After a long day, officed, I decided to cruise over to Dan’s wine shop, Back Room Wines. He was very inviting, as always with this spontaneous bottle scribe, hosting a tasting for me. A Sauv Blanc, Chard, some Syrahs, then some blends. Walked off with a Syrah. Value, too recognizable, incomparable to dismiss. Have always loved the character of his location, the varied intent of the floor: shop, sip, lounge, learn, among a cannon of other components. Love the way the bottles are placed about the space, shelves. This is the wine shop shape I sprint to one era proprietor.
Thinking of last night’s 1000 word storm. Just read it. Surprised how much I approve. Usually, like many winemakers, I find something bent, displaced, oddly nuanced in the paragraphs’ succession, individual and collective notes. Not last night, though. I sit here, shocked, almost, sipping what remains of that ’08 North Coast Cabernet. My statements of intent on producing my own line, more than austere, clear in my methodology. My sister today offered introductory steps, for such a creative entrepreneurial whirlwind. Within the next two years, I’ll be sipping my wine when writing my worded nerves.
Going to retrieve my final pour. More like a tasting Room splash. Need bountiful stillness 2nite. Printing those pages, finally. BOOK1, in front of me, completed. But, mystery. Why? I wrote it. I’ll never understand this comprehension drought when doing laps in my own lines. Do winemakers experience these postmodern pulses? Should ask the sister figure ...
The Composition Book, filling. Just realized today at work, while writing, how many pages NewWineGig has gifted. Listening to a track now containing waves licking shores, somewhere. Need to get there. Maybe BOOK1 erupts, and suddenly my shell connects with this setting, the one I’m hearing. The percussion, timidly echoed, ghostly garnished guitars, reverbing unknown notes. I’m not here. Dreams, within hours, hopefully transport this evaporated wine inkman.