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.
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.
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…