Trying to wake. Coffee, cold and dipped in and out of a few sips already. Busy day ahead of a writer but I welcome all of it, the idea from yesterday haunting and taunting me every time I yawn. I can’t afford to be tired or focus on anything other than action, moving, getting done what I need to. A storm of appointments today, there’ll be no time to write so everything in this wined chapter and direction, for over 8 hours, cut and pasted to thinking, my character’s most intrinsic and functional form.

No kids in studio, so I have time. I have time for this, this sitting, wine thoughts all over my character’s perception and placement on this couch…. I think about the winery and the wine business and me in it a writer and blogger, honing more on the wine than the business and maybe that’s my business, what for the rest of my life should keep a writer busy.

I’ll get in the shower soon, iron clothes and be in character and get to writing spot before having to be at morning meeting which solves nothing and then my winery, the tasting room for the show. The bottled ox this morning, meditative and decisive, thanking the morning itself for this quiet, for this, THIS, me sitting on the couch with legs extended the later crossed and set on ottoman, blanket over stems. I can hear the sounds of the winery now, here in the studio with wife sleeping upstairs and me down here with this new conception and election, like I’m staring down at a crowd from a before unattainable mezzanine. A dream but not. New plot, clock, nonstop.

06:31. Giving self a bit more for this, the me here on couch and needing another sip from this mug that a friend and past co-worker at a past winery bought me while in Mexico with his girlfriend. I need travel, I realize, if I’m to know wine and define her and if not have some denotative then some abstraction in which I jot and sketch, note and quake in paragraph or verse form.

What Mike Madigan is, I think now a visual tells. Finally, right before 39. Now as wine and I have the dialogue of my life, why she’s here to begin with and what she wants me to do, how many books am I supposed to write, and what does today mean for the story. Right now, what I’m doing when in that tasting room, bottled ox or no, I’m there with wine and people speaking from what they sip and I note, trap and record everything, no try.

06:36. Now I’m ‘wake, functioning in my happy scribed turns. Need to wake earlier, as I do many times have in this journal my intentions to be writing at 04:00. I’m up now, though. Seeing everything in a vino and oeno scape before it’s poured. Right when I walk through the door, brandish an ink sword, record.


Some St. Francis Old Vine Zin. 

img_4088-1Saw on the store shelf and couldn’t self restrain, thinking of Chris Silva and how he’s no longer here, the brevity of life and all in this story I’m meant to do.  My notes to me compile freely and with mountainous divergency.  I don’t know what to now do.  Just speaking to myself like I’m some reputable or respected counselor, therapist, or priest.  Surely not latter, but I do internally note.   I think of St. Francis and what it’s done for everyone in my family.  There is no winery I more owe prominent parcels of self to than them.

This vintage, 2015, contrasting my memory of SFW Zin interpretation.  Don’t want to get in to descriptors or any trite vino blather, but there’s something else being narrated, and. I’m haunted by Zinfandel.  Zinfandel.  The varietal I probably most scrutinize and at times I’ll be very honest, attack.  This character, more voice and architecture about its place and speak, poem and song, what its truest of true truths and intentions be.  And me, just admiring.  Not letting these types progress with any certain octave or “sophistication” as so many say.  This is love.  This, an interaction rich and enveloping, encircling and pealing.

The winery in this glass, or that was in this stemless plastic glass, if you could call it that, a “glass”, has taught me … has taught me.  So much about wine and people coming to wineries to find something, to see something, to experience and taste and see what we here in Sonoma County see everyday and some of us becoming not only desensitized but definitively detached.  Me, no.  Jamais.  Glad I pulled this bottle from that isle as this is more than fitting, right before 39.  I owe them.  I own Chris.  I owe my sister, who made this.  So… the writer need write more and with more ferocity and animal pursue, much ado, to new imbued truth.  Writing from wine’s knots and knowledge, from growth on vine to the ferments, to what I had in glass and now gone…. I’m firing myself as counsel.  Hiring wine.  What’s left in this ’15 OVZ bottle.