Morning Winery Thinking….

After the morning thousand, I arrive to winery and feel odd.  Off.  And not sure why.  So, up to office, across the dark and spooky crush pad and production area, and here I am.  Writing that I’m not sure I should be writing, but then considering my attitude how to fix.  Find humor.  In all this.  “You work at a winery,” I say to myself, “how hard could it be?” I agree.  But the feeling stays, not able to shake it, I decide I don’t want to talk about the ‘I’ anymore.  Happiness is conceptual, but actual, and more actual and tangible if we want it to be, really.  You don’t have to see what’s around you the way you do, do you?  No.  See the day as a game, or a play, or some show evolving before your sight and you involve yourself however and wherever you elect.

Let the morning teach you.  Let it teach you everything you thought you already knew about the morning.  Let’s say you’ve already decided today’s going to be long, drawn-out, the usual humdrum doldrum.  Let the morning, the day following, show you it doesn’t have to be— that it won’t.  Take your mood and scrap it, trash it, dismiss it.  Don’t let it let itself stand up, develop or play its putrid song.  Actually, take it upon yourself to teach the morning what you’re not just capable of but what you WILL do.

More into my usual confident and loudly assured ride, stride.  Listening to music, sipping the hotel’s coffee, and wondering what’s going to be narrated from day.  What people will say in reaction to the wines, the property.  Onus…. What I every semester stress to students and now see I need more enact and actuate.  Re-writing… now.  ME.  The morning, day…. The wildest of wild yay-says.

05:53..

Tried going back to sleep but couldn’t.  But even more than not being able to, the writer didn’t want to–  My thoughts were such I had to answer them.  So I’m up with Jack and my cinnamon-coded coffee.  Today, go by LE and take care of wine orders to be shipped, then writing.  May go to one of the sister properties, have laptop and–  No, go somewhere new.  Today, a wine industry day off, the writer needs Newness.  Make progress in book… yesterday’s page/piece written after class, how I printed it and held it, stared down at it, taught me something.  And funny, that’s what the piece was for, on– education.  This morning I’m learning, or am reminded of, time with my children needs to be a more persistent movement generally, universally.  How, because I work so much, is what I need to calculate.

Let me think some more, just the reason I’m up..

New Bottle Ticket for a Bottled Ox

img_0858Finally home after a taxing tasting room day, after my 7-miler morning.  First run of that length in some time.  Thinking of wine, where to go with it next… sipping the remainder of the Dry Creek Vineyards ’14 Zin I last night brandished.  Somehow lost the cork so I wrapped the neck in saran wrap.  I took it off expecting instant evidence of oxygen contamination, or at least some oxidized something.  But nothing.  It withheld.  It stood its ground, showing it’s more than an ‘it’.  This bottle shows unyielding intention, some derelict drive that’s admirably curious.  So I’m here writing my article or reaction to the day and night and wine, simply confounded.  Then I stall.  I need another glass.  Before siting to write I was tempted to turn on CNN, see what the new chief’s done now.  But why when I have this wine, when I had the day I had, literally rolling out of bed and running.  The wine tells me not to stop… time is like my oxygen, and not in a beneficial manner.  Like oxygen can be to wine, time is to the writer.  So I speed on.

One lady who came in today, absolutely obsessed with magnums.  Had a question about every one, and the vintage.  Each vintage, she’d ask, “So what about this one?” Not asking if I like it or not, but I knew that was her tonal subtlety.  “Well,” I returned, “if you’re asking me if I like the ’12, yes, I love it.” Then she did the same with the ’13, the ’14, and the ’11.  “Wasn’t 2011 a bad year?” She asked.  Ugh, I thought, the question.  Why always people and 2011?  (See why I began this piece with ‘finally home’?). I told her my defense of 2011, a little about ’13 and ’14, and then slid away.  No more, I couldn’t do it.  People should find out for themselves, about any wine or vintage, winery or region.  Wine, like literature, art, or your own writing, is about discovery, and risk.  You heard 2011 is a “bad’ vintage?  That’s more than bountiful warrant to go out there and try some.  See if they’re right.  And if they are, then you learn from it, what makes a less-than-towering vintage.  And if they’re wrong, you know now that going out and seeing for yourself is the most instruction and informed way to live wine.

Second glass at left, and I’m standing my ground— or sitting my seat.  Babies asleep upstairs, and I revisit the conversations from the tasting room in head.  Everything from those with co-workers toward shift-close, to the ones hours earlier with the larger group that walked in, many of whom were “industry”, telling me about the releases at their wineries and what they like to drink at home, to one of them whom makes his own wine and sells it online while working production at a larger Russian River producer.  There’s more than enough wine out there, in the world, for me to explore and write about, and beyond those simplistic descriptors and expected-to-be-mentioned fruits.  The personality of the wine.. this Zin, in instance— wild in its behavior but everything it speaks is poetic.. nothing foul about it, and unusually organized and dedicated to its palate narrative… a wine understanding the sipper more than the sipper conceives what’s in glass, eventually washing over senses.  It welcomes me home, congratulates me at the end of my day, orders me to relax.  This wine type you remember, you seek, you learn from.

(2/25/17)

Outside the Bag

Nearing lunch.  Not sure if I’m in a writing mood, from how busy it’s been.  But I was able to capture some valuable stills on the crush pad, with tons of grapes landing today.  Hot outside, possibly too hot for walking so I may just come back to this desk, share my boredom with you.  Lucky you!  But I’m not bored, not at all, not with all that’s around me unfolding and developing.  Through head, a ceaseless to-do list.  Not even a list anymore, more like a stomping dinosauric docket for me to catch, catch up on.  How will I do that?  Simplify, everything made more simple.

Words for lunch.  I’ve decreed.  If I’m at the desk it could be perceived I’m available.  Maybe I should just wait till day’s end, no writing now, just let it all compile and collect.  How I get to evenness.  Back from a bathroom walk and I was tempted to go out onto the crush pad and photograph fruit in the bins, cold soaking in the sun, maybe take some video of the guys raking fruit into the crusher/de-stemmer, but I walked away.  Out of character for me.  This writing and tireless father need act more outside pattern, if I sense I’m about to do something I always do then don’t do it.

Clocked out for lunch, but the writing father’s staying put.  Right here at desk.  Not speaking to anyone, and not to be rude!  But rather to immerse the writing father in his words, in his work.  Not budging from my thesis of working harder than I think I can, get more done than I did the day prior.  How I spend the lunch, soused in my sentences.  Too hot outside for a vineyard walk.  One after work, though.  Have to do one a day, at least.  Ultimate and encompassing freedom demands I seek nothing new.  I have all I need for my idyllic, right here, in my story.

Okay…  So the idea yesterday, that I mentioned here on bottledaux, was selling real estate.  I know, I’m laughing too.  Why that picture and possibility if you could call it that leapt into my perception is far beyond my current reasoning, at this desk.  “So what…” you say.  What do you mean ‘so what’…  It’s gone, now.  Selling real estate?  No.  I’m holding with my goals.  Staring out the window in front of my as I so many times do throughout the day, only antagonizes my dreaming, day or night dreaming really doesn’t matter—  Could use a glass of Chardonnay or anything right now.  Lunch, huh.  Not for this writing father.  Tomorrow on campus, then day next back here at the desk.

Say you’re more cursed than lucky if you’re still reading.  But, the working father, or mother, any parent knows what this is, only wanting to do to provide all and more for your children and your family’s entirety but you can’t think nor act fast enough.  You’d do anything, you’d work any amount of hours.  You refuse to slow, and your certainly won’t stop.  So what else to do but keep moving, keep processing the ideas like grapes on a crush pad.  Who knows what results.  Maybe something blissful, something unusually piquant.  Maybe the next time you sit at your desk you’ll be a different You.

(9/27/16)

Over the

3 o’clock wall, and the time drags.  Want to go for another vineyard walk, get out of the office just for a bit and enjoy air, sniff and sip it as the tourists do wines in the tasting room.  Wish  I could clock out early and do some tasting myself, be a tourist, just for a minute.  People all over the industry think this, think about ‘it’.  But I couldn’t be luckier as a writer even if I tried, if I scammed, if I plotted and planned.  My luck heaps, and I more than acknowledge.  I wish for nothing.  I write with and from what I already have in his wined, pre-written web.