Office soon.  Feeling repetitive, recycled in these thinkings and pages.  So what do now…. Write about a character, or me, Mike, Mike Madigan.  He owns a small label, started making wine when he vowed to forever quit the industry.  How did he do it… he just did it.  Really.  Just threw his hands up and called himself a winemaker.  How would he find the time, though, when harvest came around?  He’d have to save money, for…. He doesn’t know.  He sits, writes Cabernet.  Looks at the word, name, story, all it infers.  He’ll get closer to wine by studying more, and only seeing that vineyard, wherever he gets the fruit from.  He always comes back to wine, so now what… wine.  Making it.  End of May, Cab should come in mid to late October.  That gives him potentially 5 months to figure it out.  He has a couple hundred in an envelope….  Build on that, he tells himself.  Think of the grapes coming in, how the clouds will look above the crush pad, if there’re any.  With this vintage, who knows.  Just a couple weeks ago getting pounded with rain, in Sonoma County and over the mountain.  Even in Santa Cruz when he ran the 13.1, Surfer’s Path.

Mike makes a note, that wine is more than about varietal, blend, vineyard or vintage, but the reminder of our time here, in this breath and beat.  That life is not only short and singular, but ours.  That we say the stray, the direction and stipulate our sentences as we do.  Something in him, in his relationship with wine, changed. Now, at this table.  He knows he has to act from and for wine, the ground, rocks and sudden plant growth.

5 months to get there, THERE, to the crush pad.  Not that it’d be his full-time job, but it’d be something, he knew, knows.  There’s a new story in the day.  This wine book he’s writing… teaching self how to read and write, think critically, all over again, from wine.  Making it, eventually, hopefully.


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