Stubbed Toe Pinot

2/28/11, Monday.  Long day in the Room, with inventory, end-of month.  But, I still  manage to find a writer’s way to the chair.  From completely anti-romantic to completely quixotic.  Still in a Burgundy mind blizzard, with this Pinot.  Sipping what remains of an ’08 that I opened at the event Saturday night.  Deciding that the magazine blog can’t receive any more free lines from me.  True, I don’t get paid for posting to mikeslognoblog, but I own that stream.  It’s mine, no one else’s.  It’s my bottomless bottle.

Thinking I have enough material for a novel, then I buckle.  Was going to type “wine novel,” but that’s not what I want it coined.  Yes, there will be wine on the pages, in its lines, but it’s not the only elemental anchor.  It’ll take time.  But I don’t have a lot of that.  ’08, tilt...still poised, steady in its conveyance of notes.  Loving these pictures I took Saturday night.  All the tables, cloaked bottles, interactions, poses.  I think this might be my favorite wine writing mission till now.  More characters than I could handle.  Didn’t have time to write, only seconds to snap stills.  But, I’m writing now.

Need to involve Self in more occasions centered around a single varietal.  And what harmony that this one was pushed by Pinot.  Just as it is unpredictable, unorthodox, gentle and ghostly, so forwards all writers, Humans as well; Me, in the wine world; no map, no specific aim, only curiosity, mental vivacity.  Trying to understand what else Pinot could signify.  Yes, something--and I hate this modifier--spiritual, but I’m beginning to believe an entity of unification, webbed eroticism.  Pinot is separatism, true Creativity, Unorthodoxy.  

  I must mimic.  Separating from other blogs, others’ expectations, solicitations.  I’m a writer, heralding the paper, the page, not some blog url.  Inadvertently projected my right toe, one next to the littler, into one of the stairs.  Hurts like an unusually meaty cinderblock fell on it with intent.  The toe, its target.  Quite unpleasant.  Distracting me, presently.  Have to sip and scribble through this odd, but intense, discomfort.  Thank you Pinot, inspiration from Saturday.