Home, after the day, the visit to Carpe. Steve’s place, its serene scene, suggests I need to disconnect, for a bit. Maybe more. Too much writing, equating to less living. Tonight, enjoying the Barbera, recollections of day’s calls, sales. Wine mercantilism, finally forever in this poet’s future. Seizing this evening, utter ataraxia. Carrying that Napa wine bar’s scene with me. Here, on the couch. Laptop, nightcap. Not that this little monster computer IS the nightcap. Or is it, this instant?
The day’s wines, the one now in the Room with me, urge vacation. Distance. The character, she, shoves me into such. There’d be an escape. With her. Into a book. And onto a shelf. But it’s envisioned; conveniently materialized. Still feel like I’m at that counter, doing a tasting. Three wines I’ve never b4 touched. Sipping ...
(4/19/2011)
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