To do what? Be me. Not at all scripted. To combat order. To be pastiche. True, I’m addressing vintage, something dealing with wine’s inclusive tune. And this is a wine blog, right? “So, when are you going to talk about wine? Be a REAL wine blogger?” Can’t help but laugh. I would be letting down my beloved students. All of them. Can’t. In full Literary mode, with a FULL glass of 2007 Sonoma County Cab to right. That’s about as wine-related as this prose will develop. I’m at a point in my existential fermentation where I’m shedding obligation, commitment, reservations. Now, in the bunker. Never coming out. Nothing more important than the page.
In this sip, I’m considering situations surrounding. MY character, in need of enrichment, a unique contribution. From where? Authors past. Current humans, not human. Glass, emptying. Need another pour. Am I really only ten pages away from 300? Why am I not on the shelf? Cold in my office. 2007, keeping the writer warm. Last call, tonight, 12a. Need to rest well. I’m a writer. Regular people, merely material. Going to get another pour. Need to read more. Why am I not reading? Going to find a quote ... “I don’t see myself being special; I just see myself having more responsibilities than the next man. People look to me to do things for them, to have answers.” -Tupac Shakur
I’m not aiming to be confrontational. But if that’s how I’m perceived, then I guess that’s the new me. I only have so much allegiance to “the industry.” Again, I’m a scribe, imbibe on the vibe within which I’m alive. Another ’07 tip, I paragraph-clip. Calming, here in the tunnel. Mr. Shakur’s words, and trail, reverberating in scope. All accused him of wrongdoing, how he disrupted. I don’t face his volume of violation, but I feel violated. Why can’t a writer, a wine scribbler, one approaching wine from his own journalistic jump, be himSelf? I sip, trying to figure it out; attempting to decode. I’m sipping again, appreciating the deep, dark notes. They self-complicate, layer, speak to this author.
Enjoying this solitude, tonight. Don’t care what others think of this “wine blog.” I’m a Literary necromancer. My world is with words. Not with liquid-loving mortals. And I’m one of those, the sippers. I sip this ’07 SoCo Cab, proudly. I boastingly pour in a tasting Room, Dry Creek. But, I don’t hesitate in confiding the intention of my nucleus: page, rime, paragraph. I’ll always hunker in a written chamber. Now, the notes, evading my assessment. I applaud such. I don’t want to be judged either. Why does everything have to be subject to evaluation?
Still in the chair. After this sip of ’07, I clock-out. Missing the rain, its roof orchestra. So much I want to say, but I’m keeping Self to a hold, uniform, which I don’t particularly like. But, time for this poet to descend into sheets...
The evening, a venerable varietal. Like a Cab. Honestly. Would love to persist. But I have to quit. Another lesson. My own Liturgy. Cabernet and me, had to play and plea ... sip, sip ...