First of nightcaps, two. Ripples, still, from a sitting with another wine scribe, only hours behind this breath. Felt like a thinker, again. In an “industry” that holds a befuddling quantity of pattern, repetition. Roboticism. Felt it again, today, while tasting on that patio. The outside. The valley talking to my pen, its steep elevated vistas, the vines obviously, then the wine. All ordering me away from walls. Encouraging separatism, my eventual oenobellion. Not much time to type, tonight. Not for wine writers, or any pen-rider, these schedules. This obligation, responsibilities. Recording true unhinged fringes now, need a sip ...
Through our interaction, she dared me, unknowingly. To leap, universally diverge. Our manuscripts peak, to each other speak. Around such reflectively animated zest, me, Literarily fermented. Ready for page. She spoke of existential turbulence, harmony. Don’t know how to word her words. I’m not that electric with my page control, syllabic steering.
See mySelf a winemaker, before too long. I truly do. Which varietal? I need to treat the wine as a writing project, while respecting terroir integrity. So what varietal am I? I’ve always said, “the calm Cabernet.” But am I? Maybe I’m a Sauvignon Blanc; a climate chameleon of a grape. Or maybe I’m a moody Pinot. Or a gothic, phantasmagoric Syrah, climbing in and out of minds, just to keep them sipping. Much claims my aim with these key pushes.
Still haven’t printed those solidifying pages for BOOK1. The note, the post-it, still under my right elbow. Funny? No. Using what I can to get to 1000 words. Not sure it’ll happen this vengefully humid eve in, at the desk. Looking at the miniature mic behind the monster’s screen, I’m reminded of poetry. Then wine. Its inherent mischievous meander. That’s poetic. Life. Living. Looking at the puddle, occupied glass, I have to laugh. As I’ve never worked a harvest. Maybe that’ll redirect this year, switch continuities. Want to make a wine, even if it, conclusively, is not mine. Want to touch dirt-draped grapes. Want soil under nails, a sun-battered brow. Now.
Times, for Mike’s immediacy, redirecting entirely. My vision, not necessarily tunneled, just re-calibrated in its linearity. Another sip. Last before cap 2. Tomorrow, need something interplanetary. Unexpected. Pleasurably annexing, like this ’08 North Coast Cab. Again, her impending pages sending my wiring colorful phases. Why can’t every hour after a day’s drabness plate such? Juvenile challenge, my query.
Wine’s world, peppered with polarities. Some galvanizing, some elementally euthanizing. Our conversation today, reaffirmed my immovability as a writer, thinking, oenoRebel. Has me looking forward to the tasting Room, Sunday. Will serve medicinal, actually having the prerogative to see a wine bottle, touch a vine, smell barrels. That’s “industry,” 2me. Tiring, fighting my elevation decline. I don’t need to hit 1000 words tonight, I’ve decided. How delicious could this writing be when forced?
In my Wine Lounge, imaginarily. Flying away like truant jays. Oblivious to implication. I’m a writer, of the wine spine, so I wholeheartedly care not. I sound, now, more like a dangerously tannic Cabernet, with a high AC. Not me, ideally. My manuscript, hopefully, a morsel-like modality. At my first signing, I see us all sipping, civilly. Discussing wine and Literary ideological contrasts constructively. I blame her, this page-mate, for this fruitful forward. Haven’t been sent like this for a ricochet of days. For her vision. These pages, hers. Me, in need of her caution, sedation.
Cap2, happily. Want to edit, minimally. So I can be as raving in these lines as I see. Cab in bowl: Raspberry, spice, old battle leather, slightly dehydrated swamp branch, 1980s mint, snowy day by wood-burning stove Christmas, toffee gasoline ... So many industry clones would think this has no value, humor. And maybe it doesn’t. But I’m enjoying this wine, exorbitantly. Playing with language in the steady sip sequence. This is my private tasting. This office, my “VIP,” or “Reserve” (an even more mockable monicker), Room. This desk, my bar. Why is there a laptop, printer, microphone, post-it with “23-44” scribbled, and some recording station on it? Who said writers belonged in the wine world, or industry? Shame! Banish the writers, the freethinkers, the poets, artists. The tangential, the Thought Criminals: DOWN WITH THEM!
I know what many of them think, those owning dialogue afore. That’s how I can shrapnel their barbs. I’ve heard objections to people describing Cabernets in their own way, using their reactive tongue. “No, you should be getting spicy plum, black pepper, and dark cherry.” How is anyone’s mind ever “wrong?” Wine, all expression. Both in creation and observation, reflective response. I think it hilarious when some take it so seriously, anoint themselves to pulpit. Great characters, these aloft rats. They’ll never muffle our ink-tempo’d maneuvers. They’ll be victims. Of our pages.
Hoping she’s with face at page, storming the lines with Wonderland behavioral oddities. Those intentions, savory serum. Readers should sip them. Know I want to. So sick of my works, I NEED to read others’. I feel mechanical in this session. More than likely ‘cause I crave 1000 words like alligators with their bills extended want some winged wonderer to just land, right there.
Back to my Wine Lounge. The current track has me more than terrifically taxed. Relaxed. Don’t know whose song this is. Wonder how many times I’ve spelled “whose” as “who’s”. What made me think of that? What do I care? I think typos, especially when sipping copious Cabernet, are adorable. Admirable. I’m not at some bar, sipping a vodka-whatever, by mySelf. I’m here. Studio-stuck. Sipping ’08 Cabernet. Scribbling, ink synapses drizzling. Taking another sip, for her, my new oenoPen conspirator. If she does sit, now, as I do, then we’re in concert. What industry element could combat that? Shouldn’t shell the industry as predictably as I do. I’m in the wine industry, even as a writer. It’s merely certain wine purviews that I confront. And, I acknowledge, I need do so with more questions, than thistles.
Approaching 1k for day, I feel nothing. Thanks, ’08. No, wait. An introverted debate, but I can’t professionally translate. Maybe Lewis Carroll could, can. Where is he when I most need? Where’s my graduate school manuscript on the Alice books? Too tired to look. One more fray of Cabernet play, then dormancy.
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