Not in the mood to do anything, but be idle. This ’99 wakes me, revives the scribe. Deep notes. A delectable dampness to the berry, spice, licorice. Mint, scattered chocolate. The finish, hovering about my spine. Appreciating age. And not just for fact my birthday was 2 day in rearview. This stemless pour makes me remember what I was doing in 1999, this month, day. I was finishing Foothill College, Los Altos. Preparing for Sonoma State’s English Department, where I met Gillian, Bob (R.I.P.), Sherril. Wine, capsuled time. This bottle stops me. Sits me down. Conference. Colludes with me, for composition.
Time, always taunting our pens. That’s why I feel lazy in editing my manuscript 2nite, ‘cause I wonder, “What’s the point? What if the editor doesn’t like my words? Who is he to critique my speak?” Again, what I’m after with these vinoLit sorties: AUTONOMY, true SOVEREIGNTY. In 1999, Fall, SSU, I met Bob Coleman. He order Individualism of this author. Now that he’s ethereally anchored, I’m solitary with these entries, this stance. Shouldn’t say that, as Dad speaks just as piquantly. He told me, long before SSU: “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you.” This 1999 Merlot brought about all this retrospect. That’s what wine catalogues, rosters: sequence, details, appreciation, people, MOMENTS.
Now, a rich, sweet, provocative leather about the 12 year old bottle. But in wine years, she’s 24. She’s tenacious, having her own aims when colliding with particular palates. With writers. Not so still anymore. This old bottle brought me to life. Maybe she’s 36, in pour years. Not sure what to think of her right now. Time, 9:22p. I remember looking at the clock earlier 2nite, holding onto the time I saw, 7:42p. Time, a diligent devil. I’ll give it that. But this Bordeaux ghoul assures me, my sentences.