Thursday, July 28, 2011


Sitting, with visions of barrels, in caves.  The true consolidation begins.  The other blog, dead.  No more free writing, or endorsements.  Of wineries, wine bars, wine shops, wine merchants, wine spots.  I’ll write about wine entities as I select, am propelled to do so.  I’m 32, and need to bully all focus onto the books.  Looking at my first, in its manilla file, sleeping.  Tomorrow, I wake it, violently, performing paginated plastic surgery.  Need some music, Wine Lounge Beats.  And a nightcap.  Excuse me ... 
Feel like a petty antic, ever having thought this heliocentric “industry” would reciprocate my efforts, my applause, my lab hours.  Tonight, it stops.  No, not true, actually.  It stopped, in thought, on the drive back from NWG.  No, when I was in that cave today, staring at barrels, thinking of winemaker efforts.  They make wine for themselves, their winery, be it their own or one in which they accredit.  Never free, foolishly.  Me, doing write-ups, molding prose for tasting Rooms, events, winemakers, shops, stops, wine spots, hoping for anything, today I euthanize.  I write BOOKS, and smaller paged palpitations.  At my advanced age, free creativity detracts from any growth.  A significant step, in my Oenobellion, my skirmish with wine’s industrial industry.

The cave, this picture, on my phone, tugging at its hook, Mike Madigan pierced.  What it would be like to sit, compose a novelette, or even a short in the acoustics of such space.  One sitting.  Just give me two hours, less.  The barrels, there, along the walls, holding wine.  What evolves under that wood, what would.  Want to know, but don’t.  What was I doing with my life when wine was wielded into that barrel, that one, that one...  Will my wine, that I’m soon to sculpt, stand as sturdy?  Nevermind my wine, what about my novel?  What if it Lusitania’s itself?  Not one of the options.  My ending pour, an ’08 Cabernet.  Prominent, persuasive, like these beats.  It creates its own scene.  Still going to write about wine, but as, and when, I wish.  
My self-publishing ventures, formation’d with this current rise in tide.  First flex, thinner than I’d like, in page height.  Projected 152 papers, but, if my math is astute, and I think for once it may be, 115-118 boasts more buoyancy; that I’ll be alive longer, financially.  What do these small producers calculate before an opened door?  Winemakers, writers: each other’s reflections.  We write in ink.  They, in grape. 
Social Media, it’s demonic parent, technology, shoving my agitated Literary nerves.  What am I doing with these accounts?  Have they generated revenue, or helped funnel funds, from my art?  All, from this night, 9:52p, sip four, about PAGES, their parental BOOKS.  The drive from Chalk Hill to Napa, singing for me.  Paired with the wine beats through my car’s meager speakers, luxuriating.  Contrast: vineyards on 29, to immediacy of 3 gray walls, challenging.  For me.  And maybe I am too sensitive.  Yes.  I’m a writer.  Not a “wine guy,” in any buffoonish wine guise.  People attaching that tag to their name need to learn humility, true appreciation for the wine.  I don’t care if you’re a sommelier.  The wine on a shelf higher than you.  Understand that.  vinoLit ...
[7/27/11, Wednesday] 

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