Typing for Life, before tasting Room re-entry. My book’s due date, nearing. Love the pressure. Last night, the ’01 Barbaresco paired magically with composition for its pages. Not worried on how it’s to be received, reacted to, what have. I just want it finished, the same way an independent winemaker anticipates his/her bottles on the dinner table of consumers.
Vineyards yesterday, struggling to care for their fruit, leaves. The 2011 vintage seems to be just as nail-biting as 2010, it seems. And I’ve discussed such with a couple winemakers, and they agree, partially. Speaking of nurturing Self, I HAVE TO run today. Would have yesterday, but returned home too late, and was quite famished from working all day. Which reminds me, today is Day 7 in a row, of work. But, at Kaz, I don’t feel like I’m “working.” More like I’m supporting a business I love, a friend, a family, an incredible colony of wines. A favorite stage, honestly. I’ll continue in return, even if I was to relocate. Kaz’s winery serves as ample warrant for return, re-relocation.
8pm. Home from a tasting Room stretch quite levelly eased. Maybe a bit more elevated in exterior/environmental degree than the previous shift. Good for the grapes, good for us, the sippers. Today’s shift, much more music with Luke and I throwing rhymes back and forth, doing repeated side-by-side’s of 2010 Cab Franc. His vs. Kaz’s. Cab Franc has always been a flirtatious quagmire to my palate and page. Not sure what to scribble about its gravitating structure. Before another week at NewWineGig, I do what I often do: Wine Lounge instrumentals and other velvet cushion tracks, alongthrow something in the glass, what remains of last night’s ’01 Barbaresco.
Still typing for life. But then, just before his third Italian palate connection, Mike halted. Read over the spoken word he scribbled behind the bar, between pours. He read, “...sexy cuddle of a Cubist finish...” More poetry, he thought. That was artistic, autonomous. Still pained from his run, Mike forced himSelf to stay in his chair, type. The book needed to be finished. Luke, his tasting Room conspirator, finished his project, that unsullied, shinning, playfully provocative Cabernet Franc. Mike then resolved: he would publish every word he wrote from now on. No more pages in the plastic coffin of writings. No more in the drawer. And if readers couldn’t keep up, became annoyed, tired, too bad. Just as winemakers didn’t bury bottles, he would never waste words. He felt sighted, for once. Clear, coherent, creatively concise. A writer, favorably impelled by wine, a day of wine, with wined characters.
Kelly wasn’t in the Room with him, while he wrote. At the winery, or presently, in the study. She wouldn’t care if he finished anything, he thought. She just wanted him to be even, peaced with his progress. He wondered when she would find her Equilibrium, her “break.” He knew that she didn’t seek such. She was in wonder, wonderfully. He envied her curiosity, freedom. He, his pen, his pages, his sip-motived scribbles sought to acquire such.