Still haven’t uploaded the Hall Winery Cabernet Cookoff material yet. Will tomorrow, accorded. Tonight, out with aligned wine minds, after work. NewWineGig continues to teach, enthrall, encourage. But, I should have the Hall piece together put by now. I have no valid excuse. 26 days till 32. And not that much more time for this “wine blog.” The words, to me, in a barrel. When they’re in a book, they’ll be, essentially bottled. So here you see, read, the writer reveling in revelation. This bloody blog, nothing more than a barrel for my prose. I feel sorry for you readers, being force-fed unfiltered barrel samples. What’s in my stemless goblet? The Malbec, from Mendoza. Didn’t have that much last night. Probably a good thing, as the writer rested well.
One more sip, ready for sleep. Right after I pour this post into the barrel. Winemakers, always in thought. Real winemakers. I’m not talking about rich drones that a wine business own. I’m referencing those spending time in the vineyards. Alongside the trucks, tractors. Crushing grapes inside tiny nets, squeezing juice into a bowl, pouring it into a refractometer, interacting with sticky brix. Then to the lab. Those characters, the ones I should interview. Base short fiction pieces on.
Swirling these lines in the blog barrel, thinking about envisioned profile. This Malbec, developing rustic quality, old world sways. Earlier, thought of collecting descriptors for wine, certain varietals. Sounds profound, but it’s intrinsically simplistic. I love wine, but it’s not Literature. A bottle of wine isn’t capable of promising Orphic sphere like an author’s manuscript. But even still, it’s in my program. My singular symmetry. My configurative blend. Wine. 1.5, 750, 375. Don’t care. Love you, vino. If it weren’t for you, there’d be no vinoLit. No blog/barrel. No podcasts. No NewMike. Time for rest. Not much time2Self, here in castle. Too late in Napa detach. 2morrow, immediate return. Another Malbec map to mind ... Sip, sip ...
Still not done with the keys. Still singing with Napa. Sipping the varietal it owns. But not tonight. Already isolating a deep Cab for the morrow’s eve feast. The writer, not able to awake stay as long as I once was able. Time, one more, demonstrating dominance. Devilish seconds. Minutes. Hours, weeks. I sip, scribble. It goes away. Categorically visceral. Lovely.
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