woods and some inward dialogue and chat, consultation and study. That’s what and where this writer is this morning, waking later than he wanted, no surprise, but not fixating on that, at all. More than a matter of “scaling” as so many other marketers and bloggers, vloggers, even some writers now repeat. I’m actualizing the cumulonimbus significance that wine and the vineyards circle and motion in my narrative. Every day in the tasting room, new language and tongue, images and poetry, haiku and paragraph storms. New notes in each glass-tilt and further illustration and pedagogical pulse, teaching me to not overthink. Just act, actuate as you always boast, Mike. So I do. This morning. Like those buds in the vineyard, where I walk at lunch and think about where I am and why I’m there. Further defined, further furthered. Interested while being tested by wine’s vestige, past and present I’m amassed and trenchant.
Now to my sitting. Here in Windsor again. I’m not giving last night’s wine enough time, consideration, attention, enough of me. What was I looking for? Forget about the price-point, I always say, though that’s something here that can’t be shoved to perceptive side. Want to say it was less that $20. And if that is the matter, then there’s definitely nothing the matter. The texture was softy and self-syncopating, like rhythmic climates passing and returning. Fruit, red and black, but any color designation not withstanding the pulse and character was eased, pleasing and promising. Dividing my attention the sowing it back to oneness. Any wine that can do that is present, mobile, worthy of page. The type that doesn’t reveal its role so immediately. You have to not so much decode as you do deconstruct, like a piece of writing. Then, more musings igniting, insightful delighting and in flight in my newly wined sight.
Uncomfortable in chair so I lean forward, typing with elbows resting on quads. Not into this sitting as I’d hoped. But I continue, move on the page like the vineyard crews, like wine itself when in the bottle. Just ‘cause it’s contained doesn’t mean she’s contained. There’s movement still and that peripatetic pattern. So me here in chair, with a little ache of stomach. Not sure what that is but I’m ignoring it and writing way through it. What I want, till I reach a thousand words or more. This is wine… this is why I write about wine, as wine and I are the same… expressive characters and poets, musicians, beings with wandering musings and beats… our beats align then divide then abide new ides— take new rides. With out respective stories and chapters, we fly. Swim, new chapters begin… I grin this morning even with this odd stomach thing. Staying connected and dedicated to my keys, this sentence and the one that follows. As a writer, I need stay in chair, not move, not be distracted, not be overly invested in any one direction but talk with complete and encapsulating devoutness to that address. This morning has me, this day, the wines I’m about to pour and what people say in reaction to them I’ll just observe but do more than listen, watch for certain expressions. Study them, and Self, like Emerson. This stomach ache takes more of me… was it something I last night ate? Not sure.. but I’m doing everything I aid I wouldn’t. Get pulled from this pulse. Wine never does so. She’s always into her intuition and intonation, oration. I breathe, meditate, think about the eight, more, hours before this writer of wine… the Pinot Gris, the Spanish blend I last night had in the stemless plastic glass, cup, what say.
Only 15 minutes left for this Mike Madigan, the one this morning, trying for the last however long to finish his wine piece, but…. Life. Taking me where it wants. Wine, she assures, promised and sings through each sip and shift in palatable presence.