Pinot and the Penner

IMG_6856On my last Pinot glass, and feeling relieved and free, with this consolidating urge, all writings funneled and filtered into one effort or voice, or book– that’s what it is!  I say to myself.  I need only to write books.  This wine tells me to fall further into wine’s story and into the voracious vortex that laments my wine curiosities.  and I won’t lie, reader, I very much feel the wine tonight, oh yes I do like Hemingway at La Coupole, scribbling away at my novel and — then I think of something else to do.  Away with this notebook, I tell you– or laptop rather (that wast he wine typing, there)… earlier writing in my little notepad on the patio of this Autumn Walk base, looking out at the street, watching Jackie play with his friends and even when there was no one there, on that pavement, I thought of the moment and how terrific, utterly, it was and is to be here on this street as a writer, watching you only son interact with the other younglings… another sip of this Boekenoogen ’13 Pinot.  Knowing I need to have my own label directly in motion at 2016’s beginning, seeing my son in the tasting room, greeting people and telling them we’re pouring this, that, a blend and a single vineyard whatever…

Getting up at 5AM tomorrow morning, somehow.. last glass nearly finished.  But then I look down at, to left to couch’s side, and I see I have at least two maybe three lion-like licks left.  Shit.. why did I pour myself another glass?  I blame myself and the day back at the winery today and how it, Arista, even more made the writer yodeling in wine’s promise.  So now what.. I guess just drink my glass last, and watch a movie, one that will keep the writing writing in morrow’s harsh morrow.


fate, a wined warrant [act 2]

10:22pm.  Want to be done with night writing by 11p.  Is that wrong, that I eventually want to stop writing, just relax?  Have the Comp Book next to author, in case the urge surfaces.  Wine 2 for night, another Cab, more eased, transitional, scenic than pour 1.  Need another glass, now I’m in thought.  But what would that do?  What would Kelly say?  I have to work in morrow’s early marrow.  So, when in doubt…  Another pour of the ’07.  Whoops, wasn’t supposed to disclose.  Reading over this morning’s verses.  Inspired to be on stage.  Collecting pieces for Self, my new mission.  Not for a publisher, not for a book-length project.  Just for me.  My Self.  I AM the material, the manuscript.  Don’t have to spend the biz stash on a chapbook of poems.  I walk in rhyme, I find…  Have always.

Tiring, I won’t lie.  Need that last glass of wine, here at 10:29[pm].  Still incensed by the character, poking at Artists.  How is someone like Mike Madigan just supposed to sit still, stay silent?  I can’t.  That’s not how I was raised.  I know the wine industry would love for my to stretch invisible mind tape over my chatterbox.  But, Dad always told me, “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you…others are dying to think for you.” Others want to talk about others, how they write…  I just want to write.  Why are some so hungry to judge?  Do their lives lack so palpably?  Shameful.  When I’m his age, I hope I’m either beyond, or comfortably fluid in self-publication.

Just poured the final glass.  Clocking out at 11p, definitively.  This 2nd Cab, evolving into a ballet-like stretch.  What does it want me to think?  Again I think, what is my first vintage doing, right now, in the St. Francis Winery production area?  You know what sounds good now?  A beer.  Racer 5, in fridge…  No.  Need to settle.  And to be frank, I need this page poised.  The Comp Book, at side.  Will make sure my songs continue in revolution.  Want another sip, just like Hemingway, London, Poe, Plath in her  atmospherically ambrosial disclosures, journaled.  What do I do, but pour another glass, adore my druthers’ mast.  My character, waiting on a mezzanine, somewhere in verve.  But where?  Getting my next glass…  From bottle 3.  Feel like I haven’t been taught as much as I’d hoped in this tasting.  True, I’m not at all familiar with chemical intricacies as others, but like Dad told me, I have a palate.  Actually, he said, when I revealed my insecurity of not having the background Katie did, DOES, “You have THE palate.” This should, I hope, be read by those slighting Artists, what we do.  We’re more than merely valid…  Perhaps more so than YOU.

11pm.  Late submission.  Good thing I’m Self-employed with blog, answering only to Self; Dependent upon no corporation, its evil lean, suited troops.  Find distraction so appealing.  This means I need to clock out, now [at 11:04pm].


Memory:  In 1997, I think, I was let go early on my last day at a job, for challenging a “supervisor.” She said, “Is this your last day?” I told, confirmed, affirmed, it was.  She threw, “You can go, then.  You’re done.” So funny, I thought.  And I still do, in this “industry.” Wine’s robots, just jesters, for writer amusement.

Literary Lunch, 1/24/12

Tuesday.  Finished a standalone piece.  600 words of fiction about one of my preferred characters.  Feeling entirely Literary today.  Creatively careless.  Clocked out at 12:44p, I think.  Sipping mocha2, no surprise.  Don’t really feel last night’s run, may have to put Self on another after work.  Then, still.  A little girl, probably 2 years old, with her dad, at table to right.  She plays with his cell phone.  I look at her and am reminded of time, how indiscriminately speedy it is.  As she dives into a fit, he strolls her out the door.  Even still, how did I get from that age to this one?  What happened?  Where did it go?  Where did I go?

Still devoted to the book, just not working on it now.  Events of the morning shaped my scope for shorter works.  Now, I have three written in ’12 that I could submit.  Working on some wine-grounded things outside the page that I’ll disclose later.  But, know, there are changes coming.  Ones that’ll find their way to a page, pages.  Books.  Or shorts.

The Roasting Company, nearly empty now.  A young man and woman sit in my usual seat, which is fine.  I’m by the stairs, Napa’s main intersection, the view of, at right.  So much traffic this afternoon.  This morning’s fog, promising, optically musical.  Wish I could have just pulled over, called into the the office, and wrote.  Just ink, page.  No laptop.  The buttons wouldn’t have paired with what I saw in Carneros.  Such visible dampness begs a brush, canvas.  Not a device.

Need a glass of wine, soon.  Miss the entity of wine, how it gravitates on tongue, provokes imagination, especially for me as a writer.  Getting tired.  Would love a nap right now.  Or, to just go home and write.  I could stay here, right?  Just counting down time left for me.  Hate that.  You know what, I’m just going back early.  Bandaid philosophy…