This morning, telling self the day I want to have is the one I WILL have. 

Photo on 7-12-18 at 9.04 AMCompletely a wine thing to say… defiance and independence, freedom in expression and practice.  The same group of older humans at the table across from me, the long rectangular.  One of the looks particularly worn today, tired and nearly ready for death it seems.  Morning teaching me to live more freely, wildly… what are we afraid of?  Just write freely, let wine’s memories and stories echo and play in your inner thought plates, plains and rains.  With the journal Mom bought me in Beaune a couple weeks ago to my right, and a former student messaging me from England, showing me certain times of night and how they’re perfect for writing, this morning I’m particular intentioned, into what I’m doing right here in this seat, for my wined life.  I’m not meant to be contained and compressed in that goddamn tasting room.  But I’ve said that before, I know I know.

No tasting in the lab yesterday with brother Chris, as I’d hoped, so I just strolled around the crush pad and thought about my life in the industry, where I want to go, where I’ve been, the trek and seafaring of it all.  From the first tasting room day to today working for a bigger corporation, with multiple properties, just wanting to sell wine but still confronted with unnecessary befuddle and kerfuffle, in a rumor puddle that I as I age have no more fortitude for.  Tired of my equanimity being cut like a piece of paper in some workshop in my son’s kindergarten class.  No such thing will materialize today, as I write from one end of the winery to the next, from one part of the schedule to day’s close.  I’ll taste through each wine and write differently.  Wine is not a symbol of pattern and the expected, but the random, the whim, the alchemical sight and sense of what’s around you.

Didn’t taste anything that exciting last night, just the remainder of the St. Francis Sonoma County Chardonnay, and the ’14 Claret.  Can’t remember the vintage on the CH, I think ’15 or ’16, but I sipped only about a glass, all that was left in the Burgundy glass.  I thought about Chardonnay and how my sister’s style of Chardonnay is much what not only persuaded me to enjoy Chards a little more and be more open to their characters and directions expressively, but built her career.  Catch myself staring out the window of this Windsor Starbucks and thinking about wine and what I’m doing… if I didn’t write about it what would I do in its business, ‘the industry’?  You’re not going to make that much unless you’re some executive, upper management, or a winemaker.  But even with that, would I be appeased?  My only choice is to write… about the wines I taste and what I see in the tasting room from employee interaction to what visitors say, to my seemingly aimless and senseless walks through Cabernet blocks.

Wine sings in and from everything I do this morning.  With so many I know traveling, getting outside their boxes.  Wine lassos me to mobility, to not being stuck anywhere, to not having to hear about what this person says about this one, and what management wants and what the sales goal is, what has to be done to inventory and… all of it.  I’m in wine for the stories, for the words, for the recital of everything…  Was sad last night when the Claret was done.  Didn’t know how to feel, and didn’t want to open anything else in hopes I could get to bed earlier which I did and wake earlier which I of course didn’t.  On a mission, notably with this month and all noted in the Burgundy Journal, for preeminent happiness.  Noted a bit ago that I will have precisely the type of day I wish.  It’s no one’s choice but mine, this morning teaches me, in concert with my 4-shot mocha.  Ready to see more in wine, today.  Exercise my defiance, my interpretation of each wine in 500+ word songs.  The ’16 Pinot Gris, even, deserving of a track… the stainless Chardonnay and my single-vineyard AV Cab.  Everything.  Everything in a vino skip, today and forever.  I know what wine is from being consciously aware of what she’s not.  I know what my first sip’s to be, in terms of the poetic whip of it.  The words, ready and eager to be on page.. not feeling the block or thought sludge of previous mornings.  My writing has to perpetuate in a promising breath and breadth limitlessness.  ‘Do it like this… Do it like that…’ You’ll hear management say.  My response, what if I don’t in my pages?  Then what?  What if I write from the wines and not about them… or better, TO the wine herself?  What if I stop calling wine ‘it’ and recognize her for what she is… Mythic, incorporeal, music… atmospheric, mystery, more question marks than declaratives?  What would these other wine “writers” and “critics” have to say? Not sure I’m concerned, not this morning… go this morning to what I want, what I see overseas, in Paris and the Czech Republic, South Africa, Australia, everywhere.

Wine molds my consciousness and ethical composition, from kindness and invitation, free state of thought and immediate and meditative presence.  Shared my thought again yesterday that nothing punctuates the brevity of life like wine, to 4 Texans that came to property for a tour and tasting, which included the wine-cheese thing we do (which needs massive improvement in term of the experience itself).  See self getting older, closer to 40.. now I really act.  Wine’s ordering me to do just that. Don’t accept the tasting room as any finality, don’t accept any finality in fact, in fact.  That’s not what wine is.  Wine is the last day working with your favorite industry person, sipping what you choose, and writing how the moment realizes itself, you, her, everything around you.  As, it’s not forever.  None of this is.

7/12/18

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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