pensée du vin

20:14. Hate that I can’t think. In hotel. Kids asleep… A little of the Corliss left. Will have that then bed. Can’t remember what day it is in the wine shop countdown, but I’m already significantly into its write. Going mad in this hotel room. Why can’t they paint our house faster– I mean, it’s painting. I’m rude, and speaking from no experience which just makes me an asshole, and idiot. Not sure which of, more. Have to taste more wines, study more vin businesses. MAKE MORE MONEY.

Ah…. and after a slow, meaningful wave of my love, that Carliss Malbec… I’m back to my maniscript’d nuit. Quiet… but not the same as in the Autumn Walk Studio. Wife waking early tomorrow for her workout class. Hope I wake with, if anything to just write the wildest jots and maniacal lines on wine, SHE pushing me to write this way.. this tempo and rhythm and compliment to second, day, dream, hour ever.

Defining her.. I’m not concerned with if it’s possible. The possibility/plausibility, any likelihood of cementing a definition isn’t true concern to this writer. More an exploration– but that sounds too familiar.. then what am I doing with wine, purposing so much of my life to her– writing, time in the tasting room, social moments, photography, family, and whatever else. What is the intention, whether conscious or un-? Before I can “define” her, I have to know ‘why me’, first. Why am I sipping her now in this hotel room? Why did I spend over 8 hours at a winery, today? Why am I not putting more into education, teaching at the JC? Can I define me? Or, am I mostly connotative composition?

She’s the ignition behind this inquiry. The lights to a contemplative Road. Think the Malbec’s gone… what am I feeling. Not lachrymose but… I don’t know. What– Could I describe it? Will I? No… keep writing, like Brian told me. I will. And I don’t really hope at all I find anything. Especially not an answer. And all forbid a bloody definition.

First thought…

The Malbec from last night, just the wine I’d want to make. 06:30 now, coffee made, and I’m thinking of wine. Tempted to take it to work and share, but I don’t want to share even a droplet from that bottle. Will come home, or ‘hotel’, and see how she’s speaking. I don’t want much to change, if anything– texture, song, fruit-scape, that leathery light at sip’s start to non-end… can still taste her now. All shapes and geometries of her way–

My first thought, before anything in day ignites, is her.. wine. Art. A bottled gallery of emotion and effort, task and memory.

from this morning’s wined thousand–

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…re-echoing and punctuating what was in my head last night falling asleep on couch, thinking I was coming down with some cold or bug or something that would just love to slow a wild writer… No, I said… “Be more wild, be crazy.. edit less, just put it all to page.  Fearless isn’t even the word.  It’s lightyears past that.”

Love mornings.  Mornings like this, even with the stress and the excess containment of the hotel getting to a writer I’m composed with my composition, compositions, books approaching— me just a wine drinker who’s not afraid to write what he sips.  This morning accidentally spilled out that ’13 Santa Rita Hills Pinot I last night popped.  Did that accidentally this morning trying to clean up, pouring older unfinished bottles to drain.  Thought the Pinot was the Chard… “Shit.” I thought.  Oh well.  Have more to taste today.  Yesterday in the cave during event, feeling like a soldier behind sandbags and only having open bottles of ’14 Carneros Chardonnay to defend myself.  People yesterday, in cave and tasting room were unusually impatient, and somewhat aggressive.  One couple sneaking around the cave bar, behind me essentially, nearly shouting to me “We’re ready for our pour…” After sneaking around the Jericho wall of people in front of me I struggled to keep with and keep wine in their glass to pair with those holiday cookies.  So a morning like this morning is more than bloody necessitated.

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Would love to go down to TR now, taste through a couple, but… too early, and I’m not ready to tussle with fruit flies.  Not yet.  Just want to enjoy my session here and see what else the morning teaches me… be wild, defiant.  But how.  What can I do?  I’m in an office.  Should I go write in the vineyard?  Is that what the morning wants me to do?  I think it might.  I can write about the vineyard as I often do… or write IN them, all of them, in the Cabernet lot at hill’s top, or that hidden PV block overlooking that little valley behind the property.  Be around wine, be wild, be in the vineyard and be part of it more than anything in the tasting room, or some bloody cave bar.  Seeing the gem stash in writing madly… have to get out to the vineyard.. but have to use the restroom first… drat.  What do I do.  Time escaping me.  No.. fuck time.  I have to get out to the vineyard.

Cold out here, in car, the silence is not off putting as much as it is unexpectedly eclectic.  Everything from the frost on the ground to the angle at which the sun dashes through the leaves… I’m part of what’s out here now and what used to be out here.  It’s strange but it’s what’s always been my story and been destined to be my story.  I remember right after Jackie was born, over five years ago, I worked a day at St. Francis Winery and walked the vineyard, wrote some verse, and just breathed out there with dormant vines all around me, thinking I need to do more with and for this, all this, every vine around me… more than just pouring wine in a tasting room.

Education.  This morning, the thought last night on the couch, this staying in a goddamn hotel for who knows how long now.  Life… wine…

20:45

Emma booting me from bed, so I’m in this hotel couch which is so far from comfortable it’s impressive. Xmas tree, lit to right, Kerouac asleep in bed behind me. Emma in a crazed state, only wanting to talk and play and engage in games… Finally quiet, the writer thinks to self. Could change in a microbeat of beat. Hear people taking elevator just out door, walking, drunk I think. Fucking people. Why can’t we just be home. And why won’t these sloppy sludge-bladders go to sleep? Don’t they have to work tomorrow, any of them? My mood is low and I drank the last of the coffee in this room. So if I wake early I’ll just have to tap natural fuel, something to start session.

Think Emma finally fell to some sort of sleep shape. But then the clowns upstairs thump and jump and just hard-step on their floor ’cause they’re animal idiots who think this hotel is their private dumbshit den. Need sleep, I know, okay… It’s late, but not. And right now, I’m not. I’m a tired writing daddy, thinking about everything I have to do at the winery, and how to make the day read-worthy… Just go to sleep. You need bed, you need rest. Writers can’t always write.

Yeah, yeah…..