Think my book might be one. A2 and I always make fun of wines that just have varietals thrown into them, but sometimes they hit. Like the one I’m sipping, or was sipping, tonight. Magical. Think I may be tiring a bit from writing. So I’m just going to pace Self, from now till year’s end. This wine, telling me to successively, successfully separate. Dad would understand, DOES understand. He reaches a point where his convictions entrench. That’s where this author situates, percolates. Sitting in the home office, imagining my Wine Bar, listening to its instrumentals. As often, Thievery Corporation. It can be known, their music puts my pen in artistry’s pursuit. Just went outside, can’t believe how cruelly cold the air stands. I know, I’m Californian, I have no idea what cold is. But don’t I? Don’t the dormant vines? The fruit’s removed by a certain point because of climatic curve. So, I, my pen, this terroir here in Bennett Valley, all of SoCo, recognize icy hushed gusts.
Wonder what the winemaker thought of when composing this bottle. Don’t want to reveal too much of my reaction, as it’ll be partially posted on the other blog. But, I’m jolted, jubilantly. Still have the image of me in a hotel Room, writing with a bottle of something incredibly red. What would I be writing, though? Probably just expository. Maybe a couple pours of fiction, verse. This song, taking me further away than I’ve ever seen Self. Spain, some islands off its coasts of which I’ve never heard.
That’s what wine does, thread thought, fantasy. I’d sip this every night, if I could. Wallet too thin, currently. But that’ll change, once the check come, from submissions. This wine blog business [the other blog], already tiring me. Can’t get lazy. Can’t afford too, with all I have coming. Blending my perceptions, hoping it forms a varietal. Some kind.