Tag: writing

Found the above line from an earlier entry.  Have no idea when it was typed or in reference to….  Decide to take day.  To self. To write.  Now I notice myself procrastinating with writing.  Or not procrastinating, but evasiveness.  There’s something missing.  With wine, there’s something never missing.  In wine nd thoughts of, there’s everything.  And not in what I sip, what you pour into the glass.  At all.  Today I collect on wine, and what I’ve done with wine.  Yesterday driving to Chalk Hill, visiting CH and Roth Estate.  It felt different, but the same.  Then again different.  Like I could make it mine, somehow.  Like I could be there and not be there as I used to and just think, write and react as needed.  An encouraging katzenjammer, as I sipped Chardonnay walking down the main channel of the cave.  Of course wen to that room I used to call “The Mikey Room” and remembered some of the tours I gave in there, speaking about wine as I do, and how one man from I think Indiana or Iowa said that’s what I need to, “Yeah, that’s what you need to do…” he stressed.  When I asked him what precisely he said write about wine as I talk about it.  How the Syrah was a decisive ghost that made engagement irresistible, that it was a being that complemented your being and elevated your should and life sight. 

I do think about today, and what I need done by time it’s “over”.  What’s that.  Make some contacts at a couple wineries, locally.  Have my call at around 3:30 with…. Can’t say.  I want to, I do, but I don’t want to jinx it, especially if I put this on blog which I more than likely will. Want a vineyard walk… have to get lunch fro wife and I, around 11-something.  Wine reminds me of time, what I do and don’t of it have.  More not.  Time passes as I type this… last night in that final glass of Rosé watching some movie, and thinking of my friend who left where I now work to go back into wine, to be with what she’s passionate. I advised her not to, but she did anyway.  No, I don’t wish I would have done the same, at all.  But I want to revive my passion for wine.  That’s what this sitting, this day, my drive in a matter of minutes will be about.  More voices from wine, more literature… more visions and rooms and writing in those rooms.  Don’t back off on wine, I tell myself, thinking about THE first winery I ever visited with Mom and Dad— Ridge, in the Cupertino mountains.  Think that’s where it is. Santa Cruz Mountains, I want to say, technically.  The drive up, Mom and Dad talking about “futures they were picking up”.  I’ve written this before, but I now I want it more known.. when this started, when wine and I first met.  I associate it with family, with Mom and Dad and that drive.  I could have spent time with friends, somewhere, doing nothing at all productive or shaping in my story.  I was with them.  In their car.  Driving up that cliff, knuckles white and all kinds of odd tints and shared.  Me wondering about winer and what was so special about it.  What is so special or meaningful about wine.  What is the thesis or centrality, narrative nexus to this book, this blog if I ever turn it into some book-book-is thing on wine.  What do I want it to be.  Don’t know.  Maybe wine doesn’t know, either. Maybe we write the book together.— YES.  Why have I never thought about that, thought of it that way, before?  What I need from today, wine’s voice.  Wine’s time.  Wine’s music and jazz, visuals and work, writing assignments.  Wife’s sister years ago, nearly ten full to be honest (and I’ve written this before too, several times) basically ordered me to blog singularly, and write singularly, about wine.  Okay.. okay… today’s a re-start, a re-play, a re-write, a re-education.  On all wine courses and decisions, senses, tells.

Looking at wineries close by.  Forgot it’s only 9:30-something.  None are open.  Don’t want to taste, want to listen.  Want to see people sipping, hear what they say.  Hear what the wine orders them to voice.  Recently gave a talk at work, that “wine isn’t wine”.  And it isn’t, not past the puddle in the glass.  It’s what I’m after today, it’s that drive up the Cupertino hill, looking over that sharpest of escarpments.  Voice, people, characters… aims for day.  What I want by day’s close.  I guess I hold the same thought chord at the moment as I did whenever I wrote that above line—  I can only think about “EOD” s they in the office say.  I want to know what wine will have said to me.  Who I’ll meet, have met, what stories and curiosities will be rotated and revolved.  I want to know what and who I’ll be with wine— what wine will have ordered me to write, do.  One thing now in sight, not sipping.  Observing.  Staying sped in these types, finally finish my wine book.  My thesis of wine not being wine, but wine being us.  Wine being the planet, the soil, the drives to Chalk Hill to see your best friend while he pours from behind bar and you remember when you did the same, not all that long ago.

Want to buy wine books, seeing anything with a grape cluster, vines waking from dormancy, little leaves teasing us with vintage volume and voice.  A couple wineries open in a bit.  Thinking about Healdsburg, its square, Lioco…. Thumbprint, that one room close to H2 and then… Stonestreet where friend Gary works, has worked for substantial span.  Have always enjoyed their wines, whenever I go in and Gary so kindly pours for his wild wine writing friend and answers every question I caffeinatedly catapult at his standing again asking for the same pamphlet and ancillary literature I did at last visit.