blending noises/crashed cuvée [Comp Book entriez]

4/3/2012 —

Time, like medals invaluable, now.  No to little, and back to no, time to write.  So, just think about the wine I’m sipping.  ’07 Cuvée.  Calm, musical.  It’s telling me to relax, not to take any of this with excess seriousness.  Can’t believe I made it through the day, to be honest.  Not much sleep last night, and today’s tasks hardly charged my sight, space.  But, probably because I had that state in my head, didn’t push mySelf.  Need the travel for the writing.  Something.  A new varietal of day, more frequently.  Now, not in the mood to write.  Why, I’m guessing, is because I’m too comfortable.  Too much around me’s familiar.  To force mySelf into a beach kissed cabin on Hawaii’s big island, or Tahiti, or a small resort in Italy, would revive my motion on pages, in their sentences.  If I wake up earlier than I usually do tomorrow, like I did that one morning, that’d be like stepping on stages unknown, wouldn’t it?

Another city on list: Brussels.  Have heard enchanted descriptions of those roads.  The food, Life, visuals.  I just want to hear as much language I can’t understand as I can.  That’s what I need, roller coaster writing.  Whims atop leaps covered in randomness.

4/4/2012 —

Today, a mocha, scribbles in the Comp Book, first thing for morning.  Two tours today, one of which I met a brilliant photographer from Atlanta, with an encouraging and heartwarming specialty, the other introducing to me a nice newlywed couple from Southern California.  Both tours brought curiosity, love for wine.  That Human dimension that I aways write about.  That I have to write about.  Still sipping last night’s ’07.  Makes me think about this morning’s writings at the estate, in the Comp Book.  Still haven’t counted the stash, yet.  Tomorrow morning, going to commit to waking even early than “box time” (6:20am).  Right now, too much activity.  I need silence when I write, I realize more than I ever did.  Only exception, the Wine Bar instrumentals I find mySelf igniting just before pushing a single key, scribbling a single sentence.

Picture taken by Alice, Jack's mom ...

Playing with descriptors today, with both groups.  One of the gentlemen asked me, rather directly, what certain varietals are “supposed to do.” Finally someone voices this dialogue for me, my pages.  I’m also thankful to this gentleman’s question, as it points out just how artistic wine is, continues to be.  It’s subjective, as there’re different interpretations of varietals.  And that’s more than “okay.” This character, who I’ll call “Nick,” asked more questions, showing genuine interest alongside his wife, the camera-toting artist.  The other couple, a young lady nurse, and her husband, a fellow educator, and one of the nicest gentlemen I’ve ever met since working in the wine industry.  They were accompanied by her mother, an adorable, and quite wine-astute, woman from Massachusetts.  We sipped, after a tour I feel I may have rushed, talked about wine, life, time with loved ones over nice wine.  I talked about the “sibling rivalry,” as I call it, between the ’07 and ’08 Estate Cabernet Sauvignon.  I compared them to different music types.  And before I could voice my comparative waves, the gentleman’s wife, whom we’ll call Teagan, said it was like the two versions of Leila by Eric Clapton.  I couldn’t believe her speak, as that was precisely the analogy I was about to web.  But that’s what wine’s world and centered interactions bring–surprise, ones rhythmically pleasant, memorable.  There is no script in the bottled life.  At least not for this Bottled Ox.

As I was frustrated with the blogs last night, and quite a bit of yesterday, I didn’t think–no, I didn’t plan on writing for either of them tonight.  But after today, the characters, crisp AV weather, minimal clouds, this wine, my little son laughing tonight, smiling irresistibly, uncontrollably, and now these wine bar beats…  I have to.  My concentration’s in sectors, altogether scattered.  Beautiful.  Perfect for song, poetry–the real writing into which I love to dive…  Another sip, the wine tells me to buy this song before it ends, add it to the aesthetic atmospheric arsenal.

Dying to know how much I have in the stash.  What am I stashing for?  Not sure.  Just to stash, or save, I guess.  thinking again of publishing something paper, again.  But not going to leap.  Going to sit.  Write about the thoughts, the turmoil, the indecisive weights in authorial perceptive anvils.  Oh this blend…  Making me sing.  Need to bring the Comp Book to this desk, scribble more.  Looking through my pictures, the recent ones; Little Kerouac, smiling for whomever’s in attendance.  Wine and its elements, gripping me like songs from followed artists.  Now, I’m in song, my songs, my material.  Writing for my Life, so I can continue to have Writing 4ever in my Life.  Sip scene…

another glass… more generous though, please

And then the Cabernet sings to me

I beg it to dizzy me

Reclined, in character visions

She’s in all measures, in each verse

Chorus curves

Tannins talk tussle

I agree, freely

The poetry pairs perfectly

And I stop the recital,

as I want another taste

of the ’07.  But I

refuse

to write prose.  2nite

calls for rime, the erratic

pick of my fortuitous

flips.  Rewind with three lines.

Return to churn another

urn ode.  Open my poem

book to turn troves.  This

wine might want me to

stop.  I think it’s

a cop.  She’s controlling

all my motions.

Feels like a sugar cube

pyramid crumbling on

me.  Lovely.

(3/22/12, Thursday)

I’m Full, like this Cabernet

“This wine is full of itself,” a lady, on the second tour I did today, said.  There was endearment, when I asked what she meant.  She spoke of the ’07 Estate Cab, what I wound up bringing home, from her analysis.  She also said it was like a staircase, having many steps.  I thought of how wine is wordplay, more Literary, musical, than I perhaps before accredited it.  I came home to little Jack quite awake, more vocal than I’ve ever witnessed him.  I then followed my thoughts to what this writing’s “supposed to be,” if it involves wine.  If I’m writing a “wine blog.” If you know me, you know what I think.  I’m just going to write, follow my own key pushes.  That’s the enthrallment of each sitting.  Right now, Jack listens to my Thievery Corporation station on Pandora, through my phone.  He coos every few measures or so.  I’m deducing he enjoys my music, as before he appeared unsettled when I set him down in his little open-top bassinet.  Although this session’s a little rushed, it’s in a tier of favorites, most-memorable’s.  My son, growing in complexities, intricacies, proclivities.  Much like a wine, a character in an Austen novel.  I can tell he’s engaged with the tracks, their BPM’s.  He’s musical, and certainly more aware than I am of a song’s tonal recipe.

Beautiful in AV today.  Can’t wait to taste the ’07 I brought home.  Also looking forward to 2nite’s writing in bed.  Need to go through some recent video footage I’ve shot.  Some interesting interactions, beautiful footage of the Kaz grounds, among additional catches.  This current track, slower.  Taking me to Paris, a boat ride on the Seine with Mr. Jack.  We talk about local cuisine, Art shown at the museums through which we stepped.  What we’re going to do the next day, and that after.  We’re on a family Art peregrination.  Thought escape; Conference.  He just spoke again, my little man.  What is he thinking, waving his arms as he does, be it involuntarily or purposefully?

8:52pm.  And, Lancaster’s (AV Winery’s) ’07 Estate sits in glass.  Had one sip.  Mild, well-paced for an ’07.  Feel like prose isn’t suiting me in the way I wish it, today.  Need a switch to musical, more rhythmic, cubist, penning’s.  Why am I using apostrophes so much, lately?  Because of prose, its laws, expectations.  I write alongside the whimsicality, spontaneity of wine’s world, now.  Poet forever; So rules, no rules, will ever rule me.

Prose tends to, or has the potential to exhaust both writer and reader.  Little Kerouac sees my approach, understands it.  “Whooooooo,” he says.  Remembering what it felt like to recite verses onstage.  Sharing meter, random rime, syllabic patterns, alliteration.  If I read prose, people would just listen, more than likely.  not move, react.  They‘ simply listen, some feeling forced.  Prose can’t hold music in its characters like poetry can.  So, switching modes…  I want concert, performance.  All Eyez On Me…

 

Intensely remedied, setting scenes on a

mezzanine.  Plenty fees entailed in ending

leaves.  My dialogue’s on a lightning rod,

awaiting strike; debating plight on a tightened

flight.  My sight’s enlivened like a kite’s height.

Removed, all hindsight.

 

(3/22/12, Thursday)

Journal — 3/16/12, Saturday

A day of wine journalism ahead of me, with this new “storm,” landing in SoCo’s borders.  My day’s destination, St. Francis Winery.  At about 5pm, or a couple minutes prior, I’l be packing up for the Fountaingrove Inn, where I’ll be conducting my first offsite pouring for SFW.  Not sure which bottles are scheduled to be poured, but it really doesn’t hold that much impact, this case’s unknowns, as I’m more than familiar with everything they produce.  That, and their wines truly sell themselves.  The House of Big Reds, as its called, has a following so loyal, and a reputation so entrenched in the wine world and industry, that I’ll literally just be pouring.  And if I do talk, it’ll be nothing more than expected introductions, basic fundamentals on the wines.

Yesterday, hosted another tour at Lancaster, then to WineBizRadio for my appearance.  Always fun, and quite informative, spending time with those gentlemen.  One note still in my head from yesterday: the two verticals I poured on the tour.  Well, mini-verts.  ’07 and ’08 for both Cuvée and Estate Cabernet.  With the Cuvée, I prefer the ’07, with its 15% Merlot content, whereas with the Estate Cab I turn head to ’08, with its darker characteristics and endless echo of a finish.  So, this made me think about vintage variation, and how consumers (myself very much included) will speak in convenient generalities when it comes certain years, and then specific varietals in those years.  2007 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon, evidenced.  There’s no Napa Cab from ’07 that’s anything less than biblical, right?  No.  Each bottle, yesterday’s tasting reinforced, is its own presence.  Then, you have the discriminating palate, which we all have, atop that.  So, it’s entirely irrational for one to say they’ll always take one year over another in all circumstances.  The group for which I yesterday poured, pretty much split down the middle, when it came to which Cuvée and Cab were their preferred’s.

Can still taste those wines Christophe brought last night, to the show.  Something from Argentina with an encouraging nose but a decrepit palate presence, then an ’05 white, I think a Sémillon.  The latter bottle, like dusty formaldehyde.  Too old.  And I do remember a little discoloration.  He brought it in simply for educational purposes, and a bit of targeted humor, but it was an experience, all same.  Now, I’m cuing my equipment, charing my devices for the rainy day of wine pouring and blogging, JOURNALISM, ahead.  Wrote some article topics into the Comp Book yesterday at work.  Need to put them on a list as not be removed from sight, especially mind.  Each idea forgotten or wasted, is just that.  Which means, no pay.  Back to prep…  (8:50am)