Left a ton of writing on work laptop. Up early tomorrow for quarterly meeting and party. “Quarterly”, they call it simply. Allergies killing me, started at run yesterday. Tired, but sipping wine. Another bottle of that St. Francis Claret. How to get back into the wine industry, but in a dimension and sequence, tell and pulse I prefer. Blogging, writing, photography and video. Should take a detour to office, tomorrow. Do I have time, to sneak a couple new shots in, somewhere around here… one of those vineyards on Piner. I have an idea.. about and in and on, for WINE.
Wine and writing. Blogging. Okay, yeah… for me, completely expected. But… different. Wine in the glass now gone, sipped glass too fast from excitement from idea. More red, more sentences, more of the world around us. And if this is too hard for you to conceive and encapsulate for purposes of retention. It is wine, it’s always been wine. Wine for me. Wine for all days. And not just glasses contents. But the life there, the life here, thoughts of my sister on the crush pad watching fruit come in as she did that day in 2011 when our Cabernet landed—the best early xmas present I’ve ever been gifted. One ton of Cabernet fruit, maybe a bit less, from RRV. Katie said all I have to do is meet her on the crush pad. The thoughts were overwhelming before it happened. What if this turns me into some famous writing winemaker, what if this changes everything?– It did, but now that I look back I see missed opportunity. I need back in the wine sphere. Stay far and clear away from industry contaminants. I’ll take notes, starting here… small room, appointment only—NO, invitation only. And not to be one of those wineries, but to know the person coming in. And to not depend on the business but to enjoy it. I just want to break even, I used to tell people about the eventual and envisioned label.
Wine to me has always told vignettes, not short stories or exhaustive novels. Wine has never been patterns, or paths. You compose and narrate your own way how you see it played. It’s jazz, not classical. Wine is random and unexpected. Excess order and constriction will shape no listen.
Writing on the laptop at work, addressing wine as well. I feel wine as all the answers to everything in this writer’s story and I always get fucking distracted. Why. WHY, do I let such fuss. About to pour self another glass, and think of the tasting room days at St. Francis, Dutcher Crossing, then back again to Kunde Family Estate with its incongruent operations and terrestrial functionality in bar presence atop multitudinous garnishing acrimony, then wherever then wherever. I have to be done with tasting rooms at this intersection. I am. I AM. So I put it here.. wine, wine in everything. As I was “advised” years ago. Ten, now. Not so much advised as condescendingly urged. Spare me your counsel, counsel. Not going to think about that, or anything. Wine and writing, wine, then write. Me now, what I’m doing. New story, new business, new Now. Ox free from bottle to write about current bottled composition and voice, character and place. I’m peacefully and pleasurably placed.