Easily passed 1000 words at today’s Lit Lunch. The Cab, tonight, offering more song than 24 hours rearview’d. With Katie, tonight, punchdowns, a little nutrient blast for the yeast. I was surprised to hear her say that fermentation may finish by Sunday. Maybe I heard her wrong. But if I didn’t, I can’t help but be surprised how fast that was. Didn’t have a lot of time to chat with my professor, as she was drained from her day. That, not a surprise. It’s harvest. Hard on the real winemaker, my professor. Another sip... Smokey lavender, alongside the leather note. Was there leather, the night last?
So, still haven’t turned into the spoken word pieces, as I’ve been meaning to. A shift, one artistically extreme, nearing. One freeing, pushing me from stationary containment. I’m a writer, one of wine, fiction, verse. There’s no other way. Time, 8:38p. Thankful tomorrow’s Friday. Pulling new Comp book from bag... Tonight’s schedule, just as winemakers stick to tight sequences now, in harvest: 16 lines, rhymed. That’s it. True consciousness blending. No stream. Just erratically interconnected syllabic stems.
The sky’s shades this morning, and tonight, especially when leaving the winery, an awakening. If only I had not obligations, time, schedules. Would have pulled over on 12, right around Deerfield Ranch Winery. Would have just turned off my car, activated Wine Bar beats. Sipped my coffee, wrote. And if I didn’t make it to my meagerly waged stint, not my problem. Only my, my pages’, largess. And at the winery, tonight, I would have taken this very Comp book from its bunk, leaned against my car’s back bumper, scribbled to dream ceiling, netting scents of bairn wine. Wishes, with tonight’s wine pours, in these scribbles. Book, almost done. My first bottled page block. My relationship with wine, writing, with wine’s relationship with lined leaps, more intense with every Creative movement. Only further fruition, fermentation.
Another ’07 Cabernet pour.