10:36

The wine book, the wine story, the wine dreams and driving, drives from Vacaville to Rohnert Park office.  Vineyard after vineyard, and plans to taste here and there with the Nurse.

One pic at a time I thought on the drive this morning.  Today is bringing me back to when I first started blogging about wine, humorously enough at the suggestion of a total pompous blob of a human.  But still, grateful.

Wine and what it does to a conversation, what it did to me last night and the night before tasting however many Pinots with the Nurse.  Each its own feel and music, BEAT.

In office but not.  I can only see the vine3yard, making wine. Texting my buddy Chris, owner of Caddis Wines on the drive over, earlier, asking if he’ll send me pics from the crush pad and fermentation, barrels, whatever.  Each more than a thousand words.  And all I need to do in order to bring to life what I was thinking about this morning – one picture at a time.

That’s it.

This one, of the vineyard.  Alexander Valley I think, years ago but I feel like I’m still there.  Like I’ve never left.

Going to make this pay, and have it be the ONLY work for this writer, blogger, wanna-be photog.  Text the Nurse again about the other night, my love and gratitude and how is it that I have someone like her in my life.  As a fiancé, no less.  HOW.

The sun this morning over the vineyard was energetic and inconsistent.  Like a boozy fistfight.  Dactylic and dimensional.  I have no apologies anymore, or qualification about getting back to wine, full-time.  No CV’s or letters emailed or sent over winejobs.  None of that.  Just me, these pages.  Tasting notes and wild descriptions like “radiant and loudly herbal raspberry roars”.  Something I scribbled in the Roth tasting room years ago.

Wine is music and mood. Keeping my pen moving to wine ghosts, the Viognier in the St. Francis tasting room in 2009.  Can’t remember the vintage, but it was just sweet enough, and tropical taking me far away from where I was on Highway 12.  The literature doubled and tripled and sooner than I know I was writing about wine every day.  Writing about sipping even when I wasn’t.  Actually, especially when I wasn’t.

Wine, fiction, but not at all.  There is another wine, the next, no idea what it is but there are more pages.  More to this Story.  All in balance.  No excess.  There’s no need as a writer to rush.  Tasted slow last night while the Nurse had dinner with her friends.  Slow scribbles, meditations.

Reminding me of life’s brevity.  But more a love letter, the Pinot flight last night.  Grateful I’m here, and had the vineyard realizations and instruction from the drive this morning.  Mad one, me, in this radicalized vino peripatetic read.

Honestly forgot I was at work, that I have this telecom job—