7/7/11, Thursday.  Only 19 minutes, lending Self to write.  Wonderful night of discussion with the Particular Palates.  Mom and Dad.  Relieving wine, dialogue.  Isn’t that what wine is supposed to foster?  My singularized unison, “the industry” harbors potential to puncture such.  There’s a torrential preoccupation with numbers.  Capital, the “metrics” about warehoused bottles.  I understand this is a business, as I’m in the industry.  All I’m emphasizing, nights like 2nite.  My parents, me, just enjoying immediate company.  Not euthanizing the poured bottle with analysis, condescension, self-anointment.  Our focus was each other, while sipping.  And, a noted necessity, this was altogether Human, Literary.  No performances, just interaction.  Family.

10:52p.  Eight minutes left.  Not sure what to address.  Feel rushed, just like a winemaker in the hurricane of harvest.  2morrow, to the cube.  Rewarding, this experience at NWG.  But I’m appreciating the Now, this night, with Mom and Dad.  For the page, poured propulsion.  What a life, the oeno-Literary.  I Self-lure for reaction, elemental interaction.  That’s what moves Mike in write.

Not as hot tonight.  Maybe I’ll sleep better.  Can’t wait for the wine blogging, yes “blogging,” mission on Sunday with my Madigan sodality, Sunday, Anderson Valley.  Last time we were all up there, confederated, five years ago.  I believe.  Think that’s what Katie told me the other night.  Time, 4ever vengeful in landing, takeoff, docility.  

There’s a battle within me, indeed.  My panacea, poetry.  Why not sequence sublime in rime.  So much I want to say, but I pain2refrain.  Someone might see this.  Discretion, valor.  Also a rationalization, legitimization of cowardice, concession.  So I elect speech.  Pause, not me.  Not The Poet.  Sipping to the wine web’s willing wheelers.  Human, humane.

Wine is also the embrace of inquiry, whimsicality.  Not uniformity, conformity, configured constellation.  It’s art.  A consumable portrait, portal, scene, character.  Wonder how wine would assay my day.  Would it praise, or pummel?  Don’t know.  I’m agroof.  But still sipping.