Monday, June 13, 2011

SUNDAY: Hated, Loved, Again

Beautiful day in the wine country today.  Russian River.  J Vineyards and Rodney Strong.  A little unscripted tasting on the day before work return.  Love being outside.  Seeing sun, vibrant vines, other lives, those loving wine.  This is what “the industry” truly embodies.  Writing for my novel, I think, right now.  Hard to tell, as I’m quite tranquil.  yesterday in the Room, festive.  Exuberant, in all of its developments.  I was surprised how many took to the ’08 Cab/Syrah blend.  Well,  I was, and wasn’t.  Its taste structure, insupposable.  The looks on guests‘ masks, engaging.  I found mySelf distracted the entires shift, if need you know.  Not just with wine reactions, ripples, but with the outside.  The Wild Oak Vineyard, the lawn preceding, Mayacamas Mountains, creeping breezes.  Enjoying the moments, OUTSIDE.  That is where true wine appreciation, life, interaction takes place.  The tasting Room, too, as we all see what’s merely on another side of the glass.  Inches away.  And of course, this made me think of my own tasting Room.  I want guests leaving in reflection, truly tormented by their enjoyment.  I’m addicted to guests‘ reactions.  Mostly as a writer, but as well one in love with wine, one loving being around other of minds like.  
Looking at the pictures I took today, I’m again shook to appreciate the fact I need be out.  Not encapsulated.  That’s not wine.  Certainly not Literature.  Be there not characters in isolated spaces.  Yesterday, met an older gentleman from Russia.  He stood so surprised by the ’07 Rockpile Blend’s palate presence.  “This is good taste,” he told me.  “Give me six.” Finding a wine he loved.  The next guests, a group of ladies from Southern California, in just before close, accepted my offer to embark upon an unruly progression through some of the wines, a flight not on the simplistic laminated menu atop the green marble.  They liked my take on wine, I think, colliding with wines they found bedazzling, beautiful.  Loved their energy, and it was the tasting Room that fostered such fermented fervor.  What I’ll remember most about these SoCal femmes, their trust in me, their respect for my relationship to bottled Sonoma County fruit.  Love to those ladies, and all the many guests yesterday of similar dispositions aglisten.
Now, in the studio, listening to Wine Lounge beats, envisioning.  What, the future most suitable, beneficial, to me.  AS A WRITER.  The other day, someone asked me, “Are you a wine writer, or blogger?” First of all, I write.  Often about wine.  I lend some of that wine writing to a blog.  The blog is a forum, or venue.  I don’t blog before I write.  I write, then post to blog.  Why is that so hard for people to get?
Wine of the night?  You guessed correctly, lovely readers: the St. Francis 2008 Cuveé Lago I mentioned above.  Cab and Syrah can orchestra so ornately, picturesque palate pummel.  What am I pairing it with?  A quesadilla from up the street.  What’s wrong with that?  Like my brother Ariel Ceja said the other day, “If it makes you feel good...” Plan to explore and deconstruct this wine, 2nite.  And what I mean: try to understand its intentions.  What is this wine trying to say?  So many speak on wine as if they know the wine better than its creator does.  Than the wine knows its own intricacies.  I plan to, when I return from picking up dinner, just taste, listen.  Not judge, and I don’t have to, as I already know how magically the bottle’s to connect with this penman’s core.  Time to clock out, but only for blinks brief.  Returning soon, to compose, scribe.  With Cabernet and Syrah.  
9:57p.  Typing till 11p.  Aiming for 1000 words, just as winemakers aim for profiles, especially when dealing with blends.  This Cab/Syrah duet, cinematic.  Tastes better than it did yesterday in the Room.  Looking over the notes I took behind the bar, thinking about those points in the shift.  Need to do something with that stage, here on the page.  Was thinking, 30 minute play.  A cluster cast, but each character distinguished, established.  This before the stage that comes before brainstorming, so don’t take me too seriously.  Time disintegrating, too worried to wait.  So I’ll write.
52 minutes remaining, and I’m distracted by weightless Reality TV on BRAVO.  Why am I watching this visual toxicity?  Why does anybody?  Remember lecturing on Pop Culture, Reality TV, a couple semesters ago.  Many of my dear students, becoming impassioned, vitriolic, insistent in their views, written positions.  Was thinking earlier today, while tasting through some Pinots at J Vineyards & Winery, that I should develop some lectures on Wine, Writing, and Literature.  Take it a step forward, a sprint forward.  Force fruition.  Couldn’t believe how beautiful it was today, in Russian River.  Glad I had the camera with, the sense to snap stills, push the trigger.
Closing words: wine, blend, ink, autonomy.  That’s what I embody.  That’s what now epitomizes me.  I don’t need direction, or management, as a wine writer, as one in the wine industry.  I’m a writer, I write about wine from my time.  Like the sparklings in J’s Room, I think of something that’ll stop people.  Readers, consumers.  An idea that’ll imprison attention, agreeably.  That’s what this writer wants.  Not be an authority, just to truly live on pages, with wine-timed lines.  The cork, by the keyboard.  Dry, weakened, sensory.  Significance?  Difficult to definitively distinguish.
And the pulses summarizing, leading to the day next, the beginning of the work week.  Truthfully, my signature, in this session, slanted.  Maybe it’s the blend, its effect on this character...
...Mike thought.  He closed the laptop, walked to the kitchen, tossed the remaining contents into a drain.  He thought about the coming set of five.  But something felt uneven, disrupted.  He couldn’t measure the bent aesthetic with any accuracy, but he still thought.  As he walked back to the couch, he counted steps, breaths, thoughts.  He was exhausted, as if he’d sprinted, or done gymnastics.  He couldn’t figure it out.  He laid down, lowered his feigned eye lids.  His mind slid to a defined grid.  Slowing, sleeping.
[6/12/11, Sunday]

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