Just waiting for footage to upload. But I’m refusing to be idol. Not in this sitting, session. And this’ll be some of the last video I incorporate into an entry for some time. Re-situating in the writing. That’s it. This blog, nothing more than a barrel. The book, the bottle. What’s in my glass? You might snicker, but an ’07 Rosé, Napa. Dramatic, deliciously deranged. Have been recording descriptors in my Comp book. Added three today. One, “Introverted fruit waves coupled with a sequence of staccato’d spice steps.” Wrote that with Cabernet in mind, one I tasted the other day.
Spoken Word on the mind again, same way an idea for a crazy blend haunts a winemaker. This studio session, unhinged. But a totality of tranquility. Wondering what the book’s final length’ll be. That shouldn’t matter. Ever. Quality, quantity. Must have that in scope, always. This wine, pushing me to abandon these keys. Adhere only to sheets, the lines. Can’t wait for the views, from the winery, on Saturday, Sunday. Need to log each guest, each character. Everyone’s material. Everyone’s a varietal, in this colossal blend.
Mike closed. The laptop, turned off. All he wanted was sleep. The session, ended. But then he thought of her, his character. Perceptive anesthesia, her. Willingly administered, like the Rosé. He watched her pass, open the Poets and Writers issue. He realized a certain symphony between. The Rosé took shape. Her spell fell into his cells. Kelly sat next to him, watched him with locked sight. She wanted to interpret his pause. Mike looked over at her, decided to sip again, inch right.
“What time do you have to be up tomorrow?” she asked, extending her arm over his stillness.
“Early. You don’t want to know.”
“I should probably leave then. You need to get some sleep, be ready for the tasting Room tomorrow. Would you mind if some friends and I stop by, around 3?”
“That’d be fine,” he said. The shift would stomp slow, he knew, as all he’d do is wait. Delectable torture. When she’d arrive, he’d be awake. Maybe share sips.