inward jot

Home from day, and with a Syrah my friend Jamie brought me along with several other Meeker offerings. Relaxed and intent on writing while wife is at her bootcamp gathering. Dentist in morning, first visit in some time and no I’m not looking forward to it but I know it has to be done, and when done I’ll go to campus and get into whatever meeting and workshop and lecture I can. Couldn’t send out letter to faculty as I couldn’t find time to it write. So I’m here writing to write… we writers do that sometimes. This Syrah tells me to be more bold and crazy, to focus on wine more and not lose sight of the vineyards, the people coming into the tasting room, the tanks and the incoming fruit. Walked around the crush pad with cellar master Dave today and talked about everything from cleaning tanks to this vintage, to the only full tank on the pad, to why even be in the wine industry at all. Wine’s a question mark blended with an exclamation. So what does that mean for writers, writers of wine and writers like who sit down at the end of a tasting room day and just type freely while sipping something… no knowing. It’s a moment, a cuvée of consciousness…. barreled sight set free to flee into its own composition and poetic stationing.

You know… with my book of collected jots, be they inwardly intentioned or otherwise, I don’t know what I’ve learned, how I’ve educated myself. I’ll concede, I think at times, “What if I don’t get there? What if I don’t get to the standing and looking myself in the mirror and saying to that self in-moment — ‘you’ve done it.. you’re successful.’” Can’t afford to think like that, and I don’t want to. The thought of me inoculated even mildly with failure horrifies me to the brink of a bridge leap.