7:19p, punching in, this tired writer.  This morning, on the way to NewWineGig, felt the urge to pull over, take pictures of brightened already-cinematic vines.  But couldn’t.  In return to this wine inkman’s hole, saw similar brilliance.  But no reaction, even with camera holstered.  Had to get home.  To the page.  Not fair.  No fun, responsibility.  Want to write, create, freely.  I remember a winemaker one time telling me he hated how he couldn’t make the wines he wanted, he had to follow a piggish self-anointing marketing department’s commands.  Correlations pulsating, to me.

Haven’t eaten yet.  Dinner, kitchened.  Pairing last night’s 2006 Malbec with a couple enchiladas.  Not trying to be a sommelier with this meal.  Just fed, content.  Not sure if this part of the night’s flight will make it to the blog.  But most permanently, the book.  The words, still fermenting, being added, to the despicable online barrel.  Shouldn’t say that.  I’m just impatient, and can’t wait for my bottle-bothered blurbs to be on collated pages.  Now, feeling free, finally.  With the exception of time’s constriction.  It won’t stop.  Need another Malbec malaise.  Tomorrow, need to force the Self to jump from mattress early.  What time suites?  5:50a, 6, 6:05?  Maybe I could keep the 6:15a set, but prepare things tonight.  But that will carve into my scribe time.  Time, taunting.  Malbec ...

Decided I do want to make my own wine.  With Katie, the ever-oenowizard little sis.  Cabernet, Alexander Valley.  Someone at the Pinot summit a few months ago told me that all I need to start my own label is $5.  Can’t remember the specific context, but I splashed in such optimism.  Still hungry.  Will think about this over some more munchies, muddled with Malbec.  Maybe I should produce a blend of Cab and Mb.  Not sure how that would turn out.  Maybe I’ll never know.  I’d be fine with a cult Cab.  A Sonoma County cult Cabernet.  First of its phylum.  Tremendous.

The Malbec. becoming timid, elusive, ghostly.  But still libidinous.  Love this character in the glass.  She swoons, swerves, switches mode to push my intrigue.  Now, all more liberated.  I’m colorfully chaotic, a reader might note in their response journal, or in the margin.  What is your pen putting to the paragraph’s side?  High grape tide.  This wine, begging help, from rain, of all movements.  That’d be good for the vines, in their staged stage.  I think.  I hope.  The weather idiot said, last night, that rain approached.  Soon, actuality told.  Just envisioning these Wine Lounge beats, a glass of AV Cab, or Napa’s, orchestras of pleasant precipitation.  Writing.  Seeing it, now.  I’m there.  But here, thinking about writing about being there.  Malbec ...

Time galloping by like angry drunk horses.  Write through it, Professor Coleman would order.  And I’d follow.  Wholeheartedly.  Earlier today, tasted some Syrahs and Pinots, and one SauvB, from Chile.  Average, collectively.  Nothing about the bottles’ characters taunted me, or even suggested a hint of discovery.  Well, there was one Syrah that had such a fiery black pepper nose that you had to sip, to meet what followed.  But, a lack of Equilibrium encountered.

(5/10/11, Tuesday)