Decided to come into office to write. Not to catch up on anything, but write myself out of this mood I’m in. And on my day off no less. Light Coltrane through phone, hear some people in the dispatch department, I think, laughing. Enjoying their day. I vow do the same. I’m also affirming consolidation as I have so many times before. Being more a simple diarist, page-churning chap. You know, one with less than a jillion notebooks and journals.
Tasting later, possibly, with all the time I have to self today. What is the mood, what does it consist of….. What varietal. Is it my vintage? Old bastard…. No. Hard if not irrational to enumerate qualities or traits. Well, I say to self, TRY. One… certain words, from certain people—their reactions and insistence on griping even after greeted with only generosity and consistent willingness. But if that’s the nexus and spark of the irregular angularity about me today then that’s easy, oui? Simply deny them their connection, their gravity and significance, no matter how seemingly significant in the story. They, overestimate their significance and perceived navigational adeptness.
Cold in the office. Nothing yet to eat. Brought in backpack. Think I might finally surrender it, give it up. Sought for a while but proving difficult. Want to be the writer only seen with his Comp Book. One I bought last weekend before tasting at Aperture Cellars, not a single scribble in it. Yet. Yet…. Could change today with a visit, where. Glen Ellen, haven’t been there in a while, and so many of my saints spent time and scribbled there. Listening to this track, not sure then name, but Mr. Coltrane has me escaping, away from this mood or downed ebb and pattern. Not sure this is the spot where I should be writing though, truthfully. So I block it out, much I love my desk and the company, nearly everyone I work with and coming to work, scanning my badge and walking to desk, clocking in (not today), and getting coffee in the back room. Barrier warranted.
On mind, wine. Visiting tasting rooms, something like… I don’t know. That feeling when you go somewhere for the first time. So many of the spots I visit I’ve been to over and over, and even where there’s a new release, even if it’s from a new vineyard, I feel like I’ve tasted it before.
Unpack rucksack, or backpack—wanted write the former as it just sounded better and more literary, more Kerouac at Sur. Speaking of… my office, books…. Talking last night with a guy named Jack, owns Jack & Tony’s downtown, met a friend from leads group there to talk and exchange ideas as we occasionally do. Jack telling me that he has a literary group that meets there from time to time. Need show, or meet who be in attendance. Not to market myself or sell anything. Honestly not sure why… just need be around more writers. And the mood comes back, realizing my age and where I want to be, what I want do, driving around that shitwagon Prius that I don’t even own. Honesty… more honesty in these pages. So…. Latte making me forward in more truth. Much more. The more that I need and for which I plead.
Where I go today… somewhere different. Not Sonoma Valley, not RRV, not Dry Creek, Napa’s too far. So…. I have nothing seen or– SONOMA. The town. Still, somewhat far. All this writing about what I should do, or the common what do I do mental ping-ponging back and forth like a deranged attention deficit, or excess focus, or both. Just get out there and see the wine character, the vineyards, the IT to it all.
Walking out of here with nothing but keys, wallet, phone. Leaving journals here, laptop, and ‘pack in drawer. Focus on wine… IN… what wine is, where it’s taking me possibly. How wine is the solver of everything, and not the sipped being. That’s just a thing, something here and then not. I’m citing the community, the world around me in Sonoma County, Napa, Anderson, Carmel, Monterey, everywhere I’ve been … Santa Barbara. Not that I always come back to wine, but the story of it, of her, reminds me that the presence never dissipates. There’s always a beacon and beaming frame meant to contribute and precipitate pages.
So what now then with my wine writing…. Only write wine, I tell self. Nearly write it in one of the journals I took from bag, but don’t. It’s here, she’s here, I’m here, amalgamated and intersecting with purpose and fine fulfillment in this tech office. I still laugh a little, I’ll be honest, and inwardly smile knowing this company hired a part-time professor from the wine world. And I’m humbled, and shoved lovingly, poetically… everything in this metered consideration of my stage is like a swirling image that demands my connection and correctness, that my narrative progression be sent to and stricken by it, by her…. The radiant and quixotic puddle in a glass, but not sipping. Rather, stopping, scribbling, where I was ten years ago in the tasting room at St. Francis surrounded by family and close friends, knowing what wine is, should be, how it should be written—SHE–not as some shard-borne blather that gets published in some glossy-facing scut-mag. The story deserves a story, storytellers, essayists devoted to her, that only write on the steps in the stage, in the story, how they arrived, what’s seen…. Write what you like, but if you’re a penner of the pours, there should not be much or any prolonged interval. Stay in wine, this tech office tells me. Sell what you sell, here, as you do when you speak wine in a tasting room or on a walk in the vineyard, or….. ON A PAGE.
The characters I cited earlier injecting me with a certain character curve or mood, tilt or slouch, sharpened heart, can’t mute or muffle me when with wined thought, when I’m in the vineyard, when thinking about wine and sipping with people I’ve never met, in the Roth Cave, or Lancaster’s, or last Saturday tasting wines with Jenn of Aperture Cellars. Wine forwards in curiosity and meander, wandering paces and beats. Writers that write wine attach to musical quality, qualities in what’s in the planted blocks, in the pours, not some score-pedal or recital.