My Friday night. Capote, wine. And, I have to say, this wine isn’t as splendid, moving, nor cinematic as I was told it’d be. Can’t help but notice Capote isn’t looking at his cell phone every three seconds in this film. Or typing on a laptop. So much simpler in that day. All focus on the project, the paper. Actual paper. No distractions. My usage of Facebook [facecrook] and Twitter [splitter] from here forward, tremendously minimized. Why? I’m reminded of the line from Godfather where Vito commands Sony: “Never tell someone outside the family what you’re thinking again.” Enacted, with me. Social Media, too compromising. And not in any way Literary.
Truth, I haven’t actually sipped the wine, yet. Finishing my burrito, a beer. But, I did smell the cork, the bottle. Nothing impressive flew to my sensory traps. Remember Katie saying a couple nights ago, at Dad’s dinner, that she doesn’t smell corks. Can’t help but wonder why. It does say something, or at least it can. Her explanation was that “it just smells like cork.” But does it? I think the point to smelling corks is to determine the might of the wine, to some point, how many of the notes cling to that stopping body. If the wine were to be of a certain delicious staunchness, then you would get something from nosing the cork. My view, from MY experience...
Noticing how dedicated Truman is to his project, the research in which he embeds himSelf. What I view, true, is merely a modern film. BUT, nevertheless, it’s one I discern as altogether credible, valuable. So, this wine, finally sipping. There’s a presence, the one I expected; slightly spicy raspberry, plum, maybe some chocolate, mint. But, the tannins, far too tamed. Yes, I know, it’s an ’04. But, still, from this vineyard (nameless, intentional), I expect more song, more push, gravity. Too bad.
23, part 2: a reading
Still in the film’s grips. Capote has me captivated, encapsulated. My left hand, drying, painfully. Is there any lotion in this condo? This happens every winter, with the heater on, almost everyday. Glass 2 of the ’04 Napa Cabernet. Intensifying, appreciating in stance, delivery. I’m being to sit here, while scribbling, typing really, quite impressed. Didn’t think I would be, but... Learning I need to be more patient, let the wine breathe more. Only 22 more lognoblog sittings after 2nite. Hard to believe. But I’m not ending anything. I’m beginning something, a new something. This wine: suave, distingué. I’ve been charmed. Smooth, dark, earth-woven love in this glass. Who cared for these grapes? They’re prodigious, prophetically percipient.
This new log I start, 1/1/12, going to be more ME. Less push to please. I won’t be gentle with this new book. And, yes, that’s just what it’ll be. A book. Watching Mr. Capote come apart with the furtherance of his opus. Won’t be me, ever. Feel I’m too strong, I write too much too fast, and I’m too fiery. Like Mr. Shakur. Always writing, thinking, talking. I’m a professor. Need another Cab glass, one more full. Was just thinking, what would others think of me drinking this level bottle by mySelf? First, don’t care. Second, and rather finally, it’s wine. That’s it. Some act as though drinking a certain wine in the “wrong” circumstance set is like burning books. Again, let me say for record, in this log, MY blog, wine is consumable, a liquid. A book, any book, is substance, effort, sonorous. Words always discomfit fermented pours.
Time, 9:10p. Glass 2, past. Another? Yes, for the pages. I will hit 1000 words 2nite. This sitting, must be one of my coining, championing compositions. Here, one different, like this wine, teaching me something, about Self. My Self. Not as cold in the condo tonight as it has been. Kelly, I’ve been trying to ignore her, forget about her, reservedly. But, no. Foolish, funny, me. It’ll always be her.
23, pt. 3: scripted Sip
Realizing that I am still a professor, and that I always will be. Me, completely. With what I’m at odds, in “the industry.” Everyone tells me to be careful, of what I write, say. Who are they more concerned for? Their own state, or mine? I’m a writer, Literary. So, I’ll write, talk. Or, speak, and then scribble. Reminded of my undergrad, from Foothill to SSU. Then, grad school. The perceptive, analytical vivacity. In wine’s world, not a drop, or pour of equaling score. Watching a Black Panther documentary... This is what I need, voice. Purpose. Literary shifts, segues. London, speaking again. “The function of man is to live, not to exist.” Just thinking, reminded of days in rearview, of when I was MORE alive. Why does age do that? With wine, age follows positively. Mortals, we’re burdened, cursed. Time, 9:45p. Not going halt in these sips, scribbles. I could be out, going to bars, fooling around in fiery hoops. But, no. I’m here. Thought-whirled. Dad said, ‘it’s fallen into your lap.’ And that’s what I mean when I say, “I’m still a professor. This all can be shaped for my palate, I’m realizing. Now, I realize I’ve forgotten about this wine. I’m focused on my home, the comfort it provides. My Dad, Mom, the wisdom they gift. This wine, a simplistic additive. That’s it. And it’s lucky to be ribboned such merit.
Bob Coleman (R.I.P.) one time told me that most associations are contractual. So, how do I know who is who? That class, makes me realize what holds now, in certain realities, “obligations.” His lectures would make anyone shiver. My syllabi, always modeled after his. “Being the person I am, I said no, no, I’m changing his,” Mr. Shakur said. That’s how I feel now. Some reading this, in wine’s world, may be dismayed by my candor. And that’s precisely what I’m aiming to introduce. Unfiltered fervor, honesty But, honestly, I need to calm Self, enjoy what remains of this ’04. Amazing, honestly. Much thanks to the gifter.
Last paragraph for this path’s crass math. Need to more colorfully internalize my impulses. Enact. Closing session. But, I’m thinking I need to adjust my intensity. Can’t blame others, every time. Last Cab glass. What am I surveying? Magic, honestly. This glass grasps a glimmering glory, to be honest. Want poetry on this “blog,” for the year’s rest. Like I wrote earlier, I want more music. Know it’s getting late, 10:40p. But, this night belongs to the poet. Time bobs as long as I gong. Another sip, please. Then, to sleep. Have some caricatured wine confession, no. I’m like Pac, spitting at cameras. But, should I slow? Still attempting computation, equation. Not in a state to reality debate. Finished, in 2004’s call, curtained... Manuscript-driven.
12/9/2011, Friday, vinoLit ...