Wednesday, February 9, 2011


Of what?  This book.  A little more tempestuous than thought.  Like an ardently resentful harvest to a production crew, the lead winemaker.  Me, alone, to my own.  Exhilarating, gamble.  To where in this cluttered composer’s corner did those pages I printed a couple weeks ago fly?  Oh, guess it’s that manila there that’s tagged “Book Pages.” Did I ever claim to be organized?  Well, yes, a few times, to students.  But, I here concede: me, anything but.
Does anyone want to read a book about a wine writer writing about writing while whisking a way, away, through wine’s world?  Too much alliteration, why do I always do that?  Just read through the pages.  Not bad, but not in any way suffocating me with effulgence.  Need another sip.  Then, more key pushes, till I get it write...right, I mean.
(2/9/11, 7:38p)

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