How do I abridge my life to a point where it’s only a walk. Carrying nothing, certainly no fucking backpack, no papers, no books even. Just me and a notebook. Lately I’ve been stepping around the office with just the vino composition book I bought recently, in Windsor, before the Aperture tasting. Losing track of time. When was that?
In house, Daddy alone. Writing and trying to wake up, gather self from Pinot Noir haze and thought. The Balletto last night singing more than speaking, more jazz than anything else. Music… more music, that’s it. Just what I need in my wild wine written life. Have to get office supplies– Yes I know I changed the topic quick, but that’s me. Some say it’s free-flowing, or “stream-of-consciousness” which I hate. So what is it, from the wine, to the page, from me to the page because of the wine…. Tired of writing wine every other word. Think I forgot how to write. Truly what I’m feeling this morning.
You forgot how to write from thinking too much about this page or anything.
So I sequester myself in the morning, that 2017 RRV Pinot Noir. What do I do with her. How do I translate her tongue. Mystery, and a loving obstacle that if I do pass it, overcome or solve, I see more. More of me and why I’m writing as I do. About wine. Doing everything I can NOT to be like them, the other wine journalists and writers lazily tossing overused and I’ll concede slightly catchy adjectives and description-chains to a magazine page and there they are, known wine people. Disgusting. I can’t do that.
Simplicity.. me and a notebook. Where is it? Did I forget to bring it in? Did I leave it at the hotel? Airheaded writer– NO, it’s over there. Right there on the table. Was jotting something in it, I’m sure, actually I’m quite sure and admittedly excited to review my jots, I remember getting onto a new page. Must have been the Balletto. What did she say, sing…. More music, more song, more a whisper, something like a tryst of senses and superstition. I had no expectations, no predictions, no demands. It was just the ink, and the juice.
8:34 in the morning. So what then after this entry. Don’t think about it. Get cash, go to the office store—no, don’t do that. Just go get a latte. This home-brewed shit isn’t saying a thing to me, other than it’s coffee and I need to keep writing. It has caffeine, yes, but that’s not what I’m out for. Nothing is steering me but me. Maybe I don’t need caffeine. Maybe I just need this quiet, this still house with no wife or kids. Just me. Not even Coltrane is playing, or some echoing slow BPM Lo-Fi beat. Nothing. Simplicity. Finally at my old age tasting it. And what do I think? I don’t know. I don’t want to dumb it down to simplistic descriptors.
Pinot Noir…. Now every Pinot I sip will have that ghost in my vision, all in my being and sight. Should I be happy, fearful, encourage, curious? Russian River, its terroir, now writing. And I try to enjoy this coffee. That’s all that’s at this kitchen island counter. The way it should be.