Do I take the rest of the night off?
Sip this Oregon red?
Do I take the rest of the night off?
Sip this Oregon red?
Write about the block, think more about it. Write about thinking about it. Don’t think there’s so much to it. In writing, you sit, you react, to what’s around you, to what’s in the text. And why not blend the two. Reality in the room, then on the page. That’s all you need to have keys pushed, or ink lined.
Blocks have to be acknowledged in order to exist. You decide what’s true and part of your thoughtful truth and what need be dismissed and to the side pushed.
Lunch. Small latte in car. Windows down. Even with clouds it’s a bit warm. Excited about drive home as I want time to Self, quiet and music. The day is a bit odd now I feel, changing its tone and talk, character and code with me for some reason. I sent the day too much influence and say in my day. On Solano, in Albany. Was tempted to get something at a nearby Mexican grille but told self no and stuck to pb&j and latte guns. Now, time to Self. Cold air replaces warm and humid uncomfortable. The air, nicely pushing me, easing my edge and nervy echo.
Car next to me pulls out, back, drives away letting more speedy air at me from left. A Porsche Cayenne, then a ford, then a Civic. People going somewhere but where I want to know for story sales and just the curious strut mentally. This town I find interesting. Would never live here, but it’s different. It’s new. And the older I get I find that’s precisely the aim to everything. Newness.
Work. In the Field. Each day gifts Newness, but you have to manage your temperament. Then I think there’s nothing to write about in the cabin of this company car with a small latte and windows down, people walking by and cars zooming up Solano behind me. And maybe there’s not. But there is. I’m here and Sonia all of this. I could be staring at the screen of this bloody phone, but no. No. I didn’t let myself. Celebrating that I didn’t.
Wine when home. Day in field. Cognitive throws clearing their way to my vision, my understanding and general concept and estimation of everything around me. This Sophia’s Cuvée, Lancaster, 2015 I think has my thinking with not a single chain pain. I’m on the floor of the lowest floor of the Autumn Walk Studio, going over conversations with T in car and at lunch, about wine and business, business… everything now I see as invitation and opportunity, a catalyst for amplification. And I know I keep repaying that word or some form pro phylum thereof and, or, in. But this is where the writer is, presently. In business bliss and thought tryst. Made coffee for morrow, waking at 04:00 with no diffuse. My life on it much depends and hopefully soon eventually ascends. I feel and see it, for my babies and family and all those around me. Sonic’s altered favorably, and with etching speed, my scope on work, on business and workplace forwards.
This Cab-honed set of sense tells me to take the night’s remainder off after this entry. She understands I’m a writer, that I have something to maybe say, no delay, positive stray and fray in lyric-laden say. Part of me didn’t want to leave SF, feeling like a Beatnik in my hometown, where I belong, where I only wanted to read poetry on street corners and in cafés, where T and I had lunch, but I studied. Know, I know more now. The wine professes to show only what mysteries and enigmas need be shows and set before in present’s block, lot.
Letting wine “open” in stemless plastic bowl on table. Little Beats and wife upstairs done for day, away to dream plains and me just here being to be, in a state or irrevocable poetic pulse and session, sitting. Tomorrow in office, learning more, feeding knowledge addiction, prophetic affliction. Nothing thinking and just writing, must, my own trust and philosophy bus. See self paling now on floor in typed stream and surf but only from long day. I don’t aim for any attention as some do, as I sometimes do, right now I’m just a candid compositional bandit, only unhurt for attention and potential ideas bartered, commuted. Something like such. The house quiet, wine opened and more expository, telling me to keep writing and stop with any distracting dote, even if it’s to find some synonym. That’s not genuine, that’s in no way truth. Polishing your prose is the same as excess oak or using some additive or “add” to make the wine more ‘something’. Got it, I say back to the red in cup. And about my night go.
Still feel that fog on face, smell the sidewalk of 30-something and Balboa, Anza, Clement. SF has not just my heart and mind but functionally and make and a situational duality, dueling with any nay-say and self-doubt, and moment-to-moment hell cloud. So now, ending day, night, readying for next day. 4am, challenging anyone who thinks they work “harder” or with more cored and ordered force than THIS writer.
pouring Italian wines, all quite rare, friend from company I worked at expressing how happy she is for me now, now that I get to enjoy wine as I should as a writer and blogger. “Are you still writing about wine?” I told her yes even though I haven’t been, much, in days recent, but after today all I want to do is hop around Italian wines, and Italy, explore the entire fucking planet as much s I can and taste as much wine as I can, in any tasting room or villa, or terrace, wherever I can. Was in the ‘IW’ TR from about 12-8:15, listening to my friend Thomas speak on Italian varietals in the Mount Etna area. I’ll admit—well I don’t actually have to admit, but…-I don’t know Italian wines that much. Really not at all, till I started helping out at IW. Now I get to have fun, as I should with wine, as anyone loving wine should.
Now that I’m home, I can actually have a full glass. Was quite cautious sipping in the tasting room, Labor Day and all, and the CHP was out like the Panzer Divisions in Warsaw. I was sipping a bit, spitting, but more so listening, thinking of where I am in my wined story and how now I finally get a wined story. Me, now in tech, and I have not even a microscopic regret, will some day I swear have my own little label. I’ve written about this so many times that I’m now actually annoyed I wrote it again, another vow, another promise, but today told me… give everything to the office new, to tech, so I can play in wine. And not just for that, but my wine life is a gift from other work. How can I blend wine and tech, and beyond some silly rating app? That’s obviously too much the obvious approach. My thinking goes to discussion, to conversation, sharing of information yes but more informing other consumers.
Wine is calling me back, but not in any professional capacity. Like Bekah said, enjoy it as you want to. I will, starting with this Rosé. Blend of Nebb’, Dolcetto, Barbera, and I see some cove, the Mediterranean, me not having anything to do but write. The wine bug has bitten me several times today, warned me to stay away from the industry and if I go back it’s for my own tasting room which will be invitation-only. Friends, family, or friends or family, and family, of either. I see after today what wine should be. Not a competition, not a status-anything. Nothing the industry promotes, certainly not some corporate blob-glob pretending to be family-formed. I’m sipping wine, seeing myself somewhere, knowing that what I’ve seen in wine and wha tI now appreciate and feel is what I’m to do in the tech world. Much now answered, much now seen, a gem trove told and gleamed.
…why I need coffee in the morning, why it helps the writing and wine doesn’t, why Mom bought me this journal while in Burgundy (obviously I know, she loves me, thought of me on her trip), why I am where I am, doing what I’m doing…. How I came to teach, came to be in wine’s industry.
MY substance, knowledge. Thinking of all the talks Dad and I have had, over all these years, and where I’m going with them, what they’ve taught me. More and more, I see myself as an autonomous force, in tireless exploration and appreciation of the setting, immediately where I am and what I’ll do with the day.
Thinking of my graduate school classes, all the theory, thought, discussions I had with the professors and colleagues… more notes in that journal Mom bought. “Fly, smile.” I wrote…
Wine keeps following me, and all my thoughts. Sipping a red, on the floor of the office, and I wish I had weather. Outside, too perfect. Gorgeous California night with the syrupy air that’s warm with that perfectly paced breeze. Why can’t I have a thunderstorm. Why not a hurricane, or just simple summer rain? Wish wish wish… but why not work with what I have, use it in some informed way, my mind telling me to stop with the intersections of turbulence and invite some rile. Glass done, so now what. Want to read. Want to take a break from the page.. read what. Be a student how. Now. My books are all over the place— well, not MY books, but the books of my teachers.. Kerouac, Plath, HST. Am I imprisoned by my meditation? Doesn’t that defeat any point or purpose, or postulation drafted? Now I’m really overthinking… ‘nother glass.
Thinking about what he’s sipping more decidedly— it’s more than wine, this is more than an industry, and this new assignment I took with the AV winery and its sister properties is more than employment, some other job. This is a yelling direction— a ravishing rewrite of totality, a scribble’s chiming of promise. Sipping some Bacigalupi Chardonnay at present and wondering where the day went, where my life went. I’m 22 days from 38. What that means and implies I don’t know but I’m aware, and this new assignment could fix so much.
New business plan for the writer, new tone and eagerness to confront all reservations internal. Wine tells me to think, simplify— “Nothing new. Even if you think you have to.” She says. I obey. I’d never argue with her, with her curvature and vocalized rile wheeling newly garrulous color and quixotic talk….. Me, renewed. I have a lot to think about, going into this new age. Has to do and deal with wine and then doesn’t. So now what then, writer? Don’t know. Going to enjoy my pour, think like Kerouac on the train, or climbing the mountain, or by himself in the cabin. 38…. Fuck. Wow, that’s really me. ‘Nother glass…