Now Vined and Awake

Slept in. Unacceptable, I thought to myself getting out of bed and hurrying into Emma’s room to pull her from crib and enjoy her snuggles before the day ignited. Now at Foley property… not clocked in but rather collecting Self before Self has to perform and speak wine, which I find I’m orating with more and more immediate poetic swiftness than I ever have. Last night’s Pinot still in my ear and dreams.. while awake here looking out at Alexander Valley’s edge and up at the mountainous wall that keeps we Sonoma flock over here, and our Napa cousins there, just over there. This quiet, this cold Coke I sip rather than my usual iced coffee or 4-shot mocha puts me in a better poetic pose for today, Sunday…. No days off for writers, what I realize and enjoy an inner waterfall of assurance.

Think the air conditioner came on, and I’m not roasting with the bit of sun that hits me from through the window at my 12. Have the entire day set — work in TR and sell wine while jotting notes, then to home for dinner with Mom & Dad, spend time with wife and babies, then write more… go through pictures, Composition Books and other journals.. finish the book, already. My wined story from the literary figure’s head, only wanting to speak verse in a wined expanse. The room, the winery, the entire property connects to me and gifts me with momentary hold, a story I own, mine, and that keeps in its tell. Wine books around me that can answer every question and then no questions at all, but there should only be questions with wine. Answers stop you, tell you to walk in directions other while inquiry is encouraging — Questions necessitate search, playful rhythms and tireless movement. But this is a writer’s angle and voice, I know. Is it wrong? Not that I can see. It works for me. It pours for me a new degree free.

I’m then, just now, and now again, constricted and bewitched by a need to be in the vineyard. Walk out there to walk out there. Don’t focus on it being Sunday, or any day, just me in the vineyard for being there. Something more than passion, and a job in the wine world, but to be a detail in the geography, linking with the visual and artful anatomy of what so many-many travel from everywhere to see. And some, never make it out here. They either can’t afford the travel and if they can they stop at numbers associated with lodging and other expenses while here. Others, just never make it out here, for whatever reason, but it’s always in their head, always — They buy books about wine country and Sonoma and Napa and salivate at sights of the rows. Me, this sickly-obsessed oeno-diarist, and maybe journalist, can just walk down the hall, out the door to the crushpad, and into a Merlot block. Bring stories back home to family…More than acceptable. This is Life, Love, time grasp and appreciation… nothing theoretical about this. It’s right in front of me and I can walk a part of it, and into it.

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