from wine book..

09:08… have to set up tasting room.  Have coffee and notebook with me.  All wine writing today.  Still in shock over promotion possibility yesterday.  Can’t get too detailed, sorry.  I can do it, right?  Imagine the testing ground ability and capability of such an assignment.  More money, for sure.  Closer to financial and vocational freedom… stay creative today, Mike.  Be in-scribble all moments, even when you don’t have a pen in hand.  Okay.. to TR, where the story is.

11:29.  Lunch.  13 mins in.  Tried a couple wines in TR, one standing out to me most redolently is the Rosé… can’t figure it out, and I can’t figure out why I’m not liking my words today.. feel like I keep using the same ones.  Wish I spoke French more fluently… had time to skim through and shop for words in Thesaurus, but no.  Je suis au travail.  (I’m at work).  These thoughts where I worry into some worried cyclone are counterproductive and do nothing to get me to my travels.  Now over 15 nearly 16 minutes in.  Have to write VLJ newsletter tonight.

Wrote last night, “To grow a brand, you have to be its language, not just speak it ‘fluently’.” My brand is ME, first.  Then wine.  The writing.  Or maybe I am writing, like Faulkner said.  Was it Faulkner?  Should stay up later tonight, get some work done and not just the letter but other project in which I cartwheel and create and meditate.  Lots on the mind as I’m back here at the desk I sat at this morning.  No clouds now, or fog.  Just sky and mountains, vineyards curling over hill like they’re running away from me.  My inward jots collect.  I need to collect them.  Speak my wined language better.  All poetry, rowing us stream and sea, searching for words in either english or french, I don’t know anymore I just need new words and now I notice the wine I sipped in the TR is colluding with this coffee.  For sakes me reciting, getting ready for seated group at 12, if they show.  And if they don’t, I’ll keep reading to self, be my own audience and become a prominent linguist in my own tongue.  That will be my “brand”.

Funny wine descriptions—

Talky

Walky

Pavement chips

Like sugary water…

Vixen kisses in a small room… (Love this one.)

Zip circles after you swallow… (Have no idea what the fuck that means.)

from 30 days…

Day 15, 6/24/17, Saturday:  Here at Foley Sonoma a little early.  Ready for the day as I said in a video I just shot.  Brought coffee with me, and now I look up at the vineyard, I can’t stay away from the vineyard, ever.  An office will one day be me, but MY office, and on my terms and everything mine the way I need certain specifics and certainties situated to be creative.  Last night’s wine, not proverbial, but still engaging.. character driven with its own sort of character and Cabernet charm.  Can’t remember the last time I had a wine from Sebastiani.  Want to say it was, maybe, over ten years ago.  Like an ’04 Cab, or something.  Know it was Cabernet, but, anyway…. Quiet.  Love this.  The others don’t show till 09:30 or slightly before but I’m one who has to start setting up tasting room and property at 9.  I’m like that.. I need at least an hour to be at-ready for day, for people coming in to taste and pick up their shipments if they’re club members, all the funny questions that I write in my little book….  08:51.  Will clock in soon.  Today, I’m changing my wine life.  Intensifying what’s already in place for me, with wine and poetry.  Sell wine by reciting it, not selling.  There will be no selling today.  There may be sales, but no selling.  This is not a used car or any kind of car lot.  And it’s about more than wine.. I don’t seek to be a wine writer like others are…. I don’t come from the wine world, I come from the academic and literary waves.  So I could never be like them.  But, I tell myself, don’t think about them.  Think about you, your day, telling people about the wines— reciting them.

Wine notes–

Talking to tongue in strangely beauteous tongue– illustrating its spell and sensibilities, intention and instruction– shapely berry hits with enthusiastic blips of chocolate and cedar, soil, and rain-soaked river stone– its language lands and fades, rematerializes and flirts and vanishes, I’m charmed and coerced, lovingly forced to tilt the glass again.  I’m sent, where I go is where I went, reward by receptor-dent.. pen down, just sip, listen to texture stretch across glass-side…

Day 8, 6/18/17, Sunday: 

Too many irons.  Lost count of the fires.  But closer to Freedom, for sure.  Summer Semester starting tomorrow and I know something will happen from this term.  Shit… something has to.  Singularity’s thought and concept strangle me pleasurably.  For business, I have to be more narrow, I see that.  I scatter and diversify from ambition’s pose, which is a boon, but there need be containment and ‘less’, at least at first.

So many wines to write about.  The SB I had tonight, the Chardonnay, the Sbragia Carignane, the wines from Foley afternoon, late morning.. what else… know there’s something else in my banks.  Who knows… wine has me into its tornado tunnel of reflection and page stretches.  But how to approach wine, like others don’t… don’t I do that already?  Wine speaks to me in some growl of a tongue, then flees suddenly.  Not sure why it does that— to antagonize or provoke or promote its own pulse in my cognition.  Son coughing upstairs and I can’t concentrate— is it allergies, does he have a cold?  Being a writing daddy, lately, has tested me.  But it’s my doing, and reasoning.  I need to wake earlier.  Much earlier.  On Day 30, or by Day 30, I’ll be so in the swing of waking at 04:00 that everything I want written for day will be on page before the day even lifts off.

Too many projects or ideas… just put them in the bottle.  ‘Bottle’, in ‘Bottled Ox’… put the place in one place, be placed…  So many times I’m told or asked, “Why don’t you write about this?” or “Hey you should write about…” That’s nice they have an opinion, but I only can put to page where I am and what I’m doing with who I am.  From here forward, only one fire, one blaze, one inherent inferno.  Everything connects to wine, on some strain sort, form and/or layer.  Wine on right, small bit of white from last night, stemless Govino plastic glass, making me feel like some hick on a picnic.  But I’m happy.  Writing.  Not TV on.  No re-runs of Sopranos or the ever soul-lowering news.  Nothing.  Just quiet.  My reveries, derivings, study.  And Freedom… don’t have time to define it, but it’s close.  OH, it’s so close.

Back downstairs from helping little Kerouac get settled in bed.  Our bed.  MY side of the bed.  Makes him happy, so I’m fine with it.  More than just “fine with it”, actually.  Some might say ‘Oh he’s five, he’s too old to sleep in your bed…’ Yeah, well, it’s happening, I’m fine with it, and I’m in no way considering your “opinion” in any scope, scape, or sense.  And now that’s I’m downstairs, I get into teaching mode… just talk to them, my “students”.  Learn about them, the same way one learns about anything else.  One reason why I love wine so much is that I’m always learning about it, about the cordons, the trellising methods, fermentation, and what’s in the bottle, glass.

I’m always learning.  About wine.  Literature.  Teaching.  And definitely parenting.