Two weeks till 39,

img_4124tomorrow last of Spring ’18, and this glass of the St. Francis OVZ, my last.  Tom Wolfe died today, and again I’m reminded.. curt, life is a trash compactor wall.  So I sip and scribble and meditate over day at winery, where I wondered how many times I can wipe down a counter, how many times I can walk out to the vineyard, saying to self I should taste the Pinot Gris a couple more verses till it says something that actually says something to me.

This Zinfandel isn’t with my sitting, not here on this floor and with me and these keys.  Wishing self back to car, on my drive down to Anaheim in the harshest of A.M. dark time, morning, after getting coffee and letting thoughts trample me going across the Richmond-San Rafael bridge.  I don’t care about my age, not massively nor with minuscule sole.  I onward step and type and look to the light right above my head near a non-moving fan, hearing the fridge growl at me from left knowing the time is tempered and taught to squared legs.

a thousand wines project


Telling me to consider a new form, new song, new shape of Syrah’s hold. Moving wildness and peripatetic pulse and gaze from this purist Rhône sway.  Assuring berry climb and more picturesque arrangement of palate and poise.  After the third or fourth sip, I could feel the narration further settle it rhythm and taste rate.  This is antithetical to that lazy Syrah stereotype that I’ve so frequently met and seen stretch.  Another lesson, another meditation, collection of self in this personification, oration, poetic station.  Beacon of body and togetherness the more she’s let to get into performance mode, ready for recital.  Opened at 6:15, about, and sipped nearly immediately.  I wanted the character in her most truest and prophetic of flights.  Didn’t have another glass until near an hour after I brought her to counter, invited her to read her alchemical pages, verses.  Now I saw her songs, new tracks in each sip and more cogent code and presence. She taught me patience, bright and non-turbulent amour.  Promise and prognostication, what’s ahead for me in my wined story.  Mendocino Ridge, always being one of my sought-after regions, and mon frère de vin, Master Sommelier Brian McClintoc, letting me get ahold of a couple presences.  Was sure I’d take to her well before the cork removal, but last night proof kept me.

Writing my notes I kept sensing new little and sometimes significant suggestive climates and seismologists.  She delivered acute coyness coupled with deep ardor and intentions, notably with a mythic dark chocolate hum, hymn.  Her most self-defining chapter, begin… shapely earth, fog, climate, steepness of the Mendocino Ridge discloses in known cogent abode.  Now, I felt elevated, both in soul and interactive goal, far beyond merely getting to know her or see what my friend me sent.  Truth in revolution and Syrah-sown absolution.

Everything in her notes tells me to persist in exploration.  More than jazz, more than the simply sensual, but a revolving revolution of understanding, meditative cosmos coupling with angular ease, encircling zen, again, again…. Writing more in my kitchen, looking at the bottle, the color of the now-empty glass arena from where she me taunted, I See.  More in the verses of the bottle, the vintage and where she’s from, that vineyard in that elevated appellation.  Escaping with her, away from stress and any encroachment.  Just she, me, the sequencing rhythm sea.  Repeated and with no cacophonous redundancy.

New interest and magnetic alertness, me standing and jotting notes quickly as able.  I felt, feel as I type this finally, indebted about our encounter and new association.  Remembering the first sip, glass, to last.  New stories and narrative, Syrah and the ’16 dialogue.  Just want to lock Self in a room away from everything and continue in my write for her.  Why wouldn’t I want to… when a wine speaks to you as she did, does, there has to be action, an answer, a sequence of collection and aim to further be part of what she sang.  I just lean, back into pillow, reliving the initial touch, last, and now these collected note echoes.


Wine.  My day beginning with it. 

IMG_E1251All its music and visual, character interactions and lovely distractions.  Yesterday, seeing quite a few people and tasting through the wines hearing new voices from each varietal, being taught and shown new facets to my character and intersection with wine’s empiricism.  She wants to educate me but let me educate self.  If there was ever an entity that encourage self-education, it’s wine.  It’s her.  There in the glass, taunting your reactions and responses, not so much wanting your to dumb what you sip down to simplistic “descriptors”, but feel what you feel, hear what you hear and see what you see for yourself and your wined story.

Have to leave the coffee shop in a bit, just under nine minutes, and I already know what I want from wine, from the day, from the intwined rhyme of wine and I… the music we together make… wine is more than poetry or music but an atmospheric expanse about— predicating itself on our senses and the vineyard from where it sauntered to our lives.  One of those mornings where I think about wine, me in the industry, the business of it all but more so out there in the vineyard on one of my walks.


2/9/18 wined —

Back from dinner.  Had a Vermentino, one from France at the recommendation of my friend Ritch, or “Ritchie” as I’ve always had him known, to me.  Then some Nebbiolo at his suggestion, again.  The acid and the fruit pulsed together like some theatre dance, one I couldn’t understand but only know that they went together.  They had a togetherness, like me and the writing act.  So here I sit, on the floor of my home, my mnemonic motions don’t sprawl as they usually do.  Thinking of wine, and what I’m doing in her world, just free writing while sipping, like now, a Friday night which means utterly nothing to a writer like me.  Tomorrow hoping to wake early and run as I did yesterday morning, arriving at the gym before 05:00.  But now, I just type, while sipping.  Wine and me, with this popularity, and fiery chemistry and interconnected concurrency.  Sipping the Pinot I opened before wife and I went to Rosso.  A ’12, Sonoma Coast, not speaking to me much in the beginning sips of this pour but now thoroughly harnessed to me attention and inner musings.

She more and more walks around my attention, encircling it with taunt and encouraging tough.  This bottle has me in the Now, in the moment, educating and enriching in all its powers, making me smitten and the story expands and more me demands.  She’s instrumental, decidedly cognitive in her sentenced saunter and lecture, calculated approach and addle— and I don’t mind being in this spellbind, bound into some coma of sorts, my senses chained, restrained, hardly pained.  She, wine, me, on stage eternally, collaboratively.  She won’t allow distraction in this maddened past when… future is present and presently I’m future-beset.  Not go-let.  So I meditate further and collect.  Look at the glass, and think further into pasts passed.


Morning, early, finishing article, or one of my ‘wild writes’, and now have to dive into grading papers.  The part of teaching I enjoy least, do know.  But I have to do it.  I will, in my won and own way, not some perception of how papers are to be “graded”.  Ugh… and anymore, I hate that.  Grading papers, students being evaluated and told how good or bad, how strong or weak they are.

One minute left for me to be free in this write, in this morning… exercising my rights as a wild writer, or wine and self-education… seeing everything different this morning, and it’s from waking and not just going back to bed.  Can’t thank the universe, the Story, enough for making me awake stay.



Go to war for your SHOP!!!!!!!!  Just wrote in my notepad, now back into an hour for me, to write freely, about business and life and how now is one of those times where I just want my own office.  In the shop, so I don’t have to sit next to two ladies speaking loudly to each other about family drama and all their projects.  Guess I do something somewhat similar on the blogs from time to time, but… yes, here I am and this is what’s taking place.  Overthinking…not doing it today.  My pages continue to get wilder and wilder, and I only see myself in travel, traveling everywhere for and with wine.

Now, another piece about to be finished.  What was it about this morning that made me decide to get up from bed, go turn on the coffee machine and just get to it… me, my brand and company.. the wild wine writer and wild writer in principle practice.  The music in this Starbucks is loud, and annoying me.  Then, a cramp in my right forearm… am I getting carpel?  No.. that’s in the hands, right?  I think of all the injuries sustained on the crush pad by production staff, and out in the vineyard.  I sound like a baby, but I have to deliver to page what’s happening now.

Have to use restroom, not even halfway into my mocha, but don’t want to surrender my spot.  Interrupted by call but I keep writing…. But, no blenching.  No wavering or questioning self, wondering if what I’m doing with my writing, be it about wine or education, is “right”.  The morning just goes further into its count, and I rival its energy and moment as I did right when I woke.  In the shop, I see myself pouring wine for visitors from another country, but even before pouring I explain the intention of the shop, my intentions with wine, briefly, and what I hope they leave with beyond mere bottle purchases.  The shop represents consolidation, positive persistence through life, and work.  Work, not just what you do but who you are.  Not just living in passion and doing your passion for work, but the denotative and connotative immediacy of passion.  Love.  Happiness.

Re. Visiting.

IMG_9971Old shot of a tasting at a spot I used to haunt in Healdsburg, I think.  Imported wines, from several planetary parts.  Reminding me that I need to travel, I need to get on the Road.. put everything on this blog and not think.  One side of me growls, “Well, you need to sell your writing.” And I will.  But now… review what I’ve sipped, what I’ve written and shot.  Using what I already have.  She, wine, wants that.  Wants me to see more of her.

I stare at the colors, the contorted labels… what was I saying in head about the notes of those wines… who was with me?  Who was watching me?  What were the wines thinking when I lifted the glass, was introduced to … what.