After a morning of some of the most intense sibling skirmishes I’ve seen since having two littles and both could actually altercate with the other, I have time to self. At the old Windsor coffee spot. Last night, Hitching Post Pinot. Can’t remember the last bottle of HP I had. Was a while ago…. WAIT—After or actually during the fires when staying at Uncle Mike’s house in El Dorado Hills. HP of course reminds so many of Sideways, that movie… you know… Pinot Pinot PINOT, but for me it’s not that. Not anything bad being associated with fires, but just something different. The not-knowing… the something of something having to do with life. Wine is the unpredictable and the whim, both dangerous and delightful.
Had to move seats. Only one open was the little table by the napkins and shakers and other shit bar. So I came to the seats I used to hate writing in. I can tell, I’m thinking too much about what I’m writing. Second-guessing self and getting uncomfortable in seat, feeling a mood approaching, already disrupting my work. Writing about wine, and how again I don’t see a wine bar or shop for self, but some resource for wine drinkers, no matter their “level”…. But then I back-pedal on that as well. Just write wine, same as when my sister told me that if you’re going to make wine then just make wine. Don’t think about it. She said, as I’ve written so many times before, and quoted conveniently, that if you second-guess yourself you’re never going to make wine.
Another quote, from my grandmother, only days before she left, “It’s YOUR life… you have YOUR choice.” So what do I want, I’m this morning asking. How should I know… I do, a bit. Don’t I? After submitting grades yesterday, or the night before, I very much am convinced that the adjunct thing has run its course. I still want to teach, I guess—or not “teach” but offer ideas. By way of essay. Like this one, this piece, this article, whatever the fuck this is… going in later so I can have some fucking time to self. To collect, think about my mission, and how much life I have left. You never know. So where you are and what you’re doing has to be defining and absolutely declarative in its progressions and steps.
With wine, as metaphor or no, I’m told to respond to conditions around me, favorable or not. The fires, 2017’s, obviously not hoped-for but still present. Winemakers had to deal with them. Work with and around them. More with than around. The defined the wine of that year, much. Even if the clusters were pulled before the blazes initiated and flew and grew as they did. Wine… definition-prone and aided and slated by everything not-controlled. I start to see…. Something…. Defining wine. Or characterizing her. No, something… not sure. Wine and character. What everyone keeps telling me to do. So why do I ever stray from what everyone hopes I write, DO? Frustrated with my handle of my own pages so I convince self to challenge the same self in writing ONE world. One character, language.
Wine wants us to be puzzled, wants us to have to contemplate next directions, just as she did. She demands we listen, be more observant, more connective and connected, composed and by the moment towed. Today I’ll taste through the flight, a couple times I’m sure. Write everything she says to me… make it personal, and wine should be personal. At times moody, confusing, a myriad of varying and unpredictable echoes and dialects. The Pinot last night speaking differently than the first HP bottle I had years prior. That’s the music to it all, in wine or anything else entailing life and promise, some dream, some chance and happenstance, a reactive and spontaneous dance. If I do open a wine shop, it has to speak in this language of spontaneity, of artful reaction, of a lick of luck. Traveling to other countries and streets far away to gather bottles for the shop…. Ideas, from her, wine. In the convex consideration of my reflective armament. What am I doing but walking with her, in the step of steps, not so much divine or even delicious, but decided.