Saturday, September 10, 2011


Mike didn’t want to write.  So he didn’t have to, write?  He meant, right?  He was tired, uninterested in his underdeveloped prose.  With another NWG week in book, he thought of wine approaches.  More, for his writing.  Tonight, with Mom and Dad, a 2006 Russian River Zinfandel.  Didn’t sing the eucalyptus blare he’d know it to do.  In his fatigue, he watched TV.  And, as expected, nothing of any engaging electrical element.  Mike thought of sleep, but it was still too early, he thought.  9:31p.  True, he was 32.  But not 62.  Or 72.  He was still young.  Open a beer, he thought.  A Racer 5 sounded quite affable.  But, none.  Another night, he thought.  Tomorrow night, definitely.
More writing projects than he could handle, in present.  He always talked about consolidating his pages, but when.  This must be how winemakers felt before and after harvest, right?  Which fruit do they pick, when?  Into which barrels, for how long?  He hoped that what he was doing made sense, somehow.  Mike turned off the TV.  Laying down on the couch, he though of NewWineGig, his cubeNOTES.  Those pages, on that yellow paper block, accumulating.  Did those go into the same book as all the other scribble sheets?  He would just let it happen, let the pages speak, as winemakers stepped to side for terroir to connect with its audience.
His fingers could punch another cluster of keys.  He knew the year melted like Mojave-placed ice chips, but he needed sleep.  The week, long, even though it was only 4 days.  Tomorrow night, he needed wine as surprising as tonight’s.  He wanted the astounding.  He needed it, at his age.  And only a wine of tonight’s height would suffice.  Where would he go?  One of his allied wineries?  The store.  Couldn’t think about it.  
Now, sleep.  A writer, no longer able to dodge needed abeyance.
9/9/2011, Friday

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