Home from the Room. Lots of guests with page potential. One such group that I see here in my notes, in the little Mead’s sheets, a group of seven, here in Sonoma County’s zone for a family reunion. Six selected an Artisan tasting, while one man diverted to Zin’s fanaticism. Some guests today were downright pushy, boastful, agitated, which I didn’t appreciate. Both club members and public. Testing Room etiquette, quite simple. Give it a try.
Throwing away the blogging schedule under my left elbow, in entire embrace of the WRITING’s reflective consciousness stream. My march into wine’s world, and “industry,” proves to proceed with Cubist revolutions. That’s the way I want it, what I select, as a writer. Tired of the interviews, having to validate my credentials, past, worth to Party bots I don’t even know. And whom certainly don’t know me. Bertrand Russell said: “A stupid man's report of what a clever man says can never be accurate, because he unconsciously translates what he hears into something he can understand.” Such coagulates my encampment with wine, my time, in my pages. I work for Self, as my father persistently cements. All I wish to capture: Elemental Equanimity, with Literary Wine disseminations. Happiness, that’s it. Autonomy, to be heralded, considered. Never ridiculed, scolded. Especially in Wine’s presence, even if “industry.”
Not going to secularize BOOK1. Leaving as, to publish when adequate funds be present. Writing just to write, not focused on deadlines, a business plan, inventory. All that will befall when warranted, solicited. Right now, focused on the writing, with this very generous glass of Primitivo, from the bottle Mom and Dad gifted. Sip one, bright, dark, mysteriously candid. Difficult to deconstruct. What would Derrida say? Would love to teach a glass on him. Oh, where my ideas would fly. They’re quite aloft, in this chair. Writer, Professor, 4ever. Soon in a Stanford classRoom. Theory, Writing, Literary Analysis, whatever. That’s my aim, the true nucleus of my passion. Like varietals on vine, I know what I am. sipNscribble ...