Carignane carousal. The varietal, with all its curves and throws, switches my character. I have obligations, tonight. Bills, notes for a meeting tomorrow. I should be responsible, tonight. But, I’d rather write, with this lonely Rhône. It also tells me not to care if I’m not as noticed in my paginated presence, as some singer in a band that gigs in the city, or Berkeley. It also tells me, orders this author, actually, commands me to contrast, contend. Carignane is not Cabernet. And I am not a predictable, commonplace penman. Tonight, I really should have a direction. But that would be unconsciousness, Orthodoxy. Missing my Orwell lectures, as professor and student. This Carignane, putting the purview into clarity’s corner. My Literary scope and motions may not co-mingle, in the long run, with the wine world. I feel, often, the “industry” expects script recital, surrender, more than Human interaction and genuine riposte.
Current note, no carousing. Just delivery of truth. I should be allowed to be my Self, like this Carignane, especially if an unseen profile laments. My job, as a Literary creature, is to delivery Truth, the uncensored, absolute candor. Enough. No more with this knot. Tonight, welcomed in its lucrative lucidity. Miss the classroom, but I can’t decide if I miss it more as matriculant or “master.” Loved receiving a new syllabus, especially in Lit and/or Creative Writing seminars. Reveling in this Rhône, wanting to act, tell Truth on top of Truth. Censoring this Me, emboldened, an impossibility.
Wine bar of mine, on the mind. So is the first Letterz issue, the book to follow. Self-publishing, like a “boutique” winery prides its bottles. Tonight, like a wish list on repeat, to its own insatiably ambient beat. Another sip, delightfully divided. Thankful for industry lessons, mysteries. This is what makes authors sit and scribble sagas, those that take them to best seller lists. My friend, Carignane, carry on. Sip, sip...