Night, continuing. Only a couple sips left, this Cabernet. But, I’m flying past wine’s realm. Just thinking of Autonomy’s feel, profile. It’s enzymatic despondency. Can’t forget about tonight’s writing assignment, the 16 lines. More poetry needed, surely. Especially if I want my writing to be wine-like, unpredictable. Defiant, separatist, sovereignly sectarian. More verse. The more oddities, the better. For me, my sanity. I aim to stand as several varietals.
Tomorrow night, more punchdowns, I think. Always look forward to stepping in that facility, about those tanks, barrels, aromas. But, I’m starting to think, my wine, mine and Katie’s, would want me to abandon pattern, uniformity. Orwell certainly would. Is my wine Orwellian?
Time, 9:51p. Twelve hours from now, the writer’s cubed. Dichotomy, or consistency? I’ll write my way through either. Deconstruction in all pulses, wine and/or Literary. Thinking of the café. Why? The rushed, productive nature of that hour. It’s MY hour, the page’s. Never before have I used a lunch hour this way, with such commitment, consistency. Testament to and with my obsession in language, page, ink. I’m sure Emerson would understand my discovery, in Self’s shelves. He said that “good writing” takes the writer “where he would not go.” So, is mine “good?” Where is it taking me?
Where does masterful wine take its maker? In this sitting, on this downstairs couch, I find mySelf obsessed with Creativity, creation. Tired, struggling to my word target. Why do I set goals before Self, with writing, like this page is a sales slate. My only goal, is to sit, write. I could walk away right now if I wanted to. I’m the “boss,” on this page, with these sessions, pages. I will never be stopped with sips, scribbles. Freedom, with these lucrative Self skirmishes. Reflection, wine-flighted introspection. Finally, clear view, a near New.
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