The drive over here, in my mood, thinking of what to write, why not just have a jam session— my instruments all contained in mind, different visions and thoughts, and reflections concerted in efforts all. Seeing certain things in the industry as a hornswoggle. What do I do— go outside of any box, and box one would intend keep me in. The HST of wine writing, the Shakur, the Plath… the Hughes. I’m doing the right thing but still.. something fails to click. And that could be my expectation of the click. And why the bloody mood? ‘Cause everything eats into writing time, time to get me closer to what I really want to see and do. I’m not a young writer, anymore. And I want to take off. So what’s stopping you?
Tired of my wishlisting and grievance-going. So I take camera from bag and skip through pics. So many speaking to me, and what I should be doing right now, but it rains, and I didn’t bring shoes for row saunter, through mud and those little puddles. 08:24.. stay right here, in this chair, don’t let anything take you from your types, I tell myself. Wines and vines go through little moods, little stalls and odd pulse-trips. Must be what I’m in…. ‘Oh but I’m a wine blogger, I can’t express this, no?’ Sure I can. And I did. I just did.
One shot, taken of canes extending upward and anyway they can, in dormancy, tired and resting from their growing season. What you’d see out there right now if the pruning hadn’t been done. I just stare, wonder what the next year’s to be like, what the crew will be thinking when they stand where I stand, right now, here, there, anywhere in this block. And I’ve always found a gothic, purest and transparent beauty to the vineyards, this time of year. Everyone talks about how gorgeous the vineyards and all of wine country are during the growing season, where there’s flowering, and big canopies, mammothly voluptuous clusters. But hardly ever now. And that’s always bothered me.
This morning I freewrite for the vineyards. Not the wine. Blogger friend of mine saying she wants to pursue viticulture. Just a declarative, singular and stanch, autonomous proclamation. That this is what she’s going to do. She then solicited her audience for texts and recommended resources. Reminded me of my students days, going from Foothill to Sonoma State, with so much at the bow, so much I could do, so much invitation and promise, no scam or rouse, only truth. This morning’s drive, starting at the resting arms, told me I have that now. That we all do. That there is no point where a shift isn’t invited.
Another shot— taken here at Roth, at that upper block, by the I think Merlot and Petit Verdot. One morning with no clouds, and air so delicious that being inside was like being in a gas chamber. It was the vineyard and me. That simple. Just us. No conversation. Just presence. Looking at my photo now, I don’t want to go back because I already am.
