wine, knowing now, pages and pages, FREED
waking early to write. Brewing coffee now, or about to, and seeing me now. A father. I have kids. They look to me for… something. What. Maybe everything… coffee in front of me. Like the morning. Meetings and possibilities. New pages and people. This last glass, Cabernet, telling me to slow, not be so quick to know.
And she tells me to wait, collect, enjoy the thoughts.
Minutes before team gets here. Selling everything like I do wine, I tell myself about something I have approaching. Selling should never be selling as I’ve noted in the past, in recent entries and if not then recent writings. Genuine, present, connected communication. Telling the story while listening to someone else’s narrative and deeply considering that. An interaction but more. More rich and textured talk. Thinking of how the wineries I’ve worked at in the past, and other jobs, how their intention and focus on the sale, on conversion, is far too obvious.
I’ve now elected to embody new motion, a new beat for the purpose of building business and selling. And that is to do anything but. Talk to people, meet them, know them better than I know what I’m representing. Wine is life, and I sell life, if anything. How incredible it is to be here, PRESENT, and with the opportunity to know people, know what they want, help them get there… to their There.
Not many people like to be sold, or want to be. They want to be happy, they want to enjoy the moment, the conversation. That’s my focus, their enjoyment of the interaction. Still developing these notes, but I am developing them and playing with approaches and methods of doing so. So…. Off into the Field and day, where I put such to practice.
In house today. For some reason. Keeping self busy with projects and note-taking. Writing plan for day. Plan to run at lunch, taking lunch early, hopefully. Not too hot, I checked. People around me talking, wonder how much work they’ve done so far today talking about movies as much as they are. Makes me want to write a script. On working in a tasting room. Didn’t I have a project on that, at one point. Yes! It was called Tasting The Room. What happened to that? I remember I started writing it while at St. Francis.
Opened the Tin Barn Syrah last night. Not bad. Certainly not impressive or inspiring or convincing of any new Beat or Road, in any way. But I did have a couple glasses. The Syrah in my tasting room will be far more expository and loud than the Tin Barn. I can taste it now.
Plan for day—Run at noon. Write notes throughout day. After clocking out go to nook and write, a thousand words for no specific project. Post it all to the bottledaux blog.
But what about a book.
What about one.
Just keep writing. Everything in this office this morning and for the stretch of the day will push me to my There as that’s what I demand it do.
Sparking water, latte done. Everything is to be written. Everything is something on the Road, in the book. THIS book.
9:33…. Need a break, soon. Sooner than maybe I’m perceiving and formulating in my A.M. head.
10:04, and I’m in a circle pattern, holding pattern, some pattern where there’s no real pattern being established or reiterated.
2:36. After run. 7 miles. Not hungry, but a little tired. Thirsty again. What’s the next thing in the day…. The next… thing. What’s happened so far. Not much. Make something happen. I know…..
3:25, coffee. Didn’t do what I wanted, the ‘what next’ dilemma. I know now, though. So… here I go.
Started a new haiku stream. Just wrote one, but will write another soon. Maybe in a minute. All work done. So now what. One of those things, thoughts, sip the coffee that’ll help.
3:58 and two haikus done. Will type later. Or I’m hoping to. Coffee absolutely helping. Will revisit that Syrah tonight. Not excited about it, but I will do so and write about her and the Pinot I had… Raeburn? Is that how you spell it? Feel my mood getting rattlesnake-like. Hunger, hungry, could use something. What. French fries and Pinot? Warriors game on tonight. May watch with Alice and babies. Know little Kerouac will want to see game, his favorite player Mr. Curry.
Today, interesting feel and pace. About to go to speakers group, which I haven’t been to in a while. Been in the Field much more. Writing notes to self, on sales and selling, and sales philosophy, and other ideas that pass through my head like wandering herds somewhere.
Smell something. Lunch. Getting hungry. But will speak on no fuel. Will speak from that deliciously delirium and madness that sets in when you get hungry, when the hunger passes a certain point.
Promised son I’d get him a basketball jersey, a Warrior’s one with his favorite player, Steph Curry’s name on the back. He’s so excited with the prospect of having that jersey. I need get it for him. I will.
Shorter sentences and paragraphs, my current thought and pace map. Getting up. Restroom, water, or coffee. Something to sip. Cut back on caffeine. So water then.
4:47. Soon to go to mall, get presents for Jack and Emma, have a glass of something while there, at that microbrewery or bar or both, whatever it is. Love the idea of writing and sipping wine in a new spot, or even better some spot I haven’t been to in some considerable time.
Going to check on new hire then come back, finish this entry then leave. Thinking of taking home this birthday bottle of Tin Barn Syrah, possibly popping tonight. Possibly.
Putting Syrah in bag. Backpack quite heavy, now. And here I go, into evening. Needing to write more, needing more time to write, taking more time to write, and in bed early so I can in the morning run. Hopefully.
Foley Sonoma Grenache last night and knowing I have to finish this book. By week’s end. How. How can I possibly do that? Wake earlier. Write more. Wine orders me to set not goals or aims but sentences. Sentence yourself more harshly and firmly in your writing life and decision.
Done, I say to her.
Avowing more pages, today and always.
Starting bills, with day, or day with bills. Budgeting the winery in my head. Am I getting serious about this, about having my own little label, or wine shop, selling and talking about wine, writing about the Road there. Yes. No need for question marks. Question rhetorical, or if not rhetorical then antagonizing.
Paid credit card, which is all but done. Money aside for tasting room, the Merlot I want to make this vintage…. Two barrels of Merlot, same everything, just to show how each barrel is its own life, voice, world, “ecosystem”. Its own beat. And what better than with Merlot.
Pinot from last night, still some left. Thinking about bringing in, but would rather keep here for my own experiment to see how it lives, survives the 24 hour rest, any oxygen sneaking in through sides of cork and bottle’s neck’s inner face. That’s what I’ll do.
Getting in shower in a bit, then up to Jimtown to write, walk a vineyard…. Start my wined day. Take notes for meeting tomorrow with sales exec guy.
Back to money doc…. How money just flies away, as Dad joked with me long ago. Joked but wasn’t joking. Have always seen my dad as sort of a money master, and he’s proven to be such, as long as I’ve known him. Wanted to move us to San Carlos, build house, he did. The Sunriver home, made happen. I’m 40 now, time to be more stringent and lone with money, singular projects. Why not just have one, be lone. With my wine Room…. Thoughts and thoughts, watching my babies on the couch watching Sandlot, a film that rewinds my mind so many years it makes me harshly realize where I am, at fucking 40.
Wine gives me a second start, a re-start. Focus on her, what she wants, what she’s drawing, what light she discloses and words put to page. Nothing can hurt you with her songs playing, with her scenes queued.
What wines will I get tonight. What do I want? Why am I thinking about it so much? Just walk in, no plan. Wine is about reaction, as is winemaking, I was just thinking. Sure you’d love the conditions of every vintage to be perfect and the growth to be even and shatter to be either minimized or somehow strangely optimal. “Winemaker shatter”, I heard someone once say. Still don’t know what that means.
Wine teaches us to react to what’s at our 12, what’s around us. Stop wishing, stop planning so much if at all, and step into the story, react. That’s what composes character, that’s what brings more life and enables us to gift ourselves with new and renewed speak and pace, more sensibility.
Ready for the work day, more ready than I think I’ve ever been on a Saturday. And it’s from this, sitting here at my usual table writing about wine and wine speaking to me even when I’m not with her.
