No nap, today, fought against pull and push to do so. Thanksgiving over, wife out shopping at one of those shopping special eve whatever’s. Me, home. Wine. Just finished glass of Claret. The night passed with such cruel progression. Indifference. Babies asleep upstairs. What movie do I watch, my dilemma. My life’s trouble. Think of how fortunate I am with my family and to have such family, to be sitting where I am, here on this we seek to shed, new one one the way… Day of giving thanks, I need to show more giving of thanks, being thankful.
Tonight, I do intend exploring more wine. No aim to wake at 4am or 4:10 like this day. No. I may actually just sleep in. I will. What do I mean, “may”? May have to punch out. Take the night as it approaches me, describe and translate it, or in such order reversed… then wake tomorrow with more thought. More story. More ME. Tired now, forgetting I’ve been up since 4-something. Think 4:10. Has it been that long? Yes. It has. Me, that writer. Now. Time to Self and I sip wine and be here, writing. A writer.
Does the writer want apple pie or Chardonnay? Both sound like they sound, their own precise appeal and connection. I’m not torn between both but urge to be curved by both, somehow. 9:08. Feel like bed but I won’t. I can’t. But more, I refuse. Why can’t I be a human, just have dessert or drink wine. Is it that complicated? Are my thoughts the hinderance, the block and or impediment? I think it may be just that. Not in any kind of a writing swoop, and I can’t figure anything of it out. How does pine figure. What type a figure be me, I, this writer.
I feel like I’m not doing a thing, while doing too much. A mess. Should have taken a nap.
09:00. Exactly thirty minutes to meditate, writing, write something I can either post or sell or…. Why not just write. Don’t worry about the end-game, any end at all. This morning I find myself at an intersection of decisions, coming closer to 39. Simplify. Less. I’m expanding from and in and toward the meta of all things, all places. Me. Walking into the Windsor Starbucks to get coffee, thinking to self and posting somewhere that “…it’s literally that simple, that fancy.” A winery person, me, on the way to the winery thinking down the Road, down my wine business and industry path, as so many of us in the industry do. Want a shop, of course… my retail business, and here at Roth I learn more than I ever have at any winery.
Where do I start with the latest Devil Proof dissemination…. First word I wrote the other night was “indescribable”. And essentially it is. But I’ll try, remembering not only that initial meteoric octave in the olfactory sway and romance of her smokey, leather-pulsed, and wildly rich tell and grip. But then, everything after that…. I didn’t want to pair it with dinner, but I did, just from my inability to resist her, further, with the poetic molding of my senses to the way she posed in the glass— vampiric hue, simplified and prolix winks and suggestion. Only letting self have a small kiss from bottle, to align with dish, then after consider the enrapturing apparition more closely.
made. “Oh, I did a single vineyard Malbec from Dry Creek…” My reaction is always, “Really.” Why actuate and release such an effort if the thesis isn’t clear, innovative? With this ’15, even more than the last bottle I had, which I think may have been from 2013, has me closer— Listening, writing, seeing it on every table if I could. I sat in a helix of stratospheric interest, love, and a bit of anxiety. Should I just be sipping this Cubist and ravishingly ideological bottle as I am, just sipping and scribbling? Again she told me, “Stop.”
11:18. Been a day so far but finally I can sit, go through the few pictures I was able to pocket and store earlier from a vineyard off Guerneville Road. Sometimes you need to take yourself out of the picture to understand it better. That’s where my head is, presently. Could have woke just before 5 this morning but didn’t. No dwelling, just staring. At my pictures… the one of the leaf, the one of that wheel or jagged pulley. Wish I could have stayed out there all day. Wish the whole day could have been out there then it wouldn’t have been as it was.
just write. Refusing to be pinned and penned in that shared adjunct office I come here to the conference room. Have thirty minutes to write, and I have no idea about what. Today has shown me a harsh side to days, principally. But I’ll write through it. Out of it. What if I gave the best lectures of my career over the next few hours? I could do that, right? I will. Just talking to them. Will be in Room in 27 minutes. Which means logically I have 17 to write. But write about what. I’m an adjunct instructor of English here in the conference room of the English department fulfilling no part of my contractual duties. Should be grading, but no. Why. Want to feel free. Free from the day. Just for a minute. I know… this isn’t very wine writer-y of me. Not sure I care or even want to talk about that dimension of my direction, if it’s a direction.
I’ll slightly edit and post shots later. Right now I need a meditation. A separation. Not so much a release, but reason, reasoning. Getting distracted by life and bills, obligations, appointments, and all compounded by certain ingredients since the fires. Nothing I can do now, and why get annoyed with what you see on the drive up ‘SM’, then on Coffey? Just drive, keep going. Focus on the vineyards as you did this morning. Look through my old photos for something of focus. And I find something… leaf during fall transformation. Need a walk, now… well, you’re going to get one. Across campus. To class. My mood falls, tailspins, just want the day to walk vineyards in France, Spain, Portugal, anywhere but here— Not right what I’m feeling but it’s what I’m ping-ponging, tirelessly back and forth in my total totality.
Had a tasting today, unexpected a bit, that shifted my view on wine, surprisingly. Two SB’s, two Chards, two reds, and I’m sitting here on the floor of the home office knowing something seismic is about to realize. Just finished a glass of from a Cab bottle in my cellar I was convinced would be shit however it decided to be defiant. And I loved, love, it. It professes structure and sense, architecture and an autonomous varietal lecture. I’m in that HST wine-writing fashion— not caring about the destination but only the ride— remembering and intimately recalling what I hated at Chalk Hill, from the two SB’s to the Chards, reds…. I’m reborn in a sort of perceptive ports.. here in a meditative selectivity, measuring my Personhood from where I am and what I did only ours ago at that Chalk Hill rung.
tout and flout how rebellious I am, calls me out, tell me I need further go. There I was, and here I am, thinking about what I saw and tasted in that hidden facet of wine idolatry. I walked around, just staring at the hills, even while I was poured the 4 whites, 2 reds, noting in my head and in my inner-tablet what to do next with what I was experiencing. A new Roman Candle, the counter, that hall, that balcony, the pours and I mean all of them in how they uniquely translated varieties while purposing something for consumers like me— I had more than a tasting, today. My oenological conception is re-shaped, definitively. And it goes beyond whites and reds, it’s realizing timing. Chalk Hill instructed a reiteration of intention, an observed statement— There is always something to be learned, and what more advantageous instrument for such than wine? I’m with new intention and thesis about everything.. new Dharma, new path, new Roads— a renewed Beatnik, me. Solitary poetry, stalking only my electric syllabary.
