Nothing in me to write, type. Only see myself scribbling notes tonight, but I don’t even think I have the energy, or eagerness, for that. Nursing a beer. No wine for the “wine blogger” tonight. See the bike paths of Sunriver, suddenly. The lodge, how it overlooks the river, golf course. Do I prefer the vistas of winter, all those vast snow sheets, or summer’s kaleidoscopic situating of unseen shades? I am, truly, depleted. Need another, if I’m to send another sentence at blank space.
Thinking of a lecture I once gave on the significance of a journal, its place in history; how journals, diaries, various logs, lament the past, future. I will return to teaching. Wine will always be with me, but not with same gravity as elements Literary. Not like the page. Pages.
In re-acquainting Self with Literary modes of furthered consideration, deconstruction, appreciation, I think of all the characters that me encircle. Starting tomorrow, listing all, cataloguing qualities. Remember, I’m a spy. From the Literary world. Not wine’s angular. Wish I had time to read a short or two from that anthology leaning against the wall by the door over there. One character from today: the kid at the coffee shop; irritated, tired, but expertly swift in his concoction of mochas, frappuccinos, lattes, lost coffee oddities. Nothing too incredible about this character’s motions, but I found it interesting how angry he appeared, yet moved with such astuteness, pride in his works. Like it made him happy, but I could tell he felt like he wasn’t allowed to indicate elate.
Tonight, I’m thinking of Merlot. Why, I don’t know. Its character. At times bold, others subtle, dark. I used to drink only Merlots, when I first starting getting into wine, back in ’02, living in San Ramon. That apartment complex, a character, I guess. Slightly upscale, but unpredictable. Still collecting characters, hoping I’ll be one, with one.