Mike thought about his long day, after a costly holiday party for the old winery, the night before. He never knew such a formidable range of Rooms, carrying so many wines, vintners, resided in the quaint streets of Healdsburg. He knew he had exploring to do, for his pages. Even with little sleep, and the tariff of last night’s glass-after-glass motif, Mike walked, tasted. He knew he could, would, one day own a Room with this level of appeal, invitation. What would owning a wine Room do to his manuscripts? He envisioned benefits, but knew there was harmful incurrence, somewhere. But wasn’t there with anything, any topic?
Tonight’s varietal, Syrah, from the new winery. Mike remembered his stretch of Syrah encounters, a couple years ago. The varietal itself was a ghost, to him. Spinning his courages and anxieties, pleasantly. He looked at the bottle, wondered if this would be in his shop. He couldn’t stop with the fantasies. And why should he? He loved the moment created, fermenting his sentences with an illusionary handle. He didn’t write. Just sipped. Listened to quelling music, that his patrons would experience, appreciate. He imagined himself there, in his tasting Room, the characters that would enter, unexpectedly and otherwise.
One place Mike visited today, a shop, with all elements he would wish for his wine corner. From the shelves, to the appearance of the wood used for the tasting bar, to the offered bottles. Sip, listen, leaving reality, again. No harm could come from such an expedition, not the way he would do it.
In a wine wonderland, dreams. If these locations can pull it off, I can. No? It has to be harder than I’m awarding. Prestidigitation, ink paired with wine. Clock tips, I sip. Meant to write “Clock TICKS.” Love typos, really. They’re humorous, Human, innocent. Just like an unintended note in a winemaker’s effort. Didn’t think I was going to get a session in tonight. So exhausted all day, then when I arrived in domicile. Last night, bittersweet. Delighting in the opportunities with the new winery, but missing the crew at the old. Moving on. Can’t afford emotion as an artist, not the type I want to be.
Started a poem yesterday, but didn’t finish. On one of the small pages in the little red notepad in my back-right pocket. Just removed it. Five lines...I can tell they’re mocha-influenced. This night cap, tempting me to forfeit the evening, close the little monster laptop. But I’m enjoying these daydreams, during night, of my bar/shop/bar/location. Life, a blink. Surplus, not actuality. Now need priority, planning.
Mike slowing his movement upon the keys. He was confused. By what, he didn’t know. Kelly looked at him, surveying his state. “Are you okay?” she asked, moving closer to him, pulling the blanket over his core.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said, setting down the little notepad, then pen.
“That’s the fun part. That’s what makes me create. Love it!” she said.
Mike didn’t know what she meant, thankfully. Without notice, authorial impulse encircled him. He wanted to kiss her, like a lost explorer would want orientation, safety. She was that, a security. For him.