Less than an hour left in day but I don’t at all plan on leaving at five.  Not even minutely.  Stay an organize, and more than organize, PLAN.  Write the vision, writing more for the business, my business and practice.  Consolidating everything.  No complaining, no turbulence like yesterday which I let happen.  Today walking around Petaluma for new business with department head showed me about voice, approach and wording. What my old wine industry friend said, less is better… less is always better.  And he’s a winery owner, one you’d think is always looking for new approaches and new ways of doing things in day to day operations and actuations.

Movement is the principle to be embraced, and consistently practiced.  And in simple, singular sets and strokes.  And these steps are not really that simple, or one-dimensional.  They are loaded with amplifying potential, and life, a sharp vivacity.  The department head, Mark, told me to keep doing what I was doing, and remember to just be myself.  Talk to people, learn about them, tell them what we’re doing there. Make it enjoyable.  Ideas and thinking shapes I already know and enact, but to hear it reiterated by him was elevating, poetically.

Interrupted to tend to another thing. What I’m noticing more about my business life is that you anticipate distraction.  Write in sentence of shorter length and sharper connection.  Wine after work.  Not sure where.  Have idea for somewhere new, but not sold. Everything comes back to wine, what I thought and still think walking those vineyard blocks, this morning waking and realizing the Malbec last night didn’t say much.  Which is fine, more than fine. That’s instruction, elucidation of my story and character station, not ever allowing moods or some disposition complacent.

Need a walk, some air, a break, or just a walk to have thoughts land on me like curious wings.

… through love of wine, the vineyards, walking in vineyards as I do.  I opened the blend, red blend, from Inspiration last night when home from Mom and Dad’s, and she forwarded in random beats, spoke with curiosity and certainty, helixed in amorous shape and tone. I know I’m home on this page, with her, I knew I was last night.  The red fruit syllables sang in tandem with terrestrial chords and peppered curvature.  Again music, again poetic.  What is was was time and me in that time, right there with her.  That’s all I knew, know. That’s all there need be.  When wine is overthought it’s forgotten.  You’re at that point not into the wine anymore but whatever thought stream you’re on for whatever reason…


Day driving around wine country and being in wined character.  After going in to office this morning to work a bit but more for writing, writing in a place that is mine, where I am me and collected and collective in my wined music velocity.  Poured self glass of the Delectus Sytah.  Think there’s two glasses left, I don’t know.  Sipping slow.  Letting her to me speak.  Wine tells me to mind pace and be more with music’s quip and code and only speak that language alongside wine.

Had to use money that was in envelope.  Back to first square.  Less than that.  Not worrying.  The Syrah is singing to me and telling me to write, go through pictures from that Dry Creek vineyard, pick what music and dialect you can.

…aim, to live from this.  This page, all reflections entailed, my character never assailed only assimilated into new destinies and room consistencies.  I look back but only for a microscopic consideration of quasi-veneration.  My present station not so much simplified but sterlingly dignified, amplified, another glass so vinified.

Having what I’m having in this sitting, all to the Pinot, third of the three last night, only touched when home, and again only a glass.  Friday tomorrow, and what… next day tasting but more importantly photographing vineyards in Dry Creek.  Think I’ll start at Sbragia, like the last time I had a whole Saturday to self and went there, did just that.  More for the photos that some tasting flight.  And I’ve tasted there, at Sbragia and all Northern Dry Creek Road how many times.  Exactly.  So only for the photos, the stills of vines and their there would-be clusters.  The vintage in its formative pulse and manuscript, manifold decided and told.

Technology halting is pummel of inconvenience and inconsistency and bother.  Now I can type, imagine that.  On that to-do for the night, read.  Not sure I’ll get to that and I feel horrible.  My son always makes time for his reading, every morning, so eager the little poet is to read ALOUD…

Tonight Pinot was

seen and felt differently. There was more. I don’t know how else to say it. There wasn’t simplicity, but something like it. Honesty, approachability, something. It wasn’t Pinot, it was more. Not some fashionable name you just say to say it, telling people you drink it. There was love there tonight, at Mom and Dad’s. Love.

…want wine to speak to me, and not like she has before.  I’m going to watch her, speak with her, listen to her visual and moment-to-moment recital.  Each winery, each driveway and surrounding vineyard, for the story.  A book could be and should be written ‘bout each.  Each seeks to me teach, I know.  She reminds us to not complicate, to not think much less excessively.  Live and create from present.

Made another cup of coffee to sip slow, as Chris and I will be heading to Starbucks on Hopper for planning meeting.  Not a formal meeting or even really a meeting at all, just talk and lightly plan our day’s aims.  Tomorrow I’m at the winery, pouring and speaking.  Need to make it lucrative, I have to say.  Same with this writing,  small little wild wine writing releases that place everything to thought plate…


Couldn’t fall back asleep and yes I tried, so I’m up just a bit after 6.  6:07 to its point.  Right before 6 is when I made the call to write, to sit here at the counter as I did last night.  Still have to edit the short piece I wrote yesterday, the tasting room fiction which now accosts me with ideas and character directions, and how the main character wants to know more about wine and not how most do.  He won’t read a bunch of figuratively factually framed how-to books or anything like that.  He doesn’t see wine that way.  I, don’t see wine that way.  Never have.


Thought about going for a run, but writing, wine, the book—but should I leave the book idea alone and let that happen?  What I mean to say is, and I’ve been here before, in this mode.  So I jettison and move on.  Still trying to figure out that red from hours ago, the ’11 Rioja.  Wasn’t flawed or bad, just, I don’t know, oddly ambient.  Seemingly agitated that I opened her.  Should I have waited?  Inner thought troupe cascading in reverse, to that wine.  This doesn’t happen often, when some bottle I go out and buy to write about gives me some time of composition coma, stills me, has me irreparable meditative.

Coffee waking me.  Can’t wait for the drive over the mountain, but then I can.  Time passing me too fast so why do I excessively deliberate and stomps in thought swamps which are circular and produce no composition?  Book’s name, no longer thought. In fact the more I think of any book I write being titled such I cringe, curl, become demonically agitated.

6:21 – I’ll start readying in a bit.  First, more music.  Poetry.  Clean office tonight, revisit the Rioja but dig for any answers or understandings.  Hunt more inquiry, move with the wine, with her, for purposes of just that.  Keep my patience and sight on their own rhythmic track, and at least try to act apt.

Trellis Step Travel

And ’11 white, and ’16 red.  From Spain, bot.  In the quiet kitchen consistent with my vinified vision, speaking in poetic tongues and abetted stuns.  Character compiled in this sole presence and thought lot, caught in wine’s promise and spell, she tells me to stay, be still but keep in my truest move.

Haven’t touched the red.  Letting her wake as she wishes.  Shouldn’t say let, rather inviting her, hoping she wants to me as I her, after the week, this day, the introduction to a new story at work, learning a new style of business in a new way.  All narrated and keeping self in that vineyard block, the one I now see, the 337 Lancaster block right by the parking lot.  As the clock moves in its knotted ticks and tocks, me here with more sight.  Tomorrow in Napa which I haven’t done in too long.  On drive, notes hopes, talk to friend Chris while he kindly drives.  Expect nothing.  Plan nothing.  Write little Paginate the experience and story when it’s done.  Feel the early wake, just before 4 technically, speak to me.  Urging bed, urging rest, urging early wake for a run prior to drive over the mountain.

This could be one of the more agreeable and interesting, seductive and capturing white wines I’ve had in some time.  Why am I just writing about her, why am I not penning, noting the notes.  Don’t want to be like Parker and whatever that one guy’s name is, and then the other twit I always see posting about his attendance at events hoping to be taking seriously or as something of a wine something.  I don’t want to be a clown.  Am I calling them clowns, no.  Or maybe.  I just don’t want to resemble anything they do.  I’m present for the pages in the puddle, what’s transposed from and to the character by the alchemical atmosphere, right here, what I just sipped.

See clusters in a bin, in Spain in certain corners of this contemplative vein.  A light, airy beat of sea and cliff, some sort of sand and trees by a boulder.  Never seen it, but it’s on my out-of-body shoulder.  Letting the glass be, the wine, she, with a freeing frolic of echoing chords and singular notes.  Each, its own anecdote.  I’m not the writer du vin I was when I started.  I know that.  I’m older.  Shit, some days I just feel old.  But she assures me I’m fine, encourages more recital, more music… Only write music, musically, she pleas.  This ’16.

Now for the ’11, reckon.  Last couple sips of the Albarino.   Technically misspelled but this goddamn laptop won’t let me insert the symbol.  Fighting the tired, telling it to be gone or face a fight.  Nearly done, the red over there looking at me and reciting poetry I can’t hear till I sip, fully engage and stay embraced.  Wine, educating me as she knows I need new Newness in this Now.  8:44, just minutes before bed possibly.  No way to know.  And that’s what wine is, not knowing.  Letting time find you, and you drawing from the confines of the presented page.  Sip, scribble, learn, live.