Back from a jaunt to Bottle Barn.

Bottle of JCB sparkling Rosé for Melissa, then an SB and Merlot for me.  No I won’t drink both bottles tonight, but will meet and greet both corked characters.  The SB is Martin Ray, Merlot from some Napa producer I can’t remember now being as distracted and perceptive pulled by my 3 month old and all the adorable little chirps and coos and airy grunts he offers.

Walking around he store, pages talking to me in a newly effusive and gently erudite fixture.  Winemakers make wine, I write wine. And if not writing about it, then from it.  My little son here just makes sounds, one operation and function, obligation.  Me the same, mirror pulse and reasoning, with the writing.  The pages, working in the tasting room, following the story…. Those crazy days at Kunde, the calm shifts tasting Pinot at Arista, then home in the kitchen taking notes on whatever I life to my nose, lips, eager eyes looking at and deconstructing the color that’s not just some color.

Only wine does this to me.  I have to follow it, go for the ride, let the chariot be pulled by the maddest of mad and hilarious horses I tell myself.  Only opprobrium is thinking, trying to plan.  Just be liberated in the lines gifted by wine.  Not sure if this is a gelid not to self, or me in new understanding.

Okay, so … wine.  What do I do with it now?  I do have that book due in a matter of days.  Maybe it won’t be a book, maybe a story, or just something.  This is part of the wall, the block, contagion in my paragraphs and writing life – the promise, the goals stated.  Why not just see what arrives with ideas the same way that winemakers and their crews see what’s brought in off the lot, how it reacts to fermentation.

Missing the tasting room, selling wine, meeting people from everywhere.  A distinguished and more than merely unique gallimaufry of character.  You have the rich southerners who love talking about their wine cellars back home, then the locals who know this person and that and some claiming to be “industry” when they’ve never worked a day in a tasting room or on a property…. Won’t write any more character types.  Too many to mention.  And by no measure am I some doyen of wine life, I just love it.  Need it for writing, for my life as an AE, for light and enlightenment.  Won’t be back anytime soon, I know, but I see self there all the time.  In dreams, staring at the screen of my work laptop, while sipping whatever I choose for the night.

Also thought of working, my past jobs while look at the Merlots and Cabs, one last row of Pinot.  Everything I’ve done.  Why haven’t I written about each one.  The grocery store at 16, the music store, Sears, the insurance office….  Going to open the SB, stop writing.  Live, let more stories and voices, character direction and diction detail my vector.