Monday, December 13, 2010

Before Dormancy’s Down

Restart, actually. Going to convey momentary, unexpected reflection, from here till stop. The wine universe doesn’t want the Literary, but I will make it, at least, see it. Arguing with this session’s development. Why? No sense. At least the blend is boldly beautiful, with a flavor profile I’ve never before hugged. Looking through old pages, past journalistic vintages. What do I do? Blend, and see what happens. I might just be one who talks, writes. But at least alive I be, moving with thought. Even if my cognitions unfold irregularly, I’m motioned. This assimilation of varietal, renewing. So thankful to vinoLit...
This may be a “wine blog,” or log, I’m keeping. But I’ll convey candor, pure puissance. Frustrated with the censorship that this industry entails, demands. They’ll say, “be professional, be mature.” What does that mean? I’m a writer. That’s all I know how to do. How be it rational to think that I’m subject to the same statutes of your arena? Even if you have a reasonable response, I’ll reject. I’m a writer, sipping. One with this Bordeaux blend...
I thought this night would benefit the novel. I was right, for once. The pages compile, rile my style. Time for a Racer, that’s how pleased I be. My log, journal, expanding with visions postmodern, paginated, passionate. Now, the sitting getting a tad congealed. That’s what makes it so beautiful, though, to be frank. That’s a beautiful blend.
Mike thought his night was over, his stint typing. Wrong. He couldn’t stop. He sipped, scribbled. His intermittent motto. He thought of Kelly, her aura, bouquet. Tremors, uncontrolled. She conveyed control, peace, in the Now of his qualms with his world, “industry.” Tasting new notes, discovering entities. Sounds trite, he grumbled. But he, reporting real realities with his Equilibrium. If something happens to this author, he thought, “I want all eyes to survey and ingest my progress, vintage. Sip, sip...”

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