Espresso. Now my afternoon tradition. Cleaning up this laptop and the other. Found the wine essay I started writing the other day and I vow to self to edit it tonight, while sipping from either one of the VC’s bottles or one of these Ballettos I bought this afternoon.
Bored all of a sudden. Yes I feel the shock from the espresso but I still can’t move fingers across keys for any article I would submit or even post to blog. Just checked email, and several students emailed me their assignment, on-time surprisingly. No mood to read any of it. Semester nearly done, thankfully.
Jack watches some xmas movie in the other room and it’s loud and disruptive and just poking holes in my mood. Thought about taking a nap, but no. I need to force myself to stay awake. If I’m not, I’ll lose out on material, on story. Emmie walking downstairs from checking on her mother and little brother. I ask how she is and she responds a quick and shove-to-the-side ‘fine’ and into the room to watch that move with Jack. And me here, at the desk with nothing.
Write about wine….
What wine, I’m not sipping anything right now.
That Pinot, the bottle last night. That wine that I keep me looking at the glass, wondering what exactly it was I was talking to. What I’d just met. How come it’s fewer and fewer bottles that do this? Where I am, what I’m doing, the wine reminds. Even nearly 18 hours since my last sip. She still talks to me and recites in peculiar twirls and dimensions, layers and pages.
I have an idea…. Go to BB, buy a couple bottles you’ve never heard of. Just two. Open tonight. Write as you sip, which I need to do more rather than what I’m doing now. Well, with last night’s bottle it connects but trying to write from memory, either attempting to note what I sipped in nuance or suggestion-form or just write a reaction…. Has to be there, when doing it. Real-time, as my friend Tasha always says.
My shop, or wine room, wine label…. The espresso has me typing fast like I’m a vineyard manager trying to note everything that comes in and is placed on the scales. Quicker, follow the tractors down the rows, taste from the bins. What do I want to do to this lot, and this one. This is my life’s work, I say to myself, so don’t stop but move with melody, sans haste.
In the mood for Cabernet. Or do I want some weird Sonoma County blend. Can’t decide. And why do I. Enjoy the whim of it, all – Wine is whim. Occasional measurement, but free art more prominently.
Kids in the other room and I want to be with them. See them in the tasting room or on the crush pad with me, my sister. Shoveling a bin, or hosing down a basket press like I used to do at Kunde.