This industry, touting its “professionalism,” holds convenient scenes and cast alterations. I’m not speaking specifically. This is an accurate, rather warranted, generalization, about one side of wine, threatening its Romantic sibling. And so I move on, reflecting on the Merlot I sipped tonight. Bought at the store for less than $10, out-a-door. Many in Napa, and probably Sonoma, elsewhere, would laugh. But this bottle housed delicious complexities, personality, an adorable character, frankly. Finally going to take this laptop to work, come morrow. That means, no lunch with Lisa, Tina. Need to attack a formidable project list. Can’t add to it, anymore. That’d be like an indi winemaker deciding to add four more bottles to his debut harvest, when he can only afford two for his label’s debut. Either way, at the end of that hour, I want something marketable. Something I can sell. Conditions as they precipitate, I need more income. And that’s fine. Like Mr. Shakur said in an interview, “...makes you work harder...”
My self-publishing stash, all but decimated following recent overhead assumptions. Paid at midnight tonight, and those funds will be measured more meticulously than the most famed winemaker cuvées. Speaking of grapes, their placement, harvest nearing... Wish I could film it, but, as you guessed, “work.” That’s fine. Thankful for NewWineGig, the pages it delivers. Characters, moments, lessons. Time check: 11:21p. Feel a serrated throat inside my primary pipe. Better not be getting sick. Can’t afford it. Neither can these pages. Getting under these blankets, hopefully to soon in dreams see my own micro-winery, collective tasting Room/Wine Bar.
My morning mochas, damaging that page cash stash. Think I found an attack plan for permanently halting that purchase habit, with alternate caffeine. That early in AM, this writer needs some sort of jolt. Nose, congested. Not feeling well, declining state with minute sequence, slurred succession. And I know what you’re thinking. It’s not the wine. Okay? I’m depleted, my drive deleted. To sleep, a sorrily Self-propelled oenoPoet. No sips. Only sleep, sleep ...