5/7/2011, Saturday: Tasting Room Return

Was going to shoot a podcast, but that wouldn’t suit.  Not at all.  Behind the counter, St. Francis, can even remember all the incredible characters that through the doors strolled.  Iowa, Texas, Southern California, the electrically eager students from my alma mater, Sonoma State.  Happy birthday, Emily, and peace to your crew.  Come again, soon.  The varietal/bottle of the day, had to be the ’06 Malbec.  What a palate presence, food pairing potential.

Alongside the crew today; Wes, Karen, Robert, Rony (The Essence).  More than luminous.  Each day in this vinoLit Life, something gained.  Heard so many interpretations of the Merlots, Malbec, the Cab I have breathing on the kitchen counter over there.

The vineyards, rising in the their prominence, the postcard posture.  Hard to capture such in sentence.  But, one word: GREEN.  Gorgeous.  Made me think of all that winemakers truly do.  What they provide for us, consumers.  Those wines, behind the counter at St. Francis, the product of actual genius.  How much longer do I have to wait to sip that ’08 Cab on the counter?

Another existential landscape this shift made me appreciate: actuality’s brevity.  That’s why I chose to write reaction to the day, not film some trite technologically-dependent episode.  While filming, I could be writing.  And guess what, reader, I am.  First glass of Cab, at side.  Dark, erotic quandary, enigmatically intrusive, flavorably invasive.

At home, thinking about tomorrow’s shift, its offerings.  But you know, honestly, I’d rather it be a surprise.  I’d rather be gifted writing material, rather than expect a certain gravity.  Was invited to go out tonight.  Socialize, have a couple drinks at some shanty Santa Rosa spot.  But what would that do for me, the wine writing; The Work?  Would that get my book on the shelf faster?  The consciousness stream, collecting momentum.  In the glass: dark earthy berries, briery boldness, smoky style, tamed tannin.  Sexy Cabernet.  Why do I keep returning to her?  She’s solved me, this poet’s undercurrent.

Glad I decided against the camera, elected composition.  Allergies, attacking me.  But the Cab’s pour me protects.  This studio session reflects the day’s flavor flutter.  All affirming.  Now in this glass, a galloping spice armada.  Why do I always have to talk about wine, or speak in winespeak?  ‘Cause I’m a “wine blogger?” What if I just want to cruise through a glass of Cab while I pummel a page?  Won’t entertain debate, possible retort.  I’m forwarding as I see fit.

Tired.  Unable to do anything, but enjoy the stills of the vines, the mountains behind winery.  One last glass of Cab.  Then, finally, dormancy.  A bit of rain expected, but not enough to spawn a special scribe session.  But in this one, I again lean on the topic of my own wine.  Should be it a Cab, or Pinot?  Or maybe Malbec?  Which grape type is most like Mike?

Mike couldn’t wait for the immersion under those sheets, just inches to his left.  He wished she were with.  But there were just wishes.  Now.  He knew, later, he’d write more ideal reality.  Ideality.  He sipped the last.  Wished he could kiss her like he’d been lost weeks, after crash.  Ideally, he’d swarm with her after lowered lids.  

Hall Winery: Cabernet and Cooking = Excessively Palatable Utopia

Outstanding example of the union of food and wine.  A true wino and foodie affair.  Judging was more demanding than I anticipated, but more fun than I have time to here write.  So grateful to Hall Winery for having me.  Definitely have to attend next year.  I will.  Count on it.  Cameras, notepad, wine glass, all.  Learned a lot from my fellow judges, and the incredibly, dauntingly, almost offensively talented chefs and cooking crews of the restaurants.  The amount of prowess present at this event, from the restaurants and catering companies to Hall’s ever-conscious sect of hospitality staff, management, pourers and educators made each corner all the more relishable.

At the judges’ table, I felt odd, but energized.  Never had been a judge of wine-food pairings before.  But I want to do it again.  I would.  Hall provided a fantastic forum for education, exploration, appreciation.  For me, as an invited writer, there was almost more than I could capture.  I’d felt this before.  Overwhelmed.  But the sensation didn’t last long, at Hall’s 2nd annual Cabernet Cookoff.  All was well-placed.  I was comfortably curious.  Each table, placed with pragmatism and purpose.  All the guests, as curious as I.  We all felt provoked, to visit a table.  Revisit.  Then revisit, in case the first revisit failed to shock.  But all of them did.  Honestly.  Each table had its own magic.  All were friendly, informative, culinarily charming.

Where does it all start, for me?  The wine.  Always.  Hall, it’s phenomenal bottles, urged many moving dishes.  A ravishingly rattling event.  Not just thankful for the opportunity to gather material, because of Hall Marketing Manager Jamie Miller, but changed by attendance.  All interactions, memorable moments.  Looking at all the food on the footage not only makes me feel famished, but just as much pushes me to reflect upon the value of concert of wine and food.  That’s what made this event so easy to write about; all those little flavor-packed plates.  And that’s what made that Saturday so much more than a wine blogging mission.  This was about Wine Life experience.  Complex transcendence.  

(5/4/11)

“True Epistles,” Lecture Notes

Dependence on technology, hinderance; a perverted passion; POISON

As wine demands attentive time, times, so doth the page

Writings, no matter type, genre, shape, are letters, to Self; Just as wine stands something for its Maker to sip

Real session demands, intrinsically entails, unhinged spins, no dependence; no buttons, cords, media, devices, drones

For lines to be TRUE, they have to embody Truth, Truths, those yours ... You’re the author, the Creator, just as the winemaker fiddles with levels, so do we with these sheets

The Truths, must carry love for the Creative Process, capitals intentional

Knowing when to close the sitting, when to give your Letters rest, painfully arduous, distasteful, like oxidized wine

Turn the laptop off, my friend ... Take a sip

(5/5/11, Thursday)

Sipping some Chardonnay.  For the scribed foreplay, you might say.  Still waiting for the footage to be uploaded.  Not going to bed till it does.  After this, video will be placed sparingly, into entries, if at all.  But the blog only has a matter of months left to live.  The TV, boring me.  Nothing Literary about it.  And I mean NOTHING.  Writing movie required.  Be right back.

There.  Something of substance stuck to the screen.  Not sure how this varietal and I got together tonight.  She’s evasive.  Bold, then shy.  Not sure I like that lack of steadfastness.  Irregularity in presence.  But I’ll sip anyway.  It takes me away.  To MY house on near the lake.  Wouldn’t have a dog, like Mr. Rainey.  But I’d have that quiet.  Focus.  Idealized isolation.  No tasting Room herds.  In fact, NOTHING industry.  Only me.  Prose, poetry.

(5/5/11, Thursday)

Sessionality

Just waiting for footage to upload.  But I’m refusing to be idol.  Not in this sitting, session.  And this’ll be some of the last video I incorporate into an entry for some time.  Re-situating in the writing.  That’s it.  This blog, nothing more than a barrel.  The book, the bottle.  What’s in my glass?  You might snicker, but an ’07 Rosé, Napa.  Dramatic, deliciously deranged.  Have been recording descriptors in my Comp book.  Added three today.  One, “Introverted fruit waves coupled with a sequence of staccato’d spice steps.” Wrote that with Cabernet in mind, one I tasted the other day.  

Spoken Word on the mind again, same way an idea for a crazy blend haunts a winemaker.  This studio session, unhinged.  But a totality of tranquility.  Wondering what the book’s final length’ll be.  That shouldn’t matter.  Ever.  Quality, quantity.  Must have that in scope, always.  This wine, pushing me to abandon these keys.  Adhere only to sheets, the lines.  Can’t wait for the views, from the winery, on Saturday, Sunday.  Need to log each guest, each character.  Everyone’s material.  Everyone’s a varietal, in this colossal blend.

Mike closed.  The laptop, turned off.  All he wanted was sleep.  The session, ended.  But then he thought of her, his character.  Perceptive anesthesia, her.  Willingly administered, like the Rosé.  He watched her pass, open the Poets and Writers issue.  He realized a certain symphony between.  The Rosé took shape.  Her spell fell into his cells.  Kelly sat next to him, watched him with locked sight.  She wanted to interpret his pause.  Mike looked over at her, decided to sip again, inch right.

“What time do you have to be up tomorrow?” she asked, extending her arm over his stillness.

“Early.  You don’t want to know.”

“I should probably leave then.  You need to get some sleep, be ready for the tasting Room tomorrow.  Would you mind if some friends and I stop by, around 3?”

“That’d be fine,” he said.  The shift would stomp slow, he knew, as all he’d do is wait.  Delectable torture.  When she’d arrive, he’d be awake.  Maybe share sips.

Quick: May I Post a Late Nite Note?

Still haven’t uploaded the Hall Winery Cabernet Cookoff material yet.  Will tomorrow, accorded.  Tonight, out with aligned wine minds, after work.  NewWineGig continues to teach, enthrall, encourage.  But, I should have the Hall piece together put by now.  I have no valid excuse.  26 days till 32.  And not that much more time for this “wine blog.” The words, to me, in a barrel.  When they’re in a book, they’ll be, essentially bottled.  So here you see, read, the writer reveling in revelation.  This bloody blog, nothing more than a barrel for my prose.  I feel sorry for you readers, being force-fed unfiltered barrel samples.  What’s in my stemless goblet?  The Malbec, from Mendoza.  Didn’t have that much last night.  Probably a good thing, as the writer rested well.

One more sip, ready for sleep.  Right after I pour this post into the barrel.  Winemakers, always in thought.  Real winemakers.  I’m not talking about rich drones that a wine business own.  I’m referencing those spending time in the vineyards.  Alongside the trucks, tractors.  Crushing grapes inside tiny nets, squeezing juice into a bowl, pouring it into a refractometer, interacting with sticky brix.  Then to the lab.  Those characters, the ones I should interview.  Base short fiction pieces on.

Swirling these lines in the blog barrel, thinking about envisioned profile.  This Malbec, developing rustic quality, old world sways.  Earlier, thought of collecting descriptors for wine, certain varietals.  Sounds profound, but it’s intrinsically simplistic.  I love wine, but it’s not Literature.  A bottle of wine isn’t capable of promising Orphic sphere like an author’s manuscript.  But even still, it’s in my program.  My singular symmetry.  My configurative blend.  Wine.  1.5, 750, 375.  Don’t care.  Love you, vino.  If it weren’t for you, there’d be no vinoLit.  No blog/barrel.  No podcasts.  No NewMike.  Time for rest.  Not much time2Self, here in castle.  Too late in Napa detach.  2morrow, immediate return.  Another Malbec map to mind ... Sip, sip ...   

Still not done with the keys.  Still singing with Napa.  Sipping the varietal it owns.  But not tonight.  Already isolating a deep Cab for the morrow’s eve feast.  The writer, not able to awake stay as long as I once was able.  Time, one more, demonstrating dominance.  Devilish seconds.  Minutes.  Hours, weeks.  I sip, scribble.  It goes away.  Categorically visceral.  Lovely.  

(4/3/11, Tuesday)

The Month, Mine

Backed-up, with podcasts, photos, notes.  Gripping tonight’s post, alongside a glass of Malbec.  News, jumping from the screen.  Hard to remain focused on this entry.  Is America any safer?  I am.  With this very full glass.  Mendoza.  The book, even closer to completion than I before measured.  Tomorrow, back in character.  Malbec, mystifying.  Why can’t I figure out this varietal?  Wish this installation could be of more rich elevation.  Just enjoying the sitting; Malbec manuscript.

How did all this material pile, Mike thought.  He looked through the pictures, videos.  The Malbec tasted skewed.  A tasting Room, of his own, again in his delusions.  Mike looked at his camera.  Memory full.  He walked into the kitchen, to refill.  He’d been blogging all day. How many wineries had he visited?  As he could recollect, 5.  He need to slow, he knew.  Wine writing, spoke to him, even as his sipped slowed.  Earlier in day, he slithered through Stanford’s site.  He couldn’t detach from the fantasy of a Creative Writing, or Fiction, or Poetry, or Non-Fiction section at the Palo Alto ground.  If he ever did capture the sheet, he’d truly streak complete.  He looked at his notepad.  The notepad was barely articulable.  What was wrong with him?  Mike made a list of the projects he had to post.

10:44p.  He thought of his approach tomorrow, to his tasks.  He couldn’t be too specific.  Even in his head.  He flipped in an aesthetic aquarium.  What if he did a safari, something totally unexpected?  He need the books sales, for such a flight.  The day’s footage mage him grin.  Yesterday’s as well.  He sipped the pour excessively speedily.  The notes were hardly notable.  And it was his fault.  After the best seller’s list, what would he do, where would he go?  What would he sip?  Water.  He was done.  He craved sleep.  But one more Malbec step, would render him inept.  So he stepped.