Not sure what I’m now sipping, some blend a friend of I can’t remember how many years gave me, recently. I bought some of her family’s bottles, and she threw in a couple as a thank-you. Know it’s Rhône-honed, but beyond that I know little. Guessing neutral oak, and after today at the winery and all that’s swirling and swimming through a writer’s head these days, only days before 39, I’m ready to do something creatively fanatical and Carrollian. In my own Wonderland, deconstructed and redolent in imagery, dialogue and story as Mom urges. Not much traffic in winery today but all the more shove to meditate and collect, not letting self panic as I approach this old age number. Can’t let self have more than one more glass as I need early wake and work out. Know it sounds so pattern’d and banal for an old writer like me to reform and exercise, do something early in morrow, but here I am, there’s the writer… early… doing pushups, sipping coffee. This isn’t any kind of mood, with this blend, but a certain sight, the piling of musings and notes, over years and years now ready for bottling, like wine blends there on the pad, at the line, with everyone ready with those things overs their ears. I’m sure what I’m ordering myself to do just not sure I’m quite doing such— writing about wine, being that wine writer, that ‘wild wine writer’ I always profess I progress. Thinking too much won’t get me anywhere.
Earlier, walking around the neighborhood, here, Coffey Park, around the desolations and void of what’s there, here, with kids on their bikes, just remarking on what they see but me and their mother remembering each turn and decision so vividly. Nearly 7 months since, and I hear it, see those trees sideways when looking down from our window. Was more than a wine country fire, was a fire in my telling of my story, character, sounds and sickened by how quick it all happened. I have to stop, the move quicker to move quicker past it all and move to some new reality in my reality and narration. Stack of papers on the floor, just in front of me, that last semester stack. Could it attack, now, but I elect not. So I just more freely type and write and sip whatever this blend is and go into night like that regular beatnik locomotive, page-accumulating skyscraper-taker-thinker. Hate hyphenating so, but there I am and here I am, this … whatever I am. Don’t want to be like some regular wine industry who-what-whereamIgoing-bloke. I can’t. I won’t. Not with the bet hedged—
Stuck, tired, even this morning I wasn’t sure how I’d make it out of shift but I did, from inner jotting and constant musings and decision. I decided to note all, form the caves to the one tasting I did, to the wines I tasted most regularly like the RRV Pinot and the Pinot Gris, surprisingly. Writing about wine I only quicker return to Philosophy and all the talks and back-and-forth’s Dad and I have had over years, years…. Asking self for more verse but I can only respond with a mute a void a clanking of possibilities. The floor doesn’t answer any calls from me so I look at ceiling and the fan isn’t moving, like a still horse on ground after some race, but it didn’t race a turn or touch today.
This blend taunts, mentors my page sky, course. Loop—