As someone who obsesses over work,

and what work he has to do, what I have planned the next day and the remaining hours of this day, I am honestly with nothing.  But I make myself write.  One student tonight saying one of her goals is, was, is to wake at 2am to get ahead in her studies and I assume write a little as she does write poetry and write in short lines, short stanzas, pieces that span only a page.  And I say ‘only’ out of awe, that she does so much to a page in only a page’s pulse.

Was nearly too lazy to write anything tonight.  Told self, “Just a hundred words, per blog.” But I can’t hold self to that.  Should I do what this student plans on doing?  Should I set alarm for 2?  Isn’t that the time of the artist, the writer and poet?  Didn’t I read that somewhere?  On my lunch today grading papers and writing in the Sonic journal as this goddamn laptop didn’t want to let me use it.  Of course, now, I do push the buttons and have a note in my writing normalcy.

Finish the fucking book, I tell myself.  Like my son said tonight as I poised to make his bed with new sheets, “GET TO WORK.” I am.  I say the same to self.  

Sip the Barbera I popped last night. It, she, more calm.  Me the opposite of anything tranquil at the moment.  Working in the home office which isn’t as common as I’d love to tell you it is.  But, WORK.  Work.  What I write about.  Force self to write when I don’t want to.  I do write about wine, but that’s not my only onus and thought light.

Now, I’m like a train with this, these writing thoughts.  I, not failed.  Not failing in my aims.  I won’t allow that.  No one should.  Why would you.  You are here, once.  And I’m not addressing the fact one only lives once…. I’m speaking to myself and you, that where you are, right now, the opportunity and life invitation to bring a project to completion is singular.  You see it once.

You are a train, if you wish be.  Some unknown animal of fruition, bringing works to an offering stage.  There are only stops that persist acknowledged.  So acknowledge none of them.  I see so many of these speakers and motivational-who-be’s profess all this counsel but don’t consider the most apparent reality… the audience member has to decide.  They only elect to act if they bring themselves to movement.  Tonight I could have just as easily poured this red from El Dorado, sat on the floor of this home study, went on phone and scrolled through some photo pour.  No.  We decide to draw, paint new plausible for our Personhood.  Decide to move, be alive, mentally, alive, wildly alive in all movements of your steps and actuating saunter. 

What work does for and to the character is animated in divinely lucrative chant.  Dodge the task, never.  Distractions and suitable sanctions to project-dodge are terminal.  The panacea, always, is preemptive production.  Never, labor deduction. 


On the eve of me leaving wine’s industry, I sip a Merlot.

img_6931The varietal that brought me into wine, that invited me into the collective compositions and narrative, luminous elucidation of it all.  After tomorrow, I’ll only write about wine.  Not be int he tasting room.  Not have to look at schedules and calendars, first thing in morning when the coffee’s barely taken its place in my pulse.  I’m sitting on the floor thinking about the past 12 years, in wine, the industry, the stories and people, everything.  Merlot, from Dutcher Crossing, inarguably the winery that made me the sales and marketing and wine storytelling expanse I am. Or that I think I am.  I’m nearly 40.  It’s time to leave. And more demanded, time to enjoy wine as a true consumer, not one saying they’re the consummate consumer, which yes I have from time to time to generate sales, which makes me feel like a slimy industry gargoyle.  But you do what you have to do.. to get that sale, oui?  Integrity.  I’m finding less and less of it, valley to valley, county to county.  I’m a consumer, now.  I write about wine.  I’m finally a wine writer.  Wow… I had to leave the business, or industry, the tasting room, whatever, to be what I’ve always wanted to… writer of wine.. translator of.

Haven’t taken my first sip yet.  I’m just staring at that Dutcher puddle, fruit from Napa, Atals Peak somewhere.  See it.. when I first arrived there, interviewing with two people now dearer than dear friends of mine.  Time, whatever it wants it just takes, and that’s my time, my life, this Now, that Now, every breath and second in a tasting room. Now, I fight back.  Tomorrow, my only plan is to thank everyone at Roth, at Foley, then start traveling.  Now I enjoy wine as a writer, a traveling wine writer who looks for any vineyard and cottage, any hut or terrace he can.  Why am I just being this, now?  I’m a wine writer, ‘cause I left the industry. There’s more than forecasted knowledge in that. I’m learning of my control, the nature of my dominance in my story.  Wine is part of it, but not everything.  So now, I sip to sip.  Imagine going to a tasting room and not identifying myself as ‘industry’.  Look at stemless plastic glass, cup, again, and breath, lean my head and neck back into the couches cushion.


First sip of the entity, and I’m in a tasting room.  I’m thinking of how I’d speak it, how I’d “describe it” if that’s what you want to say, to a guest.  I can’t tell, anymore.  I’m just into the wine.  Staring at her shade and shape, sense and poetic form, radiant rile and speak from dimensions theorized.  I’m lost, found, loving the delicious duality and dichotomy of not just this wine but my wine story, the past, since ’06….  No miss.  Only a cherishing tryst.  I think.  Again, I’m lost in this, not sure if celebration’s the word, but something to the tune and tilt, tone of.



The day has a voice, I suppose.  But mine’s louder, more rhymes and with more wander and beaming momentum, notice.  So, I give it notice, put it on notice, that I’m not interested in what it intends.  I decide the rhythm and the song to be played, what I recite and the pace of such.  My ways are must, necessitated and in the moment, not at all pre-meditated.  For the most part.

Today, all parts of it, scenes and Roads, need know that I’m conducting.  My voice is loving, but assertive.  And here I go…. There is no decision to be made, not that I’ve already made one.  I’m simply moving, deciding.  The notice, Monday.

In the tasting room, everything. 

img_3043The concentration of some people then the utter dismissal of the tasting momentum, they just want to spend time with their friends or family, loves, whomever, which is fine, more than fine.  Then you have others that just take everything in and ask questions, then apologize for asking the questions they do, addressing quantity of inquiry and persistence, which always makes me laugh.  Then, you have you… you making it what you will, and that’s what wine has always been, an opportunity to make moments what you will and saunter into interactions with new characters, then alongside with them.  So much music in the tasting room, in wine, in sipping wine with characters new and unfamiliar.  Don’t overthink wine, I urge people that come in here, use the wine for what it wants from you, what you want from her.  “Why do you always personify wine in the feminine?” Was asked the other day.  I said, “It’s just what I do.” Wine is seduction, thought, love, strength, gentle and assertive.  To me, that embodies what I see as feminine.  Not sure it’s rational, or what.  But it’s what I do.  Wine, you make your own.  Again, no overthought.  I also view wine as jazz.  Different forms and meters, speeds and atmospheres of jazz.  The tasting room, the stage, the accentuation of everything involved in such.  This morning’s a different morning for me as a writer, a writer of wine and life, teaching and education, everything.  See my book taking shape… essays involved in wine and what wine involves and invites.  No interest in being an “influencer” of wine, as so many hope to now be with social media and devices, broadcasts and podcasts and blogs and vlogs.  I just want to write, be in wine and intwined in its vibes and ebbs, clefs and steps.  This tasting room, to my right, now silent and dormant, deserted stage, barren expanse, wood floors, unoccupied couches, the last two days seeing I don’t know how many characters through here stroll, teaching me about the room and what it can do, what it’s doing to my writing.

Doors to the Room, seismic symbols of Newness.  New experiences, new characters, new voices and voices, directions and introspections.  Everything in here, pedagogical and philosophy, meditative shapes and angles, musics, momentums.  Everything.  Wine yields thought, for writers like me.  Not just something to post about.  Not just a business.  Not merely some lifestyle that you “tag” and “re-post”.  Incalculable Sight and Life, poetry, puissance.  Me, here, collecting with new Newness and circulation, perception.  This morning, this tasting room, me… definitively character-driven.  Wine orders us to live, and live madly, fearlessly, be tin the learner’s lean.  MY story… wine-attracted, medialized, honed, purposed and put.  I’m decidedly intensified, this eighth day of month 4, 2018.  More life, more love, all from what out there grows.  Coltrane in this room with me.  We, both, in Sentimental Moods.  Getting older, close to 39, my children aging sans ma permission.  What else can I do but write, put all these pages out there. What else would I do… just let them rot in a desk drawer?  No.  No time. Wine professes so loudly and with no waiver that we have NO time.  We only have the Now.


Wine’s Cadeau

IMG_1556Soon as I park, I feel the decided force in me, to work harder than I ever have.  Today.  But for what.  I’m here over an hour early, over an hour before I’m to clock in, and what should I do.  What should I write about… all thoughts in the writer’s head, probably all writers’ thinking, thinkings, thinking about life and what I want from it, how I want to be seen by my children, wife, family, people in the wine industry.  And I can only fixate on the allure of contradiction… people in this business who don’t drink, not a single sip, and all around them asking “What?  Then why are you in the wine industry?” Sometimes it’s voiced with a rude plume, and others innocent curiosity, but with me, inwardly, I see education, self-education, the opportunity to observe and write assessments of scenes with more assiduous climb.

Last night, having a fair deployment of the 2014 Merus Cab, I sat on the floor of the home office and thought about where I’m going in this business, and how I balance it or blend it with teaching, education.  What’s the next chapter?  What do I do in this sitting and all that follow to accelerate my story, to see the Road, the world, everything out there in wine’s wind and rewind.  Wine is telling me to change my approach, diversify my vision and actions.  Yesterday’s Cabernet tasting, everything that was poured and how people reacted, brought to my perceptive peregrination ideas of people all over the planet opening bottles, in little villages in Italy and France, Spain, South Africa…. I was everywhere, at the Chalk Hill Pavilion, truly wandering everywhere in thought.  How to I ….  No use thinking about it now, or maybe there is.

In 2006, my first year pouring in a tasting room, I saw the wine industry as a sort of personality puzzle.  I didn’t know what to think of it, really.  I saw and felt the poetry, and the expressive and artful chords and tunes from the Mayacama Mountains, the vineyard block just outside their patio, but how I fit in the puzzle was the sujet.  The topic for me to explore and hopefully come to some sort of either conclusion or consistency in the industry.  Now, I write about wine and wonder how much more I could write if I stopped sipping for a while.  At least 30 days, as a representative sample, something.  Something different and extreme for the writing.  I’ve entertained doing this before, but never followed through.  What if I did now, waking at my hour desired, 03:45, having 3,000 words in book effort, or blog, before the babies and wife wake?

I need to work more, and harder.  Ferociously, obsessively, for my life as a wine writer priding himself on his wildness, his extremism and practice of words… words flying from the olfactory tell of the wines.  That’s all I need to write, just smell.  And really, I don’t need even that.  I’m just thinking of work, this morning.  What I want to do, for the rest of my life, in this industry.  And, like Dad coached, I’ll make it mine.  Even washing windows as I did yesterday and the day preceding, I’ll make my own little projet.  So quiet in this winery, in this office, I have all the time I need to get into character and collect, decide how much harder I’m going to work.  Take notes, short and to-the-point jots.  And, pictures.  Take as many as I can.  The tasting room… its flavor and character, rhetoric and promise, everything I need for pages, for my book, for my exploration of my work and how I work and what I’ll do for the remainder of my time on Earth.

I’ve always known, I’m a writer.  But the beat of my writing, what I want to write about, has jumped all over the cognitive plain over, over, and again over.  From the time I started writing seriously, which I’d say was in high school, junior and senior year.  And here I am, nearly 39, and with a singular topic, finally.  Wine.. wine centers me in ways that other facets of daily don’t.  And, you don’t have to drink wine to write about it.  Yes, all the lauded and “respected” critics sip and taste and give you some trite cluster of description.  But that’s it.  I wanted to do more, when I started writing about wine.  And that’s what I’ll do for my life, for a living.  That’s not only my thesis, but my synaptic composition.  What I’ll build my businesses from.  Wine, writing, the wildness to it, the madness, and the conversations that materialize.  Actuating all ideas, more than just working more or hard, but connected to what I do in this industry more than anyone around me.  Observe, record, trap moments, don’t sip but jot, keep the pen moving as I tell students.

Wine this morning has me thinking about everything in my working life.  Re-evaluating a bit, but thinking of ways to make what’s around me mine, all mine.  Everything from this office, to this folding table on which I type, the crush pad, the wines, the cave, the vineyard blocks I often walk.  I’m just seeing more of what I do and how I do it, where I’m going with what I do.  And wine provides that.  I just around the subject map earlier in life, and a bit up to recent, because I didn’t make wine my own.  Since 2006, pouring at SFW, I’ve had a topic, a beat, I’ve just never seen it.  Now I see it.  I write about wine, much in contrast to the wine writing out there.  Not professing I’m better, but definitely working with more ferocity than any of them.  I’ll by this stand, staunch and militant.  Listening to the office, the room I’m in, thinking of what will be said in the tasting room this morning, and later, later…. Feasting on my new contradiction.

Merci, vin.


First of year new.

img_0337And my first thought, “So what?” Opened the Merlot I bought from St. Francis the other day, looking at the color and pairing it–if you could call it a “pairing”–with the pulled pork from last night. The year, bold and unapologetic. Wilder than wild… tonight I do intend to have a bit more wine and have it speak to me. She wants me in some new modality. Sitting next to my son’s bed as he somewhat fades into his sleep, but really not. Not sure why he’s so awake… maybe the whole new year tilt, he saying over and over to his mother and I, “Happy New Year.” In the wine shop, always music, of all forms, like my kids with their ever-revolving interests.

Still taste the Merlot, after tasting it ten or so ago-minutes. Quiet in the studio, and I vow to wake at 03:45, demain. Tonight, I’m leaping into my most wild whirl of wine writing.. Thinking of the Lioco Chardonnay I had a few weeks ago at the Inn, the Pinot I had at the restaurant just the other night in Windsor. Wine is everywhere around me. In all the moments that don’t include wine, wine is dominantly present. Reminding me that life is more than short… that I don’t have any more time surpluses. I never did. When young, I was a dope and thought “Oh, I can just do it later…” or something of such sort. No… this year is and itch. One violently scratched.

Think he’s asleep, my little beatnik. Tonight, my enemy of enemy-enemies, is sleep. Why lay down and close eyes when you have so many books to write, so many wine and vineyard photos to skip and skim and sift through… no sleep. Well, okay, maybe a little. But as little as possible. Plausibly I’ve finally changed, this writer… Can only think of the Merlot downstairs, open in the counter. What it must be thinking, what it’s doing, how it’s taste shaped take another shape and tell another sake. Hear some tick-tock here in son’s room. What is that? Is that a clock? Maybe I’m just tired from the day, from talking about wines in the tasting room and selling them, talking about heir characters as I do and getting more into their respective puzzles and intoned enigmas.

Dying to know what the Merlot wants to say to the write… Is she going to keep with this confident octane, this jazzy bravado and loudness, or will there be more a softness, a soft-spoken step to her and how she communicates with me? Who knows… only way for a wine writer to find out is to find out. Wine isn’t a formula, she’s not an equation… she can’t be predicted. I have to leave my son’s room, go downstairs and see what she feels so fire to tell me. And maybe there’s no dire haste in her night’s paragraphs. Maybe she’ll softly sing, jazz in this Coffey Park house that was nearly no more.


Reconnecting with the Merlot downstairs, to the left of the xmas tree, telling self that it’s just a new year, be like the Alchemist narrator, just pushing through my story, finding reason not only in the wine but all the lights around me and the quiet of this downstairs flat.  Hear wife cough… can’t get sick.  This Merlot connection pushes me back in time to when I called Mom from San Ramon, asking her what I should buy for a dinner I was hosting at my San Ramon apartment.  “Blackstone Merlot…” She voted.  I went down the street to the Alberton’s or whatever it was and bought a bottle.  Paired it with a crab or shrimp salad which wasn’t a “pairing” at all now that I tilt my head back and think, but even … that was the beginning.  Of something.  And this Merlot, from St. Francis, the winery that lit this whole new page surge for my family… I can only write.  Only be here in quiet, next to the tree that embodies gifting.  And I’ve been gifted.  By wine.  By St. Francis.  By this county.  My life here in Santa Rosa, living madly writing about wine and I thin tomorrow with my “day off”, which isn’t “off” at all having to grade this last semester’s final submissions and upload final grades.  Will need a tasting somewhere, after that.

She now pronounces and defines tones of lavender smoke and and something reminding me of an incense, or some potpourri of shapes and flavor arrangements.  I’m beyond or maybe behind any interpretive attempts at the moment.  22:13, flirting with the idea of sleep but I hate sleep and all it does to a writer… robbing me of my day.  Just sip the last of this glass and keep writing, I tell myself.  Wine is all about self-notes, self-education and self-selfness.  Not that I’m selfish, I don’t think.. The Merlot says ‘no’.  So I’m composed.  Writing with her notes and sequencing, knowing this new year is a contoured contrast to all that before came.

Last sip—  oscillations of violet and plum, voltage-prone cherry and talkative chocolate, dark.  I need more Merlot in my story.  Merlot is what started all of this, I feel.  Even before St. Francis— Well, that’s not true, as when I called Mom that night from San Ramon she was on-call at SFW.  I’m merely intoning this goes beyond any winery, and even the type of Merlot.  This is wine, ME, here on the floor writing after the turn of year.  Lights on my now-empty glass.  This is my night, in this new year, with the wine thoughts in this wine page, this newly wined wine-me.  All along and in my nerves I’m wined.. criminal and rebellious in my vino musings and jots.  This is when I have ice-cream… but won’t.  A new year, radically resolute.  Me.  On the floor writing, when I was so tempted to just be lazy… no loathing, I’m fearless, hoping soon to be there, in my There, and everywhere.  Not one apology.

vinward jot, 2017

Last day of the year, I’m in a wined mind.  At the wood table with my coffee, knowing just where I am in my wine shop countdown.  Walking the vineyard, I had the thoughts that will get me there.  All was visible right in front of the Cabernet sign.  I need more bolder be, unapologetic as someone recently me insisted.  There will be no abeyance, but constant motion.  Jazz and poetry in everything.  2018 begins today.. and the three wines I’m pushing today will be an enactment of me at my shop.  Have a $20 bill in wallet, I think from a tip either yesterday or day before, from some day… that will be for the shop.  Putting it away when home.

Pushing the Pinot, Cab today mostly.  And to an extent lesser, the Carneros Chardonnay.  I’m in my shop, today here at Roth.  Have to sell $1600.  That should be easy, with Britt and I.  So I start early.  Posting what I can… writing what I can… even writing a different poem for each wine, describe them differently than I have before… The Chard, my Jane Austen.. Victorian and elegant, convincing and luminous.  Pinot, consummate storytelling, conveyor of atmosphere, place and mood, the jazz singer next to you that’s an intersection between a ghostly whisper and a flirtatious hum.  And, mon amour des amours, the ’15 Cabernet.  Gothic, a novel, a cascade of romance and truth.  I write further about each wine knowing I won’t remember much of it but it’s here to blog and I’ll keep my composition echoing in my pages that me follow to the bar when I set out menus, taste through the bottles with Brittany.. my younger and ever-eager and unusually sagacious soeur de vin.

2017 leaves.  Book closed, done, and I’m starting the most layered and rewarding, enriching and educational manuscript of my total narrative so far.  ’18 is the invitation I’ve been waiting for.  From wine, writing, business and teaching, me as a runner, father, thinker… everything.  The year of not just me, but US.  All of us, readers.  We’re here to get what we want, and what we deserve.  I turn the volume up on my jazz.. not sure who’s playing now, but I recite to self— no fruit flies this morning, and I don’t know how I feel about their absence. No time to thank bout them being on-present.  I’m working in and with, for and through, from what I have— a cold tasting room, quiet and empty and filled with jazz at 09:15.  Cell phone charging, coffee getting colder, both are at left, then to left of them and this table is the dark crush pad, or tank room.. one of the production sectors.  None of them here today.  But I’m here, building my own wined story.  And building a wined story is building all the stories— education, teaching, being a daddy, runner… everything.  2018 will see me at Stanford, me running the Big Sur full or half-mara’…. It will see me do everything.  We, are going to do everything, this new year.  Today’s a day of readying… arming Self with ideas and yay-saying talk, thoughts, pulses and poetry.

Wine is everything.  More than just the pour, the spoken word after the one or one-and-a-half-ounce, or two-oz pour.  It’s all our aspirations… our books.  Our words and dialogues.  The stories and characters.  That’s why I’m here.  And that’s what will take me to my shop, and all and any of us to whatever we demand, in ’18.

Here we go….

Et c’est parti….

inward jot

img_7573Colder than yesterday morning, just saw on temperature reader in car.  This morning, walking downstairs, elevators out of service, I walked into the well at the same time as this man dressed in a suit, with his sleek leather bag over shoulder, hair done, ready for something.  “Good morning…” he said.  I returned, as we walked downstairs awkwardly but not too much so together.  When on first floor, he saw another man who appeared to have just finished a workout, one demanding and putting him at breath’s loss.  “Are you ready?” Suit man asked.  Could hear what the other guy said but he said he needed a workout before whatever’s set to go down today.  Wish I would have slowed, listened in a little, but I went to get my coffee and head to car.  Now here at winery, thinking about the wine I sipped last night, that Corliss Malbec, listening to this track not sure who and don’t have time to look.  Have easily over an hour to write this morning, collect self and have time with my musings and thoughts, words, this feeling this morning carrying over from yesterday morning ordering me to be more wild with all writings.  And sell every fucking one of them.  Walking into this building, I saw John, the winemaker, asked him how he was and he said still trying to wake up, told him I’ve BEEN awake, and I’m just getting started— that today is MINE.

Walked into winemaking break room and saw coffee being made.  Today… something’s set to transpire, something en ma faveur.  Coffee, jazz, a quiet, well-warmed office for this yay-saying yodel of a writer.  Noted earlier that the Malbec Cara sent me is just the kind of wine I want to make.  Why not do it… why not.  And not to make money, but write about, of course, have more intimacy with wine and my understanding of it than any somm’, or even winemaker, wine “critic” or “expert”.  Can still feel the cold from outside and for some reason it pairs with how I remember the Malbec, how its notes slowly suggested themselves to me, as if to acclimate to me as I to her.  HER… have to stop calling wine, ever, an ‘it’.  She encourages my poems, my wandering lines and pages that will afford me the ’18 vintage… next year, going to do it.

Made new list of projects just now.  Have to sleep less, work more, write more.  Today, and for no other reason than to test self and work ethic, a 5,000-word day.  Wonder if coffee’s downstairs, ready for the writer, ready for the day’s education and being integral in it.  An orphic morning… divine and otherworldly with its multiplying spells, again like the Malbec she sent me.  I’m lost in my fervor, my thoughts being like multicolored webs and equations I have no interest in solving. Once they’re “solved”, something’s done.. something’s gone, dead.  I want the endless, the infinite, the indefinite.  Reading the sounds and colors, lightings around me… keep writing, they tell me.


img_7455Ten minutes left.  Which means I have 5 to write.  Coffee, cold, right.  Waiting for Washington wines to get here.  Friend said they should be arriving today.  Need more wines to write about…. Store not as far away as it might appear on paper.  Or maybe it is.. but either way I’m writing about wines as crazy as the writer’s able.  Want to taste the ’15 Cab we have in TR, again, one more time…. Ideas again accosting me with encouraging viciousness.  What can I do but keep with my written reap.  Sounds from the crush pad, even louder than this morning.  Want to walk around and take pictures, get closer to the barrels and tanks, see what’s transpiring as its transpiring, just walk around and be like an annoying tourist but not at all, educated in what they’re doing, fully aware, but not at all.  I want the best of all worlds working at this winery— seeing everything for the first time and being proactively active and pervasively educated in the images that land on my lenses.

The Zin downstairs, again, speaking to me in its tone, that defiant and more texture-intended angularity.  Thankful it met me, and I it.  Zinfandel… not sure if I’ve had more a troubled past with her or Chardonnay.  Either way we wind up together, smitten and in a sensory snuggle and me writing my crazy notes in the tasting room even if there’s a guest or three in front of me.  Musical, all the wines today, like some grand collaboration between Miles and John, Bobby and Cannonball.  Everything to a poet sings, from the cork opening to me taking the worm out of the cork, smelling it, slight purple stamp at nose-tip, then first taste.. imagining a scene, a breeze, some balcony, me, ‘way, ink to paper—

bx project

Only calls made so far, and no sales.  But what can I do but my job.  Not letting it get to me, at all.  I know days like this happen.  Walking here to the cubicle catacombs I saw all the barrels out, for cleaning or racking.  Stopped and looked at them, with no real intention other than to look at barrels.  Met a winemaker from Washington earlier in day and a cooperage rep who’s been with his company more than 25 years I think he said.  So rare, now, to see that type of residency and tenure for any one company.  Want my tenure to be for MY business, eventually.  But here, I learn… about the wines, the methods of selling and marketing, events, building narrative and story.

Wind outside persists, haven’t lost power again like we did this morning.  Thought we might be sent home early, but no such outcome.  And I’m glad, honestly.  I want to be here, where the story is.  If would have left early, what would I have done?  Gone wine tasting?  Gone back to the hotel and wrote, taken a nap?  May got a run in?  Which reminds me… I need to get back into my running character.  Wine life MUST be balanced with strict fitness routine, not just working out whenever you have time, or can just fucking fit it in.

Wine that’s speaking to me today… only tasting a couple of them… really, none.  For some reason.  None of them are convincing me of anything or showing me something new about their identities.  Maybe it’s me.  Maybe I’m off since the power came back on.  Looking at the barrels, “What’s going to be put in them?  What’s the racking plan?” Only they know.  I can just imagine, and see myself one day again making my own wine, maybe with my sister, figuring out what barrels to use on what, and having guys like the barrel rep I met earlier come by my house, or little crush pad, or office, wherever, and tell me what types he can offer me.  Whenever I’m here at Roth I just want to do everything— sell wine, market it, write about it, speak about it everywhere, write about it again, “educate” wine lovers and those wondering about wine if I’m qualified to do so, make it, own a winery and have someone else like my sister make it— this place sends me into dream spirals.  Addictive.  I’m drunk on ideas… any effect from what I earlier tasted, which was nothing, is more than departed.  Dead.  I’m clear headed and not from these dreams.. these goals and aims, fantasies in wine.  I want to do everything in wine and I will, everything… The Zin downstairs, I guess the only one with any true thesis today.  Blackberry licorice gusts, with peppered vocals and brushes, like cubist painting I can’t interpret but just love to look at, can’t look away from.

5 minutes left in lunch, my worded break, just as I promised myself I’d do earlier.  Thought about getting a burrito from El Farolito, but need save money for the shop… for my first bottle purchases, what I’m to sell.  Can’t fail to stop by Safeway on way home— I mean, ‘hotel’.  Three new bottles, ones I’ve never heard of, seen, tasted, never knew before.  My next assignments.