Mike saw the microphone. Then the glass. He ignored both. Shot for the paper. He remembered yesterday, behind the bar, the couple from Tennessee, their playful poses. He saw the clock, 10:58p. Why were days so cruel, swift? His temperament pulsated. Simplicity, toxicity. The Room’s claws descended to homeostatic sugar. Its own varietal, vintage. Something became clear. He didn’t know what, which was fine. He wanted a puzzle. Not the blog’s predictability. Interesting notes in the wine told him to abandon blocks. “They were only there if you saw them,” he saw them saying. Games, games. All of it. Politics, agendas; “the industry.”
Can’t remember the last time I sipped this character for night’s cap. On mind: the dinner discussion tonight with Dad, Mom; the euthanizing of this “blog” at year’s close; Professor Coleman, sovereign thought, Orwell. Me, never swimming in orthodoxy. Rather, spot me in Unorthodoxy. Don’t want to talk about that, now. How the wine industry can scalp wine of its splendor. Enjoying the quiet of this office. This Petite. When was the last time I this sipped? Saw hot air balloons aloft while just annexing Napa’s proper. What would it be like, to tilt this glass, at altitude, in an elevated basket?
Should be asleep. Resting for morrow. But, why can’t this writer have a night, with his glass? This “industry,” unsure of me. The writer. And I hate how I’m tagged a “blogger.” These writings reside in a journal. A stack of paper pieces. They can judge me all they wish, but I’ll still write. Do what I was meant to do. Be my own blend’s backbone, like this Petite Verdot. Bob, Professor Coleman, would tell me to savor Self. Follow no orders. Be the stray blend. I’ll post last night’s writing, but not before I sculpt it to acceptability. Is that not vomitous?
Can’t wait to drown this “wine blog.” When the book learns flight, I’ll wine blog in the right that I’ll sip alongside the scribbles with unquantifiably more frequency. And why shouldn’t I? With the PV antagonizing me, I grin Self-assuringly. In this chair, all fair. They want to censor me, like severed trees. Cut my strut.
Would go onto media social accounts. But that would disrupt my peace. This piece. Was going to say something other. But I’m monitored. Orwell knew. My wine scores tell truth. Like yesterday, after the shift. Simply enjoying a couple pours on patio. Why can’t “the industry” be that simple, musical?
Books on his shelf caught eyes. Both. The wine, no longer important. It annoyed him. Was too late to sip, anyway, he thought. Certain qualms had to be voiced, he knew. But entertaining such flavors, octaves, would all the more lower his core. Mike didn’t need that. He wanted a forward. A step success to less stress. He did need another pour. One Self-implored. He bent the bottle’s balance. Dizzy angles, lights. His flight, hardly faulted. One, like wine, in development.