No deadline of any kind. Any possibly that’s the problem, Mike thinks. He digs through his notes, nothing hits him, strikes him, flirts with him tickles him or prompts him or anything in his functional writing being-shifts. He types too much, too easily he thinks carrying his laptop everywhere and just opening and hitting keys with such ire and volume.
Still nothing. He thinks of what so many have told him about wine and how much he knows about wine—which he hates. He can’t stand when people voice something to the lean of, “With how much you know wine, you should write reviews on your blog.” He hates that. True detest. He’d rather stop writing and wine in tandem.
More notes. Cabernet…. Singing storm of confusions and caresses. He said this about a winery’s current released, somewhere he used to work, somewhat recently. The man on his tour said that’s what he needs to do. Mike asked what. Man said this, this, the way you talk about wines… “You don’t sound like the others. I don’t even know how they get paid what they do, or why people follow them so much.” Mike remembers himself nodding with synchrony of idea, sight, seeing that, writing wine. But something happened. Mike still doesn’t know what, but he didn’t follow that wave and ride of complimentary shove, and here he is. Thinking of what to write on a winery day.
7:18am. To be at the winery in a little less than two hours. He received a text yesterday asking when was the earliest he could be on property. Mike responded curtly, “10.” His scheduled time. He tires of the tasting room, much material as it provides. He wants more from wine and the writing he does from it. What, he doesn’t know. Starting his blogging life if ’09, he now orders more from his self. Maybe he should dismiss it, altogether. And, stop even sipping wine for a bit to have it all in his pseudo and metaphysical internal illustrative. Seeing wine made, sipped, tasted, the people swarming into the tasting room like yesterday when he dropped by Truett-Hurst to visit an old friend with whom he used to work. Yes, at a winery. She was a wine club manager and Mike thinks she does more or less the same thing now at Truett. But she was helping a group, a pretty sizeable one. Mike thinks she said something like 50 people. Mike spied them for a bit, before walking around the property, through a tree awning of some kind, and onto a lawn, and over to a barn area where there were chickens seemingly talking to the people passing.
What deadline should Mike rile. Mike tells himself, “20 days”. For what. Something. Something about wine, finished. He doesn’t believe in “writer’s block”, in fact he completely dismisses the excuse. And that’s how he sees it. An excuse. An excuse to not write, an excuse to talk about not writing, and just a frivolous scream of anti-compose. Twenty days, starting today. Should he? A wine book? About what? Wine. Just that. That one word. Wine… not what people should drink or even drinking wine, but the story of wine, the definition and anti-definition of her. As Duke and Gonzo looked for some dream, American or otherwise.
The dream is in the wine paragraphs, painting her with some syllabic rush and road. How. He’ll find out. When. Today. And till the 28th.
Just take notes, he himself tells.