7/22/11, Friday. Love Friday’s nights. Back from dinner with Alice. Tonight’s varietals: Sauv Blanc, Nebbiolo. A little tasting scheduled for tomorrow, but mostly research for a possible impending article. Going to keep writing, moving either way. This night, an eased Equilibrium. Need to burrow about old entries tomorrow. Pen2paper efforts only. Today, NWG, elevation, then deep traversing valleys. Difficult for wine writers. Especially those with poetic proclivities. Rosso Pizzeria & Wine Bar, shoving me into fantasies of my wine blip on this industry’s radar.
Wine, weather. Pairing compulsory. Today, at lunch, Lisa, Tina, and I sat stunned with atmospheric performances exterior. Kind breezes, remorseful sun. Made me readjust my estimation of moments momentary. I’m dropping like tenacious waterfall progressions. Maybe it’s the Pinot. Like a screenplay incomplete, my dreams fray in the street. Under random lights. I stop, to scribble a poem on the napkin from my right pocket. Poetry, my only true vice. It distracts me, especially when correlated with this Burgundy. Not of the cruise to coherently compose. Clocking out, not having even worked--I mean, written--for fifteen minutes. Imaginarily, in New York City, enjoying a negroni at a cafe I arbitrarily pass. I sit down to write. But don’t. I just note all surrounding my wrought iron throne to the left of a bed of florescent flowers. Breathing out, closing lenses, only for instances completely condensed. The sentences sequence. Never detaching. City session, safe. Pinot’s final speech. Me, under syllabic siege, sipping.