Hard to document what I experienced today, with wine. And I honestly have no interest in simply cataloguing everything I did. New tasting, at a new winery, an entirely new hospitality style, winemaking and Wine Life philosophy, ambition. Such I integrate with my Self-publishing, winemaking efforts. Thinking of those views from Spring Mountain, that air, the grapes’ inclusive face. And when back at NewWineGig, went through a five-plus year vertical of more Napa Valley wine. My colleagues and I discussed the precise palate contrasts, vintage to vintage, and how they agree with one over next, or preceding. Now, in the office, sipping some ’08 Syrah, Sonoma County-born.
More into the book, today. When will it be released? When I can afford it. And that’s what frustrates me. Thinking tomorrow should enmesh another Literary Lunch, make real progress in this Book. Already thinking of my winery’s appearance, tasting menu, varietal focus. Harvest being swayed back and forth, with this rain. Today’s commute eastward, to the other valley, was all drops. Forceful, fervent, formidable. Telling me I need to be similar; unrelenting, stubborn, convinced of my Creative convictions. Looking at the pictures, sipping. Will any future tasting surpass this day’s? Shouldn’t think that way. But, if I was, I can say one certainly will. The first tasting I do at my own winery, in MY tasting Room.
Another Syrah tilt, and I’m motivated. Sponsoring mySelf to act erratically, and such should be admired. Steve Jobs praised the rebel, the trouble maker. And that’s what I am, in this wine world, with my Literarily/Artistically fanatical ways. That’s what gets me to shelves. I now it see, clearly. Autonomy, nearing in nearness, harnessing itself to my pessimism, to sink it. Thankful. But, honestly, write now--I mean, right now--I’m just enjoying the Syrah sips, sequential scribbles. This sitting, this day, teaching me a lot about what I NEED to do, now. Immediacy, begging imperative height. Only way to reach a top floor, by writing. Who cares if its linear? I certainly don’t. The book, MINE, affronts linearity. And so do the best winemakers. That think outside any box. All boxes, feverishly.
Thinking about a screenplay, suddenly. Odd. Haven’t juggled this thought in a while. So why now? Maybe it’s this wine, the day, its exploratory agenda, these photos. Freedom on that mountain, in topless spherics, urge me to write louder, have more of a page profile. And why be silent, or withheld? What will that get me? No obstacles for me, in this wine industry, as I write. I’m seeking harmony, Equilibrium. Only when swells surface do I activate malignity, unleash it on lines, critics of my syllabic stride. Wine’s industry needs recalibration, and I’m the one to do so, or at least start such.
First day off in almost two weeks, this Saturday. What will I do? Not trying to plan it. Wine will be there somewhere, and ten times as much writing. Not much to me, but lines, adoration of vines, the bottled result. Expect books in my tasting Room. Music. I’m not trying to follow patterns of what all else sits out there, in wine Rooms on 12, 29, Silverado’s trite trail. My Room, one of oenobellion, vinoLit voracity.