While returning from the tasting Room, 101 south, no rain, poetry lines adhered to all outcroppings of my cognition. Now, can’t recall them. Should have pulled over, scribbled. Now, I sip, the ’06 Carignane, hoping they’ll return, be antagonized.
Opened this bottle tonight, about an hour or so ago, maybe two. Different than past pours. Bottle variables. Lovely. Heavier, darker, more vampiric....
And the rimes return...
Shielded by books, yielded my brooks.
More time in front of chopping blocks than cooks.
Another pour for me, more to poetry. Tired,
I the Self hotwired, then got fired.
And then it leaves again. Time for me to clock out. Tomorrow, day 6 of the 7 stretch in the Room. Patience, a bit rattled, embattled, but still sturdy, in tact.
Mike didn’t need to type further. He stopped. He needed to stop. The pages, eager for him to halt for the night. Even the Carignane, in its separatist profile and song, bored him. Clocking out, only to clock back in tomorrow. 9am, he’d be there, preparing the bottles, promo-ing, counting. With his laptop closed, the Carignane’s last droplets of presence fell to his nucleus. -10:15p