Wine and its industry and starting to annoy me.

Wine as well.  Not sure what happened, but yesterday when I told a guy that the Hillside Cuvee is my favorite and he asked me to explain myself, I just felt annoyed, and disconnected, curious, and again annoyed.  Annoyed as fuck.  WHY is it my favorite?…. Okay let’s stop at that question.  Once I tell this dick my reasoning, then what happens?  Does that affect his conception and opinion of the wine?  Does it make his life better?  Will I seem more credible as a wine person?  Why is it my favorite? 

Mostly because go fuck yourself.

The entire rest of the day I felt free, unrestricted, with new sight.  Wine anymore is confusing me… why am I doing it?  Why was I there in that fucking cave rather than writing, prepping a talk in one of my English 1B sections, or enjoying some coffee at the Vine Street Starbucks and taking notes.  What am I still doing in the wine business grip?  I should only be writing wine, not pouring it…  Today could be that day, the one where I give notice and never come back.  Well, to write about wine yes and all the weird shit people say at a tasting, but not to pour, not to do anything serious.  Not anymore.

Broken from work, distracted by two, actually three, really four, people I met while in wine’s full wheel.  The first person walking up to me, gently interrupting my types, a girl who worked with me while I was full-time at FFW, then a club member of Dutcher Crossing and his friend, then my really good friend JK.  They all arrived at the same time, and I could only talk to them, hear what was new in their story.  And that’s what wine is, the connectedness, you’ll see them again and again, over years after the last time you see them.  Wine and its industry, especially here in Sonoma County, can do that.

Heading back home in a second, rest of day with family, and maybe a nap at some point.  No time soon after this small latte I ordered.  My own wine business world, thing, character and perpetuation… so, start with the day.  With the wineries I visited today, the people with whom I spoke and tasted.  Writing wine is putting on page the life and lives you experience in its world.

Was told that I need focus and self-contain and be singular in my written reason and narration.  So now, 17 days and 4 months before turning fucking 41, I decide to be attached wine’s ideas, her forms and stories, geographies and travel.  Writing only wine and the reactions to it.. my wishlist of travel spots, starting in the state just above me, the across however many miles to Spain, Bordeaux, Austria, Hungary…..  The people that “interrupted” my pages actually strangely centered me, putting my figure and fixation further into a firm singularity. 

Not in the tasting room, but my head doesn’t leave, my pages only speak in a wined and time-aligned way…. Vines right now in dormancy, and me unable to walk the rows from all the mud.  Well, I could, but I don’t.  Tomorrow back in office and I carry this with me in a peripatetic insatiability.  So, then, before I leave write it again… WINE.

And more…


The only thing I’m to write.  Book done before month’s end.  Gives me 19 days.  Doable.  Ray Bradbury wrote ‘451’ in 9 days I think, in the basement of a library.  This current beat I’m listening to tells me to remember wine’s music…. Write more music into wine, and write the music in wine, be it jazz or hip-hop, rock, ambient, whatever else.  Wine… start with her, then fly, come back, transcend the possibilities with writing and what’s looked at as unattainable.  That’s what you should reach for, what you should write.

Two of the Chardonnays I tasted earlier, not my style.  So whose are they?  What is the audience, what is the music in that bottle, and the other one?  What does it say, emancipate?  Either way, me of wild weal today.  And from Mom’s instruction to contain and singularize the pages, to a book, to a one-voice shape and shake, to convoke my composition. 

I want to take on the industry, if you must know.  Challenge it, have it answer to and for certain specific transactions and occurrences.  Friend that came in earlier, years ago fired from a winery with no cause, no explanation or compensation adequate, or anything said.  He wrote the then-CEO, and all the ivory tower sog-slouch could say is “I wish you the best…” or some bullshit.

I’ll start with pay.  Why don’t they fucking pay?

Why don’t they encourage you go after what you want, rather than tell you you’re better for this, or that, or some other thing.

Vine Street Starbucks, where I’ve written and worked several times, but not in some time.  Thought about stopping at a third winery for tasting, but no.  Was feeling a bit famished and needing more coffee.  Hannah the first stop, White Oak the second.  And from both stops, seeing that wine should be that ever-amplifying anchor and angle in my writing.  And a tasting room of my own, yes.  One day.  But by invitation only.  Don’t want those event crowds, and those passport sippers that only want to keep sipping, and not stop until they have some escalated effect and then keep sipping wherever they can.

                White Oak as a winery up for sale.  Had no idea.  Guy behind the bar, Jeff, selling me six bottles at half off, and giving me a Merlot at nothing.  Felt sad, as that winery years ago I visited during barrel tasting weekend and had fun yes but tried bottles I’ve still never the like experienced.  Can’t remember what it was, but the Cabernet of which I bought 3 bottles today had to be similar.  I mean, I bought three bottles.  That has to mean something, right?

                Listening to Lo Fi beats and typing.  Don’t want to taste anymore wine, if you can believe it.  Know there’s someone in some other state probably reading this and thinking “What the fuck?  How could you not want to taste more wine?” I just don’t.  I don’t want to sip anything else.  I’m wined out.  Want to be full of caffeine, and write about wine, people in the wine world, behind the bar listening to people tell their stories of how they got there, and what wine is to them.

                At Hannah, talked to some young girl.  Been at winery for about two years she said.  Asked her what she wanted to do in the industry, what the apex of her aims was, is.  She said she didn’t know, but wanted to continue with DTC operations, dealing more closely with the people that visit the winery, wine club members… what I took, that she wants to have more close and involved dealings and conversations with people rather than the big crowd surges, the cattle flows a tasting room can sometimes have.  Good for her, I thought.  The wine industry shows you one directions, then another, then tries to herd you a certain straight.  She, though, knows what she wants and Hanna Winery appears to encourage her consistency of pursuit.

                I will write wine, this morning telling self again.  From when I woke this morning and could barely concentrate with the skirmishing of Jack and Emma, to now on Vine Street, just a couple blocks away from another winery to write.  Part of me wants to go find more to write about.  Some new tasting room but I feel like I’ve been to all of them on the square.  And, I’m not wanting to taste anymore.  A wine writer not wanting to taste any more wine… so write about it.  Write what… what wine should do.  What I want from wine.  What I don’t want.  Don’t in anyway seek to be full-time at a winery again, ever.  Ever.  Never again in this life.


Writing offsite today.  At winery. 

And throughout the day.  Putting self in winery owner’s jacket.  Always wonder what it means to have it all come back to you.  All of it.  All.  From the inventory, to the reservations, to the tours given and the fucking patio furniture.  All of it, your Now.

New wine blog, not so new actually, re-activated again today.  Wine business but not.  More conversation from writing, letter writing… or something.  Wine… focused and centered in wine and its industry, doing something different than just a tasting room 1-to-1.  And more than some silly “1-to-1”.

Wine and its stories to me over the past twenty years since being here in Sonoma County (How has it been that …. Long?) have shaped and re-shaped everything.  Writing, business ideology, wine itself.  Hoping to do some “outreach” today as they call it, hearing other voices….

Can’t focus with the kids being their lunatic selves and eating breakfast, yelling at each other… need my own office.  Hate that expression of necessity being the mother of invention but that’s precisely what I’m thinking.  Have to get out of this house when writing, if I’m to finish these wine essays, or any essay.  Today is a wine day, though, do note.  Where I become a tourist, exploring innocently and with a hunger for I guess you could call it knowledge, but I don’t.  It’s something else.  A wine story, not so much about the wine or anything else, but seeing all of it.  This was entirely my mind last night, sipping the Aperture blend.  Different than the Malbec I had years ago in the hotel while we were out of the house.  Everything about it different.  And more than the wine…

Again with concentration contaminated by noises around me.  Leaving soon, hopefully.  Literally incapable of writing… anesthetized by everything.  Chipmunk voices, Jack pounding his water bottle on the little table.  I know my Now, more than closely and with a thorough throughness of thought.  Everything around me, meant for the wine story… the kids one day in the office with me, managing a part of the blog, or business, the blog’s business.  Wine and literature.. where it all started, this entire wine story of mine.  The first blog, the first conversation with my sister-in-law.  Cab last night like a beaming and subtle jazz vixen telling me to move one way then other.

Wine when I was first interacting with her topic mad me hesitant to speak, or write anything critical about what I was sipping.  I didn’t know, and I still to some extent don’t, but I just react.  Wine is reactionary, much beyond what I’m writing here, what I’m trying to do in this room caked in distraction.  People in the tasting room, regardless of the side of the bar they’re on, have something they bring to the counter, to that pour.  What then… what transpires in the interaction centered around the glass’ contents?  Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do, this day and others, getting out to the winery, other tasting rooms, wherever.

Finding with wine and writing about wine that the declarative statements and promissory words are the block, are detrimental.  Write wine as it comes to thought.. me walking the vineyard as I do when it’s warmer, or could now but the rows still caked with mud and an obstacle to themselves.  Even still, I see the wines on the shelves, people looking at them, me looking at them, holding tastings for people and seeing what they have to say about what’s said to them from the puddle in the bowl. I’m giving myself a writing lesson on writing wine this morning… it should be FREE.  The freest of freewriting.  Wine IS writing.  She IS the expression the movement of the pen, the typing, the three pages a day.  Excited to see what the wines have to say to me today, the SB to the ’16 Estate Cabernet.  What will I want to say back in writing.. what will they make me think of?  Can only anticipate but I shouldn’t even do that.  Be as in the moment as you’re able.  And of course I’m speaking to anyone wanting to write wine, or about her.  Not as some expert or authority, but just as thought offerer.

Should be leaving soon.  Should I go to the store and get a little notebook, of course I shouldn’t.  Use your phone.  Less clutter.  Just earlier I was cursing self for this backpack and how it encourages clutter and gather, and now I want to add another article?  Comedy.  Unintended.

Sniffling a little, but ignoring.  I need to be on property, writing about the wines as I taste them.  Maybe then I can go home.  Show up, taste, then BOUNCE.  Sounds like a plan.  And I don’t think I’m joking.  Getting tired of this Starbucks and the noises, even over the beat I have playing.  Enjoy drive on CH Rd.  Think about wine, the book… finish the fucking book already.. write more freely.  Get out of the adjunct cell, as the TR eventually, and write wherever you can to whatever bottled voice you can.  Pinot or…..

Going in, but at 11.

After a morning of some of the most intense sibling skirmishes I’ve seen since having two littles and both could actually altercate with the other, I have time to self.  At the old Windsor coffee spot.  Last night, Hitching Post Pinot.  Can’t remember the last bottle of HP I had.  Was a while ago…. WAIT—After or actually during the fires when staying at Uncle Mike’s house in El Dorado Hills.  HP of course reminds so many of Sideways, that movie… you know… Pinot Pinot PINOT, but for me it’s not that.  Not anything bad being associated with fires, but just something different.  The not-knowing… the something of something having to do with life.  Wine is the unpredictable and the whim, both dangerous and delightful.

Had to move seats.  Only one open was the little table by the napkins and shakers and other shit bar.  So I came to the seats I used to hate writing in.  I can tell, I’m thinking too much about what I’m writing.  Second-guessing self and getting uncomfortable in seat, feeling a mood approaching, already disrupting my work.  Writing about wine, and how again I don’t see a wine bar or shop for self, but some resource for wine drinkers, no matter their “level”….  But then I back-pedal on that as well.  Just write wine, same as when my sister told me that if you’re going to make wine then just make wine.  Don’t think about it.  She said, as I’ve written so many times before, and quoted conveniently, that if you second-guess yourself you’re never going to make wine.

Another quote, from my grandmother, only days before she left, “It’s YOUR life… you have YOUR choice.” So what do I want, I’m this morning asking.  How should I know… I do, a bit.  Don’t I?  After submitting grades yesterday, or the night before, I very much am convinced that the adjunct thing has run its course.  I still want to teach, I guess—or not “teach” but offer ideas.  By way of essay.  Like this one, this piece, this article, whatever the fuck this is… going in later so I can have some fucking time to self.  To collect, think about my mission, and how much life I have left.  You never know.  So where you are and what you’re doing has to be defining and absolutely declarative in its progressions and steps.

With wine, as metaphor or no, I’m told to respond to conditions around me, favorable or not.  The fires, 2017’s, obviously not hoped-for but still present.  Winemakers had to deal with them.  Work with and around them.  More with than around.  The defined the wine of that year, much.  Even if the clusters were pulled before the blazes initiated and flew and grew as they did.  Wine… definition-prone and aided and slated by everything not-controlled.  I start to see…. Something…. Defining wine.  Or characterizing her.  No, something… not sure.  Wine and character.  What everyone keeps telling me to do.  So why do I ever stray from what everyone hopes I write, DO?  Frustrated with my handle of my own pages so I convince self to challenge the same self in writing ONE world.  One character, language.

Wine wants us to be puzzled, wants us to have to contemplate next directions, just as she did.  She demands we listen, be more observant, more connective and connected, composed and by the moment towed.  Today I’ll taste through the flight, a couple times I’m sure.  Write everything she says to me… make it personal, and wine should be personal.  At times moody, confusing, a myriad of varying and unpredictable echoes and dialects.  The Pinot last night speaking differently than the first HP bottle I had years prior.  That’s the music to it all, in wine or anything else entailing life and promise, some dream, some chance and happenstance, a reactive and spontaneous dance.  If I do open a wine shop, it has to speak in this language of spontaneity, of artful reaction, of a lick of luck.  Traveling to other countries and streets far away to gather bottles for the shop…. Ideas, from her, wine. In the convex consideration of my reflective armament.  What am I doing but walking with her, in the step of steps, not so much divine or even delicious, but decided.

Rootstock, Vine, Then Wine

Emma playing in her room, with doll house and the Frozen tent.  ME just observing.  Telling self I’m not sick, and I don’t feel sick just a bit tired.  Sipping latte and thinking of what I want from the day….  Business, budgeting, having this first sizeable commission check do something.  Course the more I think about it, the less I’m getting done.  Fact, I’m not getting anything done right now.  Well, this entry and the amusement from little Ms. Austen voicing words and conversations for her dolls.

Want to pick up some wine at some point, for writing and more prompt and discussion invitations for the 3v blog.  Thinking imports, Spanish and Bordeaux.  Tired of American wines…. Or maybe not tired but, need to be more exploratory, more wild and scattered, all over the globe.  Brother-in-law Jim telling me I need to put more into my wine writing, when having a glass of that Duckhorn SB and he that champagne… you know the fancy kind that everyone has, and that I enjoy when I can, with the orange label. I know what it’s called I just don’t know how to spell and am too lazy to google it.

Day, WINE.


Focus is theory,

When you mention it in bulk.

Walk with more meant whim.

Wrote this write before run.

Now a couple hours after the run I’m having trouble focusing on anything.  Tired a bit, and indecisive on where to devote my creative dote.  Connecting with IT vendors in Marin and SF, organizing desk and readying for own office, at some point in this new year.  Yes, coffee need present.  Keep moving, stop trying to be so organized and orderly.

The Eve, tomorrow.  Going to work a full day, I decided days ago.  Talk of us being let go early, but I’m not letting go of my projects and efforts.  The sales I log in this AE stance and walk will reflect the effectiveness of my creative work, how I’m having it drawn, how I have it planted and playing in my thinking.

4:04 now.  What can I do…. Write plan for tomorrow.  Get here at 7:30, do worksheets, then launch into emailing.  I’ve noticed more reaction to letters I’m sending.  The writing will materialize what’s been in my eye since starting this.  Thought arrangement a little sloppy and slow, try to move effectively.

Done with sparkling water, now definitively need coffee.

Need boxes for all the things I want away from this desk area, that I’ll have in my eventual office.  Or maybe I don’t want an office at first.  Suddenly intrigued with self, that I could be mobile and starkly minimalist.  Was told the other day that one of the AEs works out of a coffee shop.  Just he, his laptop and phone.  Intrigued…. Not saying I’m going to do that, but….. what about the LAB on Mendocino, the coLAB.  Think I can afford the lower tier membership just to get in, and I can get additional hours since I know someone that works there.  Pretty sure.

The coffee tastes magical, honestly.  Work today is holding my hand to the dimension I need be for 2020.  Without any possibility of fail, I WILL wake tomorrow at 4am, and write only about Sonic, or the principles and mandates, theses here embodied.

2020 will put me on the Road, and will have me writing for life.  I’m not leaving Sonic, ever if I can help it.  There’s too much here, there’s too much to learn and create, write, from.  There’s just too much.  Why would I ever leave.  I won’t.  I’m not going to.  So I can stop talking about it now…

OH SHIT… have to pay for my bottle of Sophia’s, from Lancaster, that I took yesterday… half a bottle of it left, I think.  Tonight needs to be a wine night, and I’m looking for more ways to blend Sonic and that world, that story of mine which has been present in my present and persona, Personhood, since ’09.  Actually, before.  Anyway I need to call…

$18.  Not even.  And for a $60 bottle.  Wine’s world will elevate this one, this tech/telecom/internet field.  Work is work, and I’m seeing the technical talk and plugs are more less ancillary.  So what wine am I opening tonight, that will augment what I do here?  One of the bottles Mom and Dad bought me for xmas.  What I’m thinking now anyway… teaching myself to write more carelessly, free, and attached to my meta, the desk or the living room where I was yesterday morning around 5:30-something when I woke from some odd dream and just wrote.  3000 word essay that I still have to edit.  Add that to the project list.  May come in even earlier than 7:30… or, take this laptop home.  Thinking too much about it, I know.