Getting to the keys only now, 10:36/7pm. 2005 Stagecoach Syrah in glass. Deep, taunting, secretively seductive. Tomorrow, all day, to the writer. Want to ascend early. 8a? Get a mocha, then get to the desk. No pictures, no video, just words. As in this entry. Annulled, with the progression of the book. Found some old entries this morning, before I left for the Napa meeting. Entries I wrote a couple semesters ago. Most, if not all, will propel the book’s prose. At this hour, a little late, not in the mood to write. What do winemakers do, on a day during Harvest, when they aren’t in the mood to be in horribly elevated temperatures, sort through fruit, be stuck in a lab? They enact better ethic than this author, you can bet.
It’s 11p, now. If I go to bed, I could up earlier than early, for me. could get hours of mocha-molded writing done. Could finally have a rough rough rough draft of the book printed. Taking another Stagecoach Syrah sip, see what it says. Tastes a bit hot, but I don’t mind. Additional electricity in any wine occupying this poet’s glass, never hinderance. Another sip, I’ll need another pour. Sip. And, to the kitchen.
Syrah of this fold, mastery, will bring me back into a Rhône trance. No more Bordeaux if this way I continue to go, fast or slow. New notes: mint, slight cigar, black velvety licorice. This ’05 is a film. Not excessively stretched, not oddly abrupt. Keeping my cozy in this cold condo. Tilting this stemless structure, admiring her shade. Wine color pushes me to slow in sips. I’ll obey, so I can admire the miniaturized waves in glass. This wine, wines of the like, make me entertain my own production. But I’d need Katie’s help. Put that on the list of existential pursuits.
Heater on. True, the Syrah’s keeping me a bit comfortable in degree. But it needs a momentary aide. No other way I’d spend my Saturday night. Envisioning all, from the book’s release, to signings, lectures, appearances. Do you think I’d be allowed to do pourings? That could be fun, as I love the tasting Room, its dimension and elements fantastic, so much. Tonight, a group of about seven entered the Room, from Arkansas, I think. They strolled in utter bewilderment of the wine world. Surroundings, scenes. Their naiveté, instructional for me. It reminded me of the New, the exploration, the Self-education of the wine voyage.
So, the session tomorrow morning, needs to dissect all pertaining to wine, its tapestry of ambiguity, marvel. More Syrah; it urges song, a universal surrender or expressive inhibition; she’s a melodic mumble, deliciously difficult to decipher. And so, I’ll sip again. New notes? No. But better balance as it interacts with atmosphere. She apportions savory villainy. Thrilling. Thirsty.
Getting tired now. I should blame her. The Syrah. The pairing of these lined thoughts, bottles ease, perfects my Saturday’s eve. Mind wondering, concentration avoided. Blaming Syrah’s symptoms for that as well.