Loop Do a True 

Frustrated with myself as I wanted to post a piece I wrote about Emma, earlier, but this evening is about a vent, a shelling of sorts.  Nothing negative, just that needle-esque candor.  Right now on floor of bottom floor of Autumn Walk Studio sipping night’s cap and thinking about day, how crazy it was at the winery.  How I love and loathe such momentum in tandem, how people that ask the dumbest, most self-absorbing probes of wine perturb and infuriate me— one lady today feeling the need to ask a question then use the answer as the foundation of her grievance— example: “Did this see any oak?” she asked about the Chardonnay.  “No,” I riled, “we wanted this to be clean and bright, expressive and charming.”

“Well,” she said, spilling the remainder into the pour ceramic in front of her, between us, “I like the oaky Chards, this is too thin.  Why didn’t you use new oak?” I dodged the question and told her something that made her feel more empowered so she’d shut the fuck up.  ‘It’s wine for fuck’s sake’, I thought.  Why do people get like this over wine, and I have to be honest it’s less than a percent of people walking through that front door-set that have such demeanor and lean.  I always watch from behind that bar, writer I be, to see what I see.  You have these presuppositions at times, we all do, but you never know.

Already I can feel myself getting lazy on this Studio’s bottom floor, and I haven’t even lifted the night’s capping of captain cappings.  So now what do I do, with this time to myself, after getting up when I did with daughter, then soonafter son— the writer’s a pretzel, self-promulgated in prose promiscuity, yodeling from this idea to that, and I get more frustrated with self.  So how is this helping.  I think of the vineyard walk I took yesterday, how if I were the owner I’d be doing the same thing as the current owner.  True acuity and familiarity with the property, telling a story.  It’s all a story, a zooming and tangibly scenic story-set.  I’m relaxed but not, as I see again how life’s shortness motivates us.  I’m angry, but then I’m not.  I refuse to smoke from negativity’s cig.  I’m here, now, downstairs, the fridge going mute, and me finally having a whale upon which to write.  Yes, each moment I can write while having two babies is like joyriding a whale, in the middle of the Pacific.

I’m okay now, with not touching the Emma piece.  I’ll get to it tomorrow.  Typical writer procrast’—  So now harm in my creative skin or waves, telling tide.  What’s going to happen tomorrow at the winery, who will ask what?  WHAT?  Feel like I need to know now so I can have some witty fucking response.  The wine industry’s like a circus, then like a business, then like a riot, then like a war.  Which facet do I better like?  Not sure.  You know what, curtly, I’d rather write about my daughter.

(8/27/16)

A New Bridge, Written for Me

Yoakim Bridge Vineyards and Winery Reaction—

Again exploring my valley, Dry Creek, and en fin decided to stop at Yoakim Bridge Vineyards and Winery.  Quaint and contained tasting room with a gentle atmospheric allure that someone like me can only take to, be eager to taste through the flight and further settle into the property and story.  Was auspicious enough to have Virginia, one of the owners pour for me.  With convivial smiles and bright wooing dialogue she poured the first offering, a 2013 Dry Creek/Sonoma County Zinfandel.  Already, the narrative was paginated, that this is a wine producer that couriers not just a ‘sense of place’ as people say about their own wines, but truth of varietal, valley and county, the winery’s inviting octave.  Then the same Zin, 2012, transitioning to an ’11 Petite Sirah which has the most resplendent and magnetic initial attractiveness of I think any PS I’ve ever tasted.  Then concluding with the Merlot.  A 2010 which has a distinguished tasty ardor and accent to its notes and song, general poetry— and oh did it convince me.  Had to walk away with a bottle before walking around the vineyard, checking out the Zin vines just outside their little tasting room which felt more like an artisanal boutique of some kind.  There’s nothing template about Yoakim, only romantic echoes that will follow you home.  And their wines will age, if you’re the character to lay your bottles for a few.

I plan on opening my bottle tonight, I’ll be frank.  And what will I write to it?  One side of me says ‘Has to be poetry” while the other hemisphere screams for inexhaustible paragraph deluge.  Anymore, it really is a strain to find any winery that will provoke me to write, buy a bottle take it home and scribble or type further.  This little preeminent spot succeeded, with jitterbugging exponents.  Could be back tomorrow, who knows…  But for tonight I’ll concentrate and center my thinking in the bottle I bought, the stories Virginia told me about her partner, David, how tirelessly he works in the vineyard and during harvest time (her story from ’03), her family and what brought them to Dry Creek.  I think of what brought me there, which was all the praise I’d hear around the valley and county, how what I heard aligned not even a little to what I experienced— what transpired between Virginia, Dave, and I in the tasting was so much more enriching.  I wasn’t being sold, I wasn’t being taught, I knew people with the same fermented fervor and love as me.  And a new place which has beneficially emboldened my wine story and pursuits.  Merci!  Merci beaucoup!

David Coffaro Estate Vineyard

Reaction:  Loved the quiet persuasiveness of the property.  No large crowds, just cozy buildings enveloped by Dry Creek’s floor.  The tasting room is quaint and concise in its stretch.  Jesse poured for me, starting with some Sauvignon blanc, then moving to Rosé and a sparkling.  All the reds had voice and character, wanted me to like what they said, each of them, and I did, everything from the Pinot Noir to the side-by-side of the Block 4, ’13 vs. ’14.  Just what I expected after all the vaunt I heard from people I know in the industry.  I walked around the tasting room a couple times to further take in the atmosphere of that room— barrels and bar, bottles, the music, the pictures, everything.  Just what I needed for a new experience in the valley.

Don’t want to simplify this label and its story down to “value wine”, but the price juxtaposed with the quality you experience in whatever bottle you open cannot be dismissed.  The reds don’t see excessive oak residency, which is a relief.  I didn’t want to leave, go back to work.  I’m being honest, it was hard to return to my car.  But, what I took away was not just a new story but a tempered approach to and presence of wine. The flavors were commanding but not bossy or offensive.  Wrote in my little pages, about the ’13 Black 4, “Tasty amalgamated percussion”, but I could say that for the winery as a whole, each project in their lineup.  Definitely musical, everything Jesse poured.  This winery has an sizable audience, not too universal yet not too esoteric.  Symphonically animated, everything about that room and its wines.  Be back soon…

Working quickly at winery…

Speeding through projects but not carelessly.  With ardor and an elevated interest that I’ve never seen in Self before.  Sticking to my vision of no DC Gen Store for lunch, wanting that intrinsic alchemy shove from hunger.  Hem said it was motivation, or discipline.  Finding it to be both…  Trying to keep an inventory of every creative act today.  See how it goes.  So far, effective, more motivation.

Another call from member, requesting update of information, re-directing shipment.  So interesting, all the facets to a winery– club member information to tasting notes, to compliance and shipping, branding and travel, sales goals and all the complexities of… well, everything.  Like Debra, the owner here, I’m thinking one day I WILL have my own winery.  Sonoma County for sure, Dry Creek or RRV.  I’ll decide in time.

Lunch– ‘nother winery visit.  One I haven’t been to before, David Coffaro.  Told it’s good, can’t wait to find out.  Experience a new place as a tourist would, pretend I’m not connected, but here for the first time, so eager nd open to everything.  I envy these tourists and their plans, and the one doing everything by whim (especially the latter).  I start to think and work and imagine with more speed, more creative quickness.  Enriched, enlivened, interested in this wine life in way I’ve never been.

from today…

Certainly more understanding and connection with vineyards, where I work and what I can see out that window right next to my desk.  I finally did get that last walk in, taking a look at the veraison taking place in the Petite Sirah block.  Couldn’t help mySelf from taking loads of pictures.  Think I took more than I needed to.  Now I’m home and wish to be there, at work.  How many can say that?  Colleague in office said we’ll go out tomorrow morning with the office camera and shoot more stills of those rows.

Another lesson from the 21st was to use what you have, don’t look for New, even if you have to.  And this is only instruction for me from the day, not meant to discourage anyone from trying new things, or even telling myself not to try new approaches or attitudes.  What I’m referring to is getting another part-time job, or adding anything else onto my plate.  Mom the other day said “Make what you have work.” I just need to be more creative, I could feel that vineyard telling me.  And so I will.

Opened a 2004 Cab from a Sonoma Valley Winery, and although it’s lost much of its might and palate plight, it still very much interests me, and urges the creativity from this creative that wants more.  “What?” You might be thinking.  “I thought you just said no more New…” True.  I’m inferring more for my family, for me, more money coming into the home, and more travel (which wouldn’t be too arduous as now I’m not traveling at all).  I need more, more adventure and more trial, more material, more story…  The solution lies in the creative.  That’s how more will happen.  Being on the road, seeing the world and writing about it.  I will admit, though I don’t want to.. well…  I’m sick of certain facets of my writing.  My ways, consistencies in creating.  I need to change, DRASTICALLY.  This is difficult for the writer to concede, but I do.  Another lesson from the day, in this light and much to my assistance, is to work project to project, work quickly so it just gets DONE.  At my desk, I always make a list, and go straight down the list, item by item.  And there’s never more than 5 items per day, I would say.  In the past with my projects I make daily lists and there could be up to 12 or 15 yapping targets on it.  Today showed me, with situated and succinct intent, that my old methods need to die.  I sip the Cab, this nightcap I just poured myself, for a brief celebration.  There, done.  Didn’t last long… have to laugh with wine, its relationship with me.  When a wine connects with me, it really connects.  This ’04 is definitely showing its age, its exhaustion, but it’s an experience drinking it.  The wine and vineyard from which it was sourced is teaching me— don’t overthink wine, your writing, or ANYTHING.

Understanding… more of self, what I want from life, how I’ll get it.  Breaths, breaths here in the home office.  Celebration, and I don’t need any more wine.  Would love a glass of water, actually.  And, a look at those pictures again.

Still learning…

More creating…

(7/21/16)

Creative Positivism, 14 — Vino Freedom

A vineyard walk often solves everything.  Shows you everything.  Gives you everything.

Easy to understand, as the vineyard IS everything.

At least today.

So I’m going out there.

To walk the blocks.

Smile with leaves and grape clusters,

saunter in colorful soil texture.

Wine speaks to me, as a consumer and just lover of the stories and the juice.  While walking the Petite Sirah block, looking at the morphing complexion of the bunches.  Last night’s Chardonnay still on mind, would love a sip, or taste, glass?  Need to chase, chase the bottles and their stories— in a mood to only research, become not just a more fervent consumer but a hunter of stories.  All creative, wanting to create something for their img_5010families and people with whom they can share that story, what’s in the bottle— more than sipping, or feeling of effects.  But an envelopment in wine’s sensory atmosphere and phenolic music.  I roll my eyes sometimes when I hear people conveniently using the Robert Louis Stevens quote, and I think I finally know why.  As much poetry as I read and write, teach to English students, wine spans disciplines, is more than verse and establishes its own discipline in our worlds, becoming inter-dimensional and intergalactic, defying natural laws and going to spaces in our existences that indubitably teach us more about our existences.  Like my vineyard stroll earlier and anything connected to wine and its development and elemental assembly, where I am now at my desk, staring out at the Sauv’ Blanc block, gifts me innumerable lessons.

The vineyard is definitely everything in this world.  Yes, there’s the wine and anything connected to consider afterward, but only afterward.  I had to walk where it starts, the ‘before’.  Going to the tasting room for a second, to taste something, taste a vineyard, a story, an effort, a project, an expression.  Just a taste, no glass…  And when back at this desk, I feel more for wine.  I can only grin— I’m here, in this world, seeing people come from so far away to where I work, live and leisure, where I create, everyday.  It’s humbling, more than anything.  Educational.  Enriching.  Spiritual.

I’ll educate myself more, more, the wine will help.  Wine, the professor.  Vineyard, a dean.  Me, waiting for the next assignment.

This, is Liberatory Pedagogy.

(7/14/16)

Only Helps Me

Told wife she can run in the morning and I’ll run when I get home, for 45 minutes.  But that doesn’t mean I won’t wake early to write.  Oh no, reader… I will wake early and go get coffee then come back here and write an animal of an article.  On entrepreneurism.  On owning your own business.  Being independent.  Having your OWN story, and OWNING your own position, staple in your field.

The wine speaks to me, tells me to follow the vineyard and what it does, just grow grow grow— sprint toward that fruit.  I take one sip of the St. Francis Claret, ’13, taste the wine’s voice, that chocolate cherry and maple— wine’s becoming more a relentless force in my life and it tells me, “Don’t fight.  Own.” Own my sitting, it means.  Own my presence and my actions in the industry.  Get from it what I want, whatever I want.  Wine is more life than I’ve ever seen it.  And I realize this as a father, a writing father, father-writer, a father written by time and how quick it’s moved.  Sitting at the desk today, staring at the SB block I thought of an interaction in high school, when one of the teachers at lunch told my friends and I to be quiet, as we were quite loud just outside the window of a classroom.  I said, “Yeah we were really loud, and I’m really really sorry.”

“You know what, you’re a wise guy,” the passing teacher said.  What he should have said was, “You know what you little fuck, you’re an asshole.” And I was.  Such a negative attitude I threw at the teacher, who was just doing his job.  I’d say that was in, what, ’95? TWENTY-ONE YEARS AGO.  Old, this writer.  But I don’t want to be and can’t afford to be negative in my attitude in how old I am— you know, drink more wine, I tell myself.  Drinking…  The Bordeaux blend takes more of a lavender and toffee curve.  More sound and texture, motion and jig to its lean.  Love this wine.

Didn’t put a sentence in my Happiness Project log today.  Or yesterday.  How did I let that happen?  For yesterday—  “Nothing can harm me, cuz I want to harm nothing, no one.” And for today—  “So many times I’ve been wronged, but that only helps me write more song.” There, caught up.  I’m becoming a positivity and happiness addict.  Benny-esque, or more.  I’ll be on the Road soon, sooner than anyone, even me, can see.  11:07—  53 minutes to make today the best ever in my life.  What do I do with the diminishing time?  Sip again.

Put my phone down.  I hate that fucking thing.  House quiet, what the father writing, or written fatherly writer, extols.  Father before everything, and there are times when dad needs solitude, still, the enveloping quietude that begets a story.  This night, a story.  The day, chapter stream endless to beget more pagination.  ME, here with wine, sentence drizzle, flashes confirming.  Boon.  I’m the owner.  I own my place.

(7/8/16)