117: No Wine Title in this Timed Idle, Syrah

NWG today, interesting sequences.  But I’ll leave that for the book.  The car, attacking vinoLitLetterz’s budget.  Frustrating beyond explanation.  But I don’t want to write about that devilish, indecisive, indiscriminately badgering car.  My sister affirmed this eve that winemaking beith in this poet’s future.  Details aren’t necessary in this sitting.  But my bottles approach.  Me, in word drought.  A writer.  My baby sister did this to me.  And I’m grateful in a morphing manner.  Raising this sturdy glass of St. Francis Sonoma County Syrah to Katie; Her generosity, staggering wisdom, real Wine acuity.  She’s true Wine Life.  Not a robotic sales rodent.

Finally started typing my Plath lecture concatenation.  Just want to share my curiosity of her with others.  Hopefully, one day soon, students.  At Stanford.  Just kidding.  Well, no.  Wishing.  This day, short.  Same with those in-tow.  This Syrah, urging me to find Equilibrium, seek it seriously.

“Have I not been serious?” I ask.

“No.  You dream.  Just write.  You need presence.”

“I have plenty presence,” I say, sipping it down, hoping it soon silences.

“You do.  Just absence of objective.  If you want evenness, you have to sculpt such.”

Mike reads through his Plath text, looking for solvents, symbols.  He finds them, but isn’t sure how to arrange.  NWG, chipping at his chammer.  It’s days, his, there, not long from spill.  Then, he, finally, in Autonomy.  That’s all he wanted.

“You better write faster, and with more cynosure,” Syrah says.

“Shouldn’t I worry about that later?  Isn’t it healthy, in moment, to just write, type?” Mike says, looking at the empty glass, wondering how Syrah can still speak when all of it he quick-sipped.

I don’t know what’s with me tonight.  Think it’s just the day.  That car.  I have this Porsche picture on my phone’s front screen.  Is it wishful, its placement?  Yes.  I won’t lie.  OR, an act self-elevated; Yes, it’s a thing.  A car.  One I like, and wouldn’t mind one day driving, into my driveway.  I’m not materialistic, I don’t think.  I just like Porsches.  Not sure where I’m going with this, but I’m here, writing about this.  My Porsche.  My gorgeous, sexy, completely Literary ego machine.  I drive, ride, her from Alexander Valley to Calistoga, speeding into St. Helena, stopping on 29’s side, by that catchpenny Napa sign to, in my Comp book, package rhymes.  Sitting here, sipping Syrah, fantasizing flavor fantasies.  For me.  Sip, sip ... 

9/6/2011, Tuesday