I last night opened. Dinner done, and I’m in euphoric diarist skips, missing no riffs or dips into meditation and recognition, reflection. Coltrane gets Sentimental on me, again. And I on this page, perorating and placating my own sense, thinking of the mornings I’d get to Windsor early, that Starbucks on whatever street, writing before a long day in the tasting room. I look down at that glass and think about my wined past. I take a picture with my phone but don’t sip. Just stare. Me in a tasting room, no more. Out over two months. Two months. Told and old friend that the next tasting room I work in will be one I own, and by appointment. And how amazing and atmospherically rewarding that will be. Doing so for the love. Love of wine. Love of people that love wine. If I’m in the red, or not making money, I don’t care. That’s not why I opened my tasting room, or lounge, or wine room. Label. Wine… my topic. Still. Harvest still verity much in muscle at Roth, my last winery. More than however-many hundred tons that still have yet to land. How is that possible, here at the end of October? That’s not wine, to me. Over-production. Wine ought be small lot, art, expressions and voice, character and personification. I see wine and intimate. Some want to make money. Lots of fucking money. I do, too. But not at the expense of soul.
Need this. Wine and jazz. Poetry and me. Home. Wine. Merlot, the character that pulled me closer to wine overture and angst cure— composition expanded and remanded, new thought-lots landed. I sip soon, hear daughter upstairs cough in sleep. Have to run in morning, 4am. If not, I hope for death. Just looking at the glass, wine tells me think of all the dreams materialized and realized I’ve seen in my wine life, emblematic and symbolic of possibility’s promise. What can happen and will happen if you will the happening of it all, the story and narrative and music— each note.
Didn’t think I’d make it over 1000 words, today. Maybe I will. Or won’t. Not. Coltrane has me playing alongside his notes, the night speaking to me with kids upstairs in their sleep. I’m not stopping ever, for anything, no matter what kind of threat or deadline looms or lets, gets, sets. Sometimes when others talk I wonder if they hear themselves talking, and never stopping to let others contribute to discussion— just robotic repeat-puppets, dogs, pigs, ones professing something they’re taught to profess. Nothing in mind specific, really. Or, yes. So much in the industry, I guess. A wine sales organization, or just an organization. Not so much concerned with sales delivery or craft, practice, just the numbers. And certainly not wine. I look down at my glass and it’s so transcendent and matchless, visually, to me, now, that I stop. Hate the industry for what it does to so many loving wine.
Well, I’m in love now. Right now. With this saxophone, the Merlot, my throws to images and poetry, the now of it all in my home with my family. All concluded and composed. I’ll sip soon. See what happens, in each note.