I’m in the hours of the night before Monday. What am I thinking about? Nothing much. Just thinking about he weekend in Napa. The wine tasted, food consumed, sights savored. One of the employees, actually the hostess at the restaurant last night, refereed to Sonoma Valley as “the other valley.” In jest, she spoke, but I nonetheless found it valuable. The rivalry between the counties seems contrived and meritless. Someone recently compared the rift to something, but I can’t recall what. Goddamn it. It was really poignant too. The Napa culture and that of Sonoma are like warring tribes, bickering family factions, like the rivalry between the north and the south circa 1860.
Wine, how do I go forward with it, besides the “Wine is Literature” stance? I’ll figure it out. Graded a pile of poorly proposed papers today. Saving the rest for tomorrow. Tonight’s mine. So what do I do with it? Think of a life without papers, ungracious and disingenuous students, a “profession” that lacks professionalism. Should I have a glass of vino tonight, or should I stick to this deep, dark, beer? Might jump over to a Meritage that I bought the other day. Which is appropriate, considering Alice and I spent the weekend at the Meritage resort in Napa. The excursion gave me the idea to interview others in Rooms, in both valleys.
Account balance, bleeding, injured. How do I write about wine when I struggle to afford a bottle to review? Thinking of writing a review of the Meritage Hotel and Resort. Bit of a spoiler, it’ll be all praise. The surprise will be how I assemble my prose ode. Everything from the olfactory web in the lobby and halls to the fountain by the pool, wonderful. Want to go back. I could get in my car right now, drive there, charge a few nights. No. No, no, no. Not without Ms. Alice. I have one recurring character from the weekend: the person going to or coming from the spa, in a white robe. Just looks odd. Why not put the robe on when you get there? Why do you have to parade with it, march around like your an elite on holiday?
Time for a stroke or two of Meritage. Need to live with wine, breathe it, if I am to write it. Wine is literature, because literature is us, and we are life, and why go through life without wine? Attempting to gauge my alacrity. Okay, I’m stable, joyous. Time for a pour...
Just sipped the first mini-fall of this Cheval Blanc-styled Meritage. Lovely, a beauty. Want to review another wine. Should pick one. Cruising through the pages of Wine Spectator. Don’t stuff too much stock into this publication, as I find it pretentious and pompous, but it’s a place to start, I suppose. So much to know about wine. Where do I start? Zins? Malbecs? Bordeaux blends, like this Meritage? Why do I have to have a focus? Focus is boring, predictable. Why not just jump in?
Took some notes this morning at the resort, while Alice was still slumbered on the floor third, over a cup of black steam. How can I look forward to a sense-sucking classroom tomorrow when I spent a succulent shot of life among the grapes, the full bowls of libations and liberty?
The colors stand out, still. Justifiably confident greens, yellows. Barren branches eager for spring, their offspring. Seeing a correlation with the delivery of manuscripts. Poetry, about me now. See a fence, again, between the old entries and other writings in that plastic box and me, my Now. Need another sip. My way, that resembling Hemingway.
Odd being away from the Room today. Almost missed having my elbows in curious miniature ponds. That magnificent marble separating me from the visitor, the barbaric invader. Miss the rude characters that peer at the flights on the menu. Why is that? Easy, the literature in this wine world. So many pages, characters, scenes, developments. How can I not be compelled to propel prose, poetry?
The Meritage now assumes a dark, commanding role. Curious as to what awaits, further into these red waves. The lines are jabbing my time. I’m stunned, fall.
The cartoon sparks soon. My tunes part moons. See? I’m truly unruly in this entry. Can’t help but rhyme. The Irish Carl Jung, sell my signs. Acting irresponsibly, with these poetic purges. The goal of the 65k is to land somewhere, on a profitable path.
-Man not wanting to taste anything I suggest. He actually said I had a bias. Bias in what regard, I wanted to ask him.
-Write write write this Room. I’m still confused. Not an expert. These visitors expect me to know everything about wine. How is that reasonable?
-I look at all these wines behind the bar. What do I do with these, in terms of reflection? I feel like I’m too used to these inventions. No longer wooed. Bored. Like Will said, “house palate.”
-A lady just said to me, “You look like Jeff Gordon.”
I said, “Oh, is that good or bad?”
Her friend, which I later learned was her mother-in-law, said “Don’t you know who Jeff Gordon is?”
“Yes,” I said, hoping for an actual elaboration on her statement. But no. Their attention swerved. Jeff Gordon drives cars, right?
-Need a sip of something. Maybe the Syrah. No, had that too many times. Panicking. Trapped in this Room.
Writing for my life. I stayed like the blade of a knife in a full sink. Instead of brandishing guns, I’m standing in ink.
See? There I go, in word spoken. I’m a slurred token.
What an unexpected session, this evening. Had enough of a catapult, with this weekend, with Ms. Alice. I feel, re-collected, re-planted, re-branded. Like poets in days me behind, I’m isolated, confined to this sheet, screen. My catharsis at the end of 1k, a barbaric but beauteous bravado. Purgation, this situation.
One last conveyance: Death to critics, I stress wreck to your guilt-ridden gimmicks.