In the Pacific Grove/Carmel area.
In the Pacific Grove/Carmel area.
Slept in a little. As did kids. Made them both breakfast downstairs, Jack some cereal and Emmie a bagel. Then they back to play. I get an idea for a novel, or story, or something. I need time to write, I say to myself. Start a new doc on lap—NO, don’t do that. Reminding self of no new anything’s. Use what you have. So I tear off the yellow pages used on legal pad to left, and start jotting notes, world and life of a character in Redwood City. Real Estate Agent, commercial mostly. Very what you’d lament as successful. In the business for over 20 years. One night goes to a function at hotel, one side of floor, or one room on one side, a real estate gala for top producers and fancy glossy shiny characters showing off all their money and what they’ve done, their numbers and what not while on the other side is an event of over a hundred small family producers. The character, Eric, buys a ticket on the spot to get into the wine event. He sees all these small producers from Sonoma, Napa, Mendo, Carmel, Santa Barbara and the areas surrounding…. Lake County even, and sees the simplicity of it. The family framing of it. He’s always taken to wine, “collected” I guess you’d say, but never appreciated the love and family, the farming nature and step to wine. He decides to take a step back, down… at first he wants to sell his business, or just quit and get out. But no…. he wants use real estate to aid and abet and beget his wine sight. He wants that… may be too late in life for a family for him, single and 45-ish, but he wants the vineyard(s), the walks, he wants to be around family wineries, family people… THIS, whatever it is…..
Just an idea at this point, born in quarantine. Raining outside, sipping my second cup. Going to do some budgeting and more noting of this Eric’s echo and rush toward wine and being what he said. Jack bounces a dying and deflating balloon around me… Jack calls to Emma, she yells down, “What you need me fo’?…. You call my name loud.” She says. Jack tells her she’s hearing things, I laugh, ask what he wants… he tells me a PS4. I say, “No dude, from Starbucks. They don’t have PS4’s at Starbucks, bro..”
“Dada… hold on, don’t look yet…” Jack says behind me. Me, a bit nervous, agree to wait. “Say hi to my new friend…” he says, then showing me a face drawn with permanent on the balloon and a hat on the character’s head. He has fangs and am told he’s 4 years-old, he loves watching baseball and loves the Angels, Jack furthers. Jack reads what I just wrote, I edit from his reading noting slight flaws and exposures in the prose’s complexion. I look out the window again, back to my Eric notes. Finish a goddamn book, I remind myself… this quarantine is just what a writer needed to finish a book. Not stopping this new journal, but noting that I’m noting new notes for another world and thesis, new voice and sight, climate and cause.
Woke up just a shadow after 5 this morning. No mood to write. Sipping water now after only a bit of wine and craft beer. Need to finish a book, that dream, or dreams, last night, this morning motioned. In the city today, in the 10-month office of that startup, having me wound in thought like hyperactive cat, or something. Not sure what I’m thinking right now, tired as I am. Just knowing I need to finish my the book, or not—yeah, maybe I don’t. Maybe I just need to post more. To this very fucking blog. Put everything into the world, every thought. A book will come later, won’t it? I’m tired and shouldn’t be writing. Just before 10, should just go to bed so I’m assured a run at lunch tomorrow. Need one, after how I ate today… the breakfast burrito, then that Italian chicken sandwich in Novato… then pasta for dinner, and a dessert (which wasn’t too heavy and crazy). I know, it’s the exhaustion that has me overthinking. SO, bed, writer. Go to fucking sleep. If you want that office in Healdsburg, or the city, or offices in multiple towns like the show shop you met today, with two spots in NYC and one in Australia? Or was it two in Australia? One in NY? Bed… Couple more sips of the iced water…
Odd dream, so I’m awake. Not a nightmare, but odd, and it was third person. Main character being chased, and I only observing. Felt useless as a character. Is that’s what’s keeping me up? Definitely how a writer would look at it. Write your book, the dream or dreams tell me. What’s chasing me, or the character I’m writing is the story.
Have to be in the office at 7 for a ride along. Wonder where we’re going. Last time I had one of these I was newly hired. Yes, I remember, the Friday of my first week. Now I’m coming up on a year. Writer at a tech company.
Not ready to go back to sleep. Even if I were I wouldn’t be able to, more than likely. So…. what.
Flight plan for day. Be mobile. Move around. Go outside the usual print of the day. Don’t have to start moving for a bit. Physically moving, that is. An ’09 Chardonnay last night utterly stunned me, how it was still alive and saying something, wanting itself known and heard, felt. The post-it on my desk, reading “Circles Paths Questioning” so much in line and tune with last night’s screw-top Alexander Valley Burgundy. The Chardonnay writes the day’s flight plan, where we’re to land, what our altitude will be. Today, all music… all song. Each scene and movement in this tech office is a track. Walking back from leaving the lunch I brought in the fridge I cringed a bit thinking how today could be just another day, mirroring yesterday or others past. Then I said no, no, I’m pronouncing my proclamation to have today be all music.
Latte starting to work, grip soul and structure of this day’s story. Asking me, or making me ask self, “Would I produce a Chardonnay?” Not sure I would. I’ve thought about it, and in these entries talked about it. But serious consideration of Chardonnay production…. Not sure.
Was shown something that has me afire. Now I vary and make more colorful my approach and productivity composition. Not limiting self to one thing, one path or promise. But multiple. A myriad-esque approach to this, what I do as an AAE. Interesting role, this is. Putting me more and more in a vineyard in Bordeaux, or more than likely more immediately here in Sonoma or Anderson Valley. The person showed me not knowing what was in my head, where I was in the week’s story. Which makes it all so much valuable more.
Sip latte, wondering if a run will happen today. Think it will. Right now still moving a bit slow and only wanting to explore this new idea I have… not writing it here but in the Kerouac journal. Haven’t done so, yet. This idea is so consuming and seductive that I may need to take a break, go for a walk and sit in breakroom, or outside in back of building as I did that one day.
Business cards all over desk. Part of puzzle. What is success, being successful… far as I can see it’s not stopping, and reaching some peak of total creative and functional autonomy. Distracted by the idea itself, now. It’s more than value, more than a monetary potential, but….. not sure what it is. What species, what phylum, what form or category, sub-category. It’s present and I hear it. The IT to it all.
This is not just simple mobility, staying moving. No. It’s…. why do I have to define it? Why not just build from it. I will. For my vineyard, small little wine story. And yes, I’m thinking now, Chardonnay has to be in the rally. Today, a Chardonnay, one like last night. Seemingly past its presence and persuasive power but not at all. Not thinking, just writing.
Run at lunch. On phones all day. Just a minute ago booked my first appointment. In final 15 minutes of day. Desk, a thin scatter of ruin. Papers and notes, papers with crazy whirlwind’d notes. Teaching self to not think about it. Let the day end, drive up to parents house for a bit to check on it, maybe have a beer, and go home. Need to write at some point tonight, and wake early for more prose in the morning. I just yesterday cemented a conviction. My winery. Or label. Have to have one. But I need capital. Don’t want to be a slave to some investor tribe in some shiny highrise thinking they know what goes into wine and winemaking and speaking your winery’s narrative.
Bought a Rose from Medlock last night. Totally shouldn’t have. Wasn’t expensive, but I did break my budget promise. Either way, one of the best Rose offerings I’ve had in a while. Maybe one on my eventual menu, pouring it out of tank like that footage someone texted me, of my sister speaking to some VIP group touring the crush pad/production facility.
Could use a Chardonnay. Nothing red. Luckily when I went for my lunch run it wasn’t too hot, but after just taking a break and walking to my car the sun let its force and fierce fire known. So, yeah, no red. Last night at the Medlock event the guy behind the counter told me someone just ordered a full glass of Cab. And it was BLAZIING in AV yesterday. Not sure how anyone does that. And it’s their proclivity, but not mine. Not me.
Tired from that run, every so often and now more frequently stretching, yawning. Was on a conference call earlier and I had to mute the phone as I was yawning so much and with audible volume that shocked even me. Wine has never been more warranted. Vowing to write 500+ words about whatever I’m sipping. OR, what it makes me think of. Chardonnay always puts me back on that boat trip we took in late ’07, down the Mexican coast. We sipped Chardonnay on our deck. Hoping to go back, with only one glass tonight.
And ’11 white, and ’16 red. From Spain, bot. In the quiet kitchen consistent with my vinified vision, speaking in poetic tongues and abetted stuns. Character compiled in this sole presence and thought lot, caught in wine’s promise and spell, she tells me to stay, be still but keep in my truest move.
Haven’t touched the red. Letting her wake as she wishes. Shouldn’t say let, rather inviting her, hoping she wants to me as I her, after the week, this day, the introduction to a new story at work, learning a new style of business in a new way. All narrated and keeping self in that vineyard block, the one I now see, the 337 Lancaster block right by the parking lot. As the clock moves in its knotted ticks and tocks, me here with more sight. Tomorrow in Napa which I haven’t done in too long. On drive, notes hopes, talk to friend Chris while he kindly drives. Expect nothing. Plan nothing. Write little Paginate the experience and story when it’s done. Feel the early wake, just before 4 technically, speak to me. Urging bed, urging rest, urging early wake for a run prior to drive over the mountain.
This could be one of the more agreeable and interesting, seductive and capturing white wines I’ve had in some time. Why am I just writing about her, why am I not penning, noting the notes. Don’t want to be like Parker and whatever that one guy’s name is, and then the other twit I always see posting about his attendance at events hoping to be taking seriously or as something of a wine something. I don’t want to be a clown. Am I calling them clowns, no. Or maybe. I just don’t want to resemble anything they do. I’m present for the pages in the puddle, what’s transposed from and to the character by the alchemical atmosphere, right here, what I just sipped.
See clusters in a bin, in Spain in certain corners of this contemplative vein. A light, airy beat of sea and cliff, some sort of sand and trees by a boulder. Never seen it, but it’s on my out-of-body shoulder. Letting the glass be, the wine, she, with a freeing frolic of echoing chords and singular notes. Each, its own anecdote. I’m not the writer du vin I was when I started. I know that. I’m older. Shit, some days I just feel old. But she assures me I’m fine, encourages more recital, more music… Only write music, musically, she pleas. This ’16.
Now for the ’11, reckon. Last couple sips of the Albarino. Technically misspelled but this goddamn laptop won’t let me insert the symbol. Fighting the tired, telling it to be gone or face a fight. Nearly done, the red over there looking at me and reciting poetry I can’t hear till I sip, fully engage and stay embraced. Wine, educating me as she knows I need new Newness in this Now. 8:44, just minutes before bed possibly. No way to know. And that’s what wine is, not knowing. Letting time find you, and you drawing from the confines of the presented page. Sip, scribble, learn, live.
Throwing myself into this project. What project? What is it meant to accomplish I’m not sure but I have something new here, a book, maybe. Again this morning I see a day ahead of me, one to do something and record everything. But enough promising, enough cyclical prose, this cold coffee I made last night orders and loudly notes. This house, like a parallel plain with no kids. The quiet is unnerving, really. I stay working, productive, typing. No wine to speak of last night and I’m quite glad if you should know. Was too tired, too drained from day and wasn’t in any kind of oeno-analytic act or mood, desire. Not at all. Building my collection again. Becoming a “professional consumer” as I told my friend yesterday at lunch. What the hell is that. I don’t know. But it sounds cool. Sounds like a job I’d want, could designate to self. Couldn’t I? Of course. Where do I start. One bottle. When and where do I get it. How ‘bout Oliver’s on way home. Done. Agreed. Get two. One for immediate consumption or at least near, proximal drinking and the other for never. Drink it when you’re fucking 70 or something. Forget about it. The project becomes wine-burdened as I knew it would. It had to. People call me all kinds of wine names and distinguish as some wine-whatever. I’m none of that. I don’t want any of that. I’m a recorder, recording everything, about wine and all else. The day in front of me will feed me ideas for this professional consumer curiosity and who knows what else. Wine leads, I write alongside not following but blindly in tow. What am I after tonight… Pinot? Cab? Have too much of that with regular shelf-pull. How about a Zin, or a Rhône blend, or a….
Coffee. A day off. But I don’t want any kind of a day off. Busy over the week but that’s no permission for non-submission. I’m writing today, and that’s all there is in my character and mind. Today I’m Jack Kerouac. More than Kerouac, or Hem, or Carver, Faulkner, I’m ME. I’m the me that had wine last night and doesn’t have to worry about speaking wine from having to speak about wine, today. I’m free. I’m free of wine’s industry and telling me what to do, busy tasks for the sake of staying busy… no. No more. I’ve said this before, but I feel obligated to again put such in these day’s pages— Wine is what I write, wrote, again write. Not the bloody industry. Or maybe I am. Maybe I should. Again, my tell-all of wine’s world and functioning and lack of. But that’s not where the knowledge is. That’s not healthy to obsess, and to do some tell-all is from vindictive voice.
Head a bit foggy this morning, from that last glass of whatever blend that was. Think Merlot and PV and maybe something else. Martin Ray’s Bordeaux varietal project. Still see myself having my own label, someday. Some little tasting room… but enough dreaming. What am I making happen, forcing to fruition today? A run. And not on a fucking treadmill. Just plugged in the running watch, that Garmin thing the wife-ish person bought me for xmas or something. She bought me one of the best models and I have not used it satisfactorily. So, then, a run. Write and write and write…. I descend upon self whenever I don’t write or don’t hit some word amount, and I know why then have no idea why. Today, new. The Newness invites me to travel from thought to thought as Neal and Jack went from State to state. I think about my life, where I am in it, riding from house to house on appointments yesterday with that tech whose name I can’t remember and so horrible I feel as we had quite an enjoyable day. Finally eating lunch in west county, Occidental, eating sandwiches I bought for us under a tree, watching people drive by on that narrow main street drag. The first house, not a house at all but a traitor on a bigger property, Windsor. Felt bad for the bloke, later in his life and that’s all he had. He was of elevated soul and disposition, saying “I’m great!” Then I felt bad for being bad. He’s fine, Mike… I said to self. When we called to make sure he was home so we could do, or the tech, DAVID, could do what he had to. Left Windsor then went to Healdsburg to connect something at this lady’s house, who lives with her photographer husband. This house I found especially interesting as the house had a beautiful side area, completely shaded and set up like a cabana, or gazebo bar or lounge area. Then in back of main structure to their shared studio. Walking up small and steep little bright dark-blue stairs to a loft, the studio area itself where her husband’s photog equipment and her web developer area situated, catty-corner to the other. There was a couch which I can only deduce was either a little gathering spot for the artists and their musings, gatherings, or a waiting area. I thought to myself this is just the studio I want, just the office I’m aiming for. I saw my office in a second home, in Healdsburg. Just blocks from the square as this dwelling was.
Then in Occidental, we drove out, out to West County’s distant dimensions. The lady’s house had some flawed connections, or some blockage in the phone line itself. I didn’t quite understand what’d transpired till after we’d left and David to me explained. What I thought was quite literary about this house was the envelopment of those tall redwood trees, if they WERE redwoods. How nice it’d be to have a place like that to write, to have a studio or some office to finally finish my fucking book. Then to lunch. Saw one of my former students, which was quite startling and pleasantly perfect for the educating day I was having riding along with my new tech ami. While the sandwiches were being mad eI used the restroom in the Union Hotel. The original Union. It felt historic, which it is, but something else I couldn’t place. Not haunted per se, but something, something was there, something had been there, there were years and years of vacationers there and however many stories and characters… something there had me. History, wine, wine’s world and town, more history and directions. The Roads…
While in the deli I looked at what wines they had. Nothing too commanding or provocative, but even still I thought of what it’d be like to be just passing through the town, having lunch with whomever I’m traveling, opening a bottle of something, and just watching, observing the town breath, learn from it. Since being with this new company, I’ve seen more possibilities in everything, everything that makes this writer who he is, how he wants to be seen. From the writing itself, to business interests and aims, tech, blogging, photography, wine and food, Sonoma County, my running, health, truly all parcels of my person. Now seated, and measuring, forecasting what I want at the end of this latest 30-day whatever. Not sure if it’s one of those challenges, or just some new representative sample. Of what I do where I am, when I’m there. What I do with time when I have it as I do now with the babies on their first day of weekend, a day off for us all, watching their little cartoon from under their little blankets. They lose their littleness by the day, and I know will one day read this, or one of my pieces or books. So this 30 days, which was shoved into action really from curiosity and something I saw from one of those business/speak self-proclaimed authorities to know fucking everything about everything. So I answer with humility and curiosity, hoping the humility eclipses. What will happen in 30? I stand back up, look at babies, knowing I need to have them ready for wife character in under an hour from now.
To the Road. MY, Road.
pouring Italian wines, all quite rare, friend from company I worked at expressing how happy she is for me now, now that I get to enjoy wine as I should as a writer and blogger. “Are you still writing about wine?” I told her yes even though I haven’t been, much, in days recent, but after today all I want to do is hop around Italian wines, and Italy, explore the entire fucking planet as much s I can and taste as much wine as I can, in any tasting room or villa, or terrace, wherever I can. Was in the ‘IW’ TR from about 12-8:15, listening to my friend Thomas speak on Italian varietals in the Mount Etna area. I’ll admit—well I don’t actually have to admit, but…-I don’t know Italian wines that much. Really not at all, till I started helping out at IW. Now I get to have fun, as I should with wine, as anyone loving wine should.
Now that I’m home, I can actually have a full glass. Was quite cautious sipping in the tasting room, Labor Day and all, and the CHP was out like the Panzer Divisions in Warsaw. I was sipping a bit, spitting, but more so listening, thinking of where I am in my wined story and how now I finally get a wined story. Me, now in tech, and I have not even a microscopic regret, will some day I swear have my own little label. I’ve written about this so many times that I’m now actually annoyed I wrote it again, another vow, another promise, but today told me… give everything to the office new, to tech, so I can play in wine. And not just for that, but my wine life is a gift from other work. How can I blend wine and tech, and beyond some silly rating app? That’s obviously too much the obvious approach. My thinking goes to discussion, to conversation, sharing of information yes but more informing other consumers.
Wine is calling me back, but not in any professional capacity. Like Bekah said, enjoy it as you want to. I will, starting with this Rosé. Blend of Nebb’, Dolcetto, Barbera, and I see some cove, the Mediterranean, me not having anything to do but write. The wine bug has bitten me several times today, warned me to stay away from the industry and if I go back it’s for my own tasting room which will be invitation-only. Friends, family, or friends or family, and family, of either. I see after today what wine should be. Not a competition, not a status-anything. Nothing the industry promotes, certainly not some corporate blob-glob pretending to be family-formed. I’m sipping wine, seeing myself somewhere, knowing that what I’ve seen in wine and wha tI now appreciate and feel is what I’m to do in the tech world. Much now answered, much now seen, a gem trove told and gleamed.