The fictive account and building of tasting room stories, the wineries I’ve worked at and the people who’ve asked questions that have me riled and elevated in the best way, and then others who act odd and as thought they’re acting.  As in, ACTING.  As if for a reality show, or something.

This writer, in the tasting room early, getting to property in 2018 well before the arrival of any groups.  They sit at long tables and look at the menus, then at each other and whisper, wait for the first pour.

One time, a lady from Walnut Creek just on a weekend of tasting with her girlfriends asked me, “Is this your career?  Is this all you do?”

I remember not knowing really what to say.  So, I changed the subject, asking her about what wines she likes, had she been here before, anything to tone cut through her condescension…

Novel notes, all wine industry circling, and drawn.  I miss it, honestly.  The tastings, filling out wine club forms even.  Taking out bottles at the day’s close after counting inventory… “Lock and load!” I would say, when we were done counting.

What do I do?  Nurse has encouraged a weekend gig.  I would, I want to… but where.  Choosing to market myself again, when back in Windsor.

Continuing in my wine thoughts, looking at old pictures and notes I’d scribble when in the room after guests.  Those morning walks around the SB block as you drive in.

Can’t remember, what property and who gives a shit.   Sonoma County somewhere, where I’m from.

Where I live.  Windsor, the loft, a story I’m returning to.

But in a fiction spin.  The character, Jack… something.  Maybe no last name.  Madden, maybe?

I’m freewriting, and the feeling is like wings.  Syllabic wings….  Chardonnay with its own song, still.  Nurse, her poetry unintended in everything she says.  

Time to cook.  Wish me luck.  Actually, in really time and talk and truth – Nurse cooks, I support morally.