No writing for novel. Decided to bounce from book to jump around in these journals. More attention to these blogs, just putting everything in the Wine realm’s Literary, viral, air. Hope it pays, fruitions, somehow. All I can do is write, release. This Friday, tasting of a couple Cabernets, different price-points. Not sure what I’m looking for, but I am most assuredly looking FORWARD to tasting. No wine tonight, either. Need to stay focused with the other blog. “biz,” as I call it. As that’s what it is, MY business.
In the Roasting Company. My usual seat, taken. That’s fine. I like being by these stairs, my back to a shelf of books, view of 1st, Main. Not sure if I want another mocha, as I feel plenty caffeinated, presently. The coffee from the office, still hopping in wires under my irritated shell. Turning my computer’s situated state, don’t want eyes on these sentences. Not yet, anyway. Re-entrenching chair. My usual table, free. But I’m not moving. That takes time. Staying here, with my view of the coffee cockpit, cash register, biscottis, tip jar, empty milk containers, neglected behind their counter. This coffee temple always makes me think of Paris. Each sitting. Need to go back. Next year, I reason. Somehow this writing’ll bring me a plane ticket, I’m sure. It has to. And if not next year, pages forbid(!), I’ll write till I AM on a plane to my city.
Clocked out at 12:40p, I think. Power running low on this keyed monster. May have to move to usual chair, to access power. This poor machine, abused my my frantic paginations. No wine around me, today. Or at all, this week. Need to see barrels, views, barrel Rooms, tasting Rooms, bottles, PEOPLE. I want to taste. Is that wrong, to want to be near wine’s total essence, so frequently? The wine stage, even the “industry,” entails passion, does it not? That’s why I boarded the wine life train. Something, uneven.
Patrons, occupying my table, over by the cord. So that option, no longer available. Maybe I’ll fit in one glass of Petite Verdot tonight, from Kaz. I remember in ’09, on the Paris trip, tasting in Burgundy. The scents in that cellar, airborne history. For me, my reflective synergy. Getting tired, think I need that 2nd mocha. No, refraining. focus on wine thoughts, I tell Self. My tasting Room, one day. A Wine Bar, paired with the music flickering from these earphones. Vacation, for writing, Wine-anchored scribbles. Want to taste from producers of whom I’ve never heard the faintest rumor, or press. Want to explore. Doesn’t Wine encourage that? What does Wine want me to do with these pages, in its presence. Well, it tells me that right now, week to week, I’m not wading in its fermented puddle. Or, not enough. If I want to “know” Wine, I need commit my Self to her, fully. In all her forms, flavors, frolics.
This Literary Lunch, offering something. A radiating reasoning. Allowing Self to cling, harnessed to comet, fantasy. See the tasting Room, mine. Before opening, I sip an espresso, read The New Yorker. I take my time. No characters over this writer’s shoulder. Not in this dream.
A cyclist sits down next to me, removes the pastry he just bought from its bag, loud. Can even hear it through this current song’s pungent drum kicks, snarings. One of the uniformed wheel athletes sits especially close to me, right. I scoot left. Don’t need nearness, too much distraction. Not now. They look like professionals, free to be outside, riding when they wish. They never think about their freedom, as it’s always there, continuous with each revolution. The one with the pastry, texts a long message, smiles. Can’t help but appreciate how free, peace’d, they both seem. Me, sitting in a rushed page sitting, altogether jealous. No envy, just roasted, well-done, juicy jealousy. I’m a writer. One thematically shackled to Wine. So how do I not sip similarly, to these peddlers? Both set their helmets atop the small, crumb-covered table next to them. A third one walks in, slugs to main bar. I see a forth outside, leaning his vessel against the house’s wall, close to window so he can supervise, I’m sure. One of the newcomers ordered a morning bun. Jewel, the tending barista, or the owner who’s also behind the main bar, set it on a small, vintage white plate. Thinking I need a mocha, a treat. I deserve, don’t I?
1:12p. 48% power left in this machine. Why didn’t I bring the Composition Book over here? Do I use the laptop for the music? That’s not a valid reason. Sure it is. What am I saying? Certainly not a Literary one, reason that is. Want to check my word count, but that would be anything by Literary, artistic. May keep this monster home, tomorrow. Have the next session on an actual page. Wonder what my sister’s doing now, in harvest’s wake? Wonder what our wine is doing. Is it angry that I haven’t visited in a few weeks, given it any tweaks?
Think I may be close to 1000 words. The biker at my 1 o’clock sight corner took one of my table’s chairs, used it as a second resting station for helmets. Their dialogue climbs in decibel, trumping my tracks, which I hate, especially after understanding I only bring this stout computer with me for the songs, I think. Older I walk, I grasp knowing less than previously inventoried.
More people march through the door. Getting louder, disruptive, inescapably bothersome. Winemakers can’t have such, neither can erratic wine writers like I. 21 minutes till I’m back at the desk, cubed. Wine, swirling sights, imaginary circles for my sanity. Selective sedative, these bottled barrel thoughts. Looking at pictures in my cell, of a winery’s vineyard view, one I visited a couple weeks ago. Need more. Exploration, randomness, planned lack of plan. Wine is whimsicality, witty Life whirlings, for my writing. A mocha, another really, sounds erotically enveloping right now, just what this pen pusher needs. One of the bikers, talking with his mouth full, barbarically loud. Now, I’m bugged. Need to leave. But I can’t be mad at him, enjoying his day. Just need to record, document, reflect on his character, trap it. May be able to use it one day, in one work.