75: Bottled Journals ...
Spilling all onto these pages. Not much time to do so. Everything. No more censoring, fear of ripples from pseudo-wine-sages. I’m finished staying silent while wine’s industry boasts, MARKETS, notions of family, enjoyment, memories, while behind curtains adopting cannibalistic methodologies, opportunistic postulations for advancement. All in contrast with what wine’s cosmology intends.
Not wasting the session on Them. Tonight, 7UP. No vino. This writer needs a break from grape. Going to share the contents of these capsuled compositions with the all eyes, wine and otherwise. Each effort, something marketable, somehow. And if not, its a finished work. For me, if no one else.
whoso cellars, making wine for Human Beings who simply love wine; a different, separatist, nonconformist grape-geared gallop. I used to tell my students that the biggest threat of censorship comes from you, not Them. Need to practice what I preach. As Dad said, all I used to impress upon my matriculants has now fallen into my lap. And as Mr. Shakur stated in one of his pieces, “I’d rather die like a man than live like a coward...” That’s where I find mySelf. In elected grip of Wine, Writing, Wine Writing REVOLUTION. Oenobellion ...
Calming, again. Ready for sleep, middle of week. Not sure if the fruit’s coming in this weekend, Saturday. Katie hasn’t called yet. Probably as she’s beyond busy. Such’ll be soon, as owner/winemaker of whoso. Not afraid. More like angrily eager. My own tasting Room, practices, space. People walking in, hearing Thievery Corporation, or some other tracks meant for the Wine Bar, Lounge, space. For people who love wine, who love others in love with wine. Why is so hard for some of these bots to get that? Yes, my question is accusatory. But, they should be “professional” enough to re-engage in Ideas Exchange, to show me how my thoughts are wrong, or how I can see a wine approach from their steers.
74: Bottled Journals 2 -- 4ever
If I could only duplicate today’s flavor. Symphonic from wake till now. Early in bed, 10:08p. Incredibly exultant day at NWG. Learning more, in wine’s transitions, situational illustrations. My wine-woven journals, taking a shape I knew they’d eventually slate. Trusting more than “instincts.” Everyone says that. I’m following my adumbrations, prognostications promising “profit.” Again, I’m not into wine’s words, words wheeled by wine simply for profit. I sprint towards Equilibrium, euphonious subsistence. Appreciating the cube, its fostered notes, for this projects long-needed ballast.
Was I upset yesterday? No. I was simply asking questions, pushing for conversation. That’s all I respond to possible explanation demands. After today, I have more than mere confidence that I can sell my manuscripts, regardless of size. Cash in envelope, increasing. When savings goal rope’s brought down, I begin copying pages, selling. Need to write more poetry, spoken word. That sells, often better than prose. Not always, though. Why I say “often.” Sipped a little Syrah tonight, not even a full glass. As I said, break needed from grape. My hand shakes in this serious landscape. Decisions to be made, art to be sold; Incisions from blades, hard to remold.
This Saturday, Katie informed me, we will be sorting fruit. First yeast inoculation the following Tuesday, if I’m not mistaken. As Mom said over the phone tonight, I’m aching to see what the final bottled story will tell to palates. What character will spill after cork removal? How will most readers respond? As a winemaker, I can’t preoccupy Self with scenarios, positive or hypercritical. Just have to make wine, as writers just have to keep pen motioned. I hope the Cabernet will stay consistent with whoso’s weltanschauung, of defying expectations, accepted definitions of what wine, certain varietals, WE as Humans should be. Have to consult with Katie, see what path she sees as most advantageous for us as winemakers to produce such a bottled character, to eventually sip, captivate eventual consumers.