Saturday, November 6, 2010

Conscious, Then Un

About to shun social media universally.  Too much time spent.  Forgetting about the page, which is unacceptable.  Writing under gray, today.  Waiting for rain.  Fall colors, yesterday at Alderbrook, brilliantly punctuated.  Reviewing catches on my phone’s camera.  Want Fall to stay.  Winter not yet needed for this author.
During the life of the previous day’s shift, I further appreciated the many angles in operating a winery.  Wine club, hospitality, production, barreling, natural elements in the vineyard (soil, vine, fruit, leaf).  Not only does this provide knowledge and material for pages, but it conveys sense, peace, and elevated estimation of this land and industry.  Again, while shadowing a tour, I thought of producing my own wine.  But, again, where would I start?  Is this something I want to do, I asked my Self.  Loving the questions, the unknown/s associated with this vinoLit Life (notice no number sign before vinoLit).
3:57p.  How did it get so late?  What’s the wine of tonight?  In this quiet study of mine, fiddling with possibilities, dreams.  Counting the days left in the semester, when I can be entirely immersed in the industry.  When this becomes my reality, my Now, the pen will be moving even more fervently, spastically.
Back to the pictures.  Enamored, me.  Completely, with this optical poetry.  Social media, truly on the last of my already agitated nerves.  Won’t let it poison my peace any further.  Thinking of a wine bar, my envisioned wine (maybe Cab, Cab-based blend, or a Rhone, don’t know, yet).  All my thoughts, pertaining to wine and its Literary elements.  Social media, simply not needed.  Hemingway didn’t need countless interconnected accounts to complete his manuscripts.  And neither do I...   
He could have a conservatively-assayed wine bar/shop.  His own line would have a special corner, small production to start.  Mike thought maybe 100-145 cases to start.  He would write about every step, journal style, the same way he approached his shifts at the new winery, all the new knowledge within which he binged. 
Necessary for his front: music (chill elements, some slightly more lively), pictures and paintings.  Minimal merchandise; Mike saw this as a hinderance to any tasting Room, an excess of trinkets and meaningless collectibles.  It crowded an area that needed openness, freedom, dimensional fluidity.  He thought yesterday that a tasting Room should encourage exploration, not distraction.  Mike, lost in thoughts, looked out the window.  Reminded of the gray, he decided to close the monster, lower the screen down to the charcoal buttons.
He went downstairs, to rest on the couch.  He fell into an unintended nap with fantasies of total sovereignty.  Not having to search for paths, not having to beg for assignments from piggish department heads, see if there were any available shifts.  It was close, he thought, knew.
Smiles, though, as he fell into imagist clouds.
His book, on shelves.  Travel.
Wine, to his right.  Writing.
Sounds, speakers at the wine shop.
A smile.  From her. 
away.  Perfect for them.  If
there was

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