There is only one decision separating you from what you think you’re separated.
pages and pages……..
is an entirety of REVOLUTION.
Tired of the pitches, tired of the speakers…
Truth is the only truth.
Back home. But only for a minute. Getting takeout from a spot down the street. Not too expensive, at all. Just a burger, pairing with a Syrah, I think ’15, that I just bought up the road, also inexpensive. Inspiration Vineyards, where I’ve been going quite a bit for the writer’s wine needs. Rand into connection through social, from CHI, finally getting to meet him and how beatific it was. Telling me I’m an amazing writer, certain enflaming and inciting, delighting my confidence but as well reminding me to write only wine, about wine, define her and explore the total narrative pulse to her intention.
At Lancaster, morrow. I’m going to do the “job” even less than I did last week. Only intent on showing people a time, one fun and not at all formulaically humdrum. If I sell, great. If not, no matter to a writer. I have pages, I have characters, reactions to the wines, the wines and what they do to the room be it the library or cave alcove, or the salon (TR).
Writing in the new journal at Moonlight Brewing showed me something about writing, and teaching, education principally, that I need to teach self again on certain curves and literary layers. And, that any negativity in life doesn’t need intersect with this writer’s story and page place.
Need to write everything. Wine is the cause and the laud and god to all this, what I see and how I see it. Everything I do is for that small label where hopefully my sister can make the wine and I just speak it and “sell” it. But, more than an it. Want my babies involved, somehow. Walking my own vineyard with a vineyard manager, he or she telling me about the vintage and the fruit, what the weather will do. I need be out in those rows. Mine.
in EOD SB.
Looking back at the writer.
…me going to Bottle Barn and picking her from the shelf with no method. Wine writing, I have to do this for the rest of my life, going forward from this altitude-spoke age of 40. Then she told me to stop with that. Age is an idea I’m choosing to value, to embrace and allow shift concentration mid and post-sip. Stop, she ordered. And I more or less did. When the last glass was done, I saw I’d finished a book, or something that was manuscript-mimicking. Life, she professed and etched in my against the counter positioning. She told me to be like Sal and Dean, just get out there, see what the wines of the sphere want you to write. They’re all her, they’re all a result of this Pinot. Two Kings having me feeling royal, or nt royal but with a set set, Road and story I need maintain and perpetuate. While washing out the glass, she continued her track, more animated than when I was actually sipping. Singing and smiling and bewitching, connected and narrative. Sense of the spell and magic she was writing, that the vintage wrote and that she was translating. Taking nothing away from the winemakers that helped in the shepherd of fermentation and making sure all levels were where they needed to be, but the alchemical arrangement and symmetry, the subtlety and voice, play of the grape is what persisted. In a typical piece of wine “prose”, I’d just have to write some obscure and nearly-uncomfortable deconstruction, and slap a score off to the right or left. Perfunctory, having no place in her hue or sequence of any sentences. And yes, I may be rambling, but wine is about wander and more the Road than the stop…
Traveling and tasting whatever I can get my hands on. Writing a thousand words per bottle. Yes, a thousand. This offering I brought home will see a thousand words. Won’t finish the bottle, I don’t think. No, I won’t. Have to be at winery tomorrow. Not till 12, but still. Composure, not-so-young man! Composure. Composition. My sister-in-law told me, TOLD ME, nearly ten years ago, write about wine. Wine. Writing. You’re a writer and even then I was seen as a wine something, so write about it. Should have a dozen books out by now. Fuck. Should be traveling. Not. Okay… calm, Mikey… peace. You speak of nothing. You’re too Mercutio right now. That’s true.Remembering my one walk at Dutcher Crossing, where I saw the fish, I think a Steelhead or something, trying to swim upstream. I admired his stubbornness, his bizarre devotion to motion, to going upstream. Think he heard me walk down that Cab block and nearly slip into the stream, and he panicked. I did, too. Just looked at him. He calmed as did I. That’s wine, what wine is, I thought. What’s around wine… in that Pinot, the one I’m about to open, there’s the story of how I saw it, how I parked near BB after a definite day on the tech tray, elected newness, something new in wine’s truth.