Thursday, September 29, 2011


94:  Mike, Tenacious with His Tempranillo 
11 minutes left in this lunch writing rush.  Wine tonight, more than likely a Syrah.  The varietal and I have some conversation, well overdue, to tend to.  This café, crowding.  Cyclists, pedestrians, coffee addicts, even artists.  Saw a girl go upstairs with some facial sketches.  Wish I could draw, paint, like Kelly.  Maybe if I one night soon have an alarming amount of wine, I’ll somehow have illustrative acuity.  Could happen.  This current Wine Bar track, perfect for such an evening alone.  I don’t even know where to buy drawing materials.  An arts & crafts shop?  Drug store, grocery store?  Should I try?  Kelly wouldn’t let me not try such.  And... a biker just sat in front of me, on the bench.  He can’t see the screen.  Why would he sit here, so close?  Uncomfortable.  Now, because of this wheeling clown, I have to end my lunching scribble prematurely.  And, he smells.  Please go away, biker.  Go back to the downtown streets, or paths.  Too many around me, now.  Those with helmets, other.  Clocking out, to only clock back in, across the street.  Back to cubeNOTES, jumping journals...
10:04p.  Here with a hefty glass of Tempranillo.  Thinking I may be going about this countdown a bit monstrously.  I’m too engrossed in time itself.  Why?  Is that Nature, nurture, or unnatural?  This bottle, not even $10.  What an incredible unearthing in the wine isle of Oliver’s.  Cherry, slight mint, herb, light leather.  More than tolerable.  This, quite perfect for the sipNscribble, tonight.  Thanks to Spain for this glass, patronizing my pain.  So glad I crossed the street, for the 3rd Literary lunch.  Is the book close to completion?  Uh...
Wine Bar beats in sequence.  Only way for me to relax before morrow’s boxed nature.  Older, me.  And more agitated, with wine’s “industry.” Intrinsically, my in’s in three’s.  Meaning, poetry, only.  When the current me’s truly free.  Now, a winemaker, with family.  Where will this go?  Who knows.  The playlist, sending author to fantasy, thankfully.  Needed such musical rush.  Again, sipping, in my Wine spot.  Fine plot, with a full glass.  Spoken word, a slowing nerve.  Grateful.  Wine, a different shape take.  Sorry, Syrah.  Maybe another night.  Kelly knocking.  Should I fly down uneven stairs?  Only so from several sips.  Bed soon, elated.  Soon, her seen.  Only there.  Us, in florescent Spain.
9/29/2011, Thursday

95:  Run Rewind; Cabernet, that-a-way ...
Thinking about tonight’s intervaling, strained sprints.  As the days shorten, my jaunts evolve in ever-appreciating reflection, projection.  No wine tonight.  Just all in head.  Last night’s Albariño would taste masterful now, in this hot office.  Summer, refusing to let us, itself, its place in wine country, go.  Glad it’s staying a little longer.  The grapes need it.  Harvest, wholeheartedly here.  Listening to these electronic Parisian coffee house instrumental compositions, I’m can barely keep my eagerness anchored for my wine, the Cab Katie and I aim to make this harvest.
Need some sovereign wine mission to scribe.  And what more fruitful, for me as an artist, than making my own wine.  All these self-daubed wine authorities, experts, need to try making wine before acting like they know everything.  Especially those on the business, or definite “industry” side.  They may know how to sell, market, pimp and pedal bottles, but they haven’t veritably veracious expertise with wine itself.  The entity of wine; its innumerable shades, shapes, characters.
I see our Cabernet defying the varietal’s expectations as stereotypes.  It’s almost sure to be musical, graceful, playful.  My next title, winemaker.  Only allowing family, my sister to syncopate.
9:57p.  The temperature taunted him, his typing.  He closed the monster, went downstairs.  He thought about the chapter he meant to finish.  “I’ll do it tomorrow,” he said.  Wasn’t a winemaker, yet.  But he would be, surely.  Still just a fiction writer, he knew.  With an anything-but-complete-or-marketable-or-salable manuscript.  The day just wouldn’t end, he thought, the pages calling, dreams of book signings in New York, San Francisco, L.A., Ann Arbor.  He’d bring the keys with him to NewWineGig tomorrow, cross 1st to the Roasting Company, at lunch.  He was 2 for 2, hitting 1000 words, when writing at work.  He wanted to keep such a streak.  Get to shelves.     
9/28/2011, Wednesday

No comments:

Post a Comment