Friday, November 18, 2011

44: Friday, Wining Literarily ... Contently, Crazily

The sun tried to come out, but isn’t sure if it should.  Near the end of this manuscript.  Not sad at all, as I’m just going to write another.  Then another, another.  If I want readers to know anything about me, it would be my love of writing, about anything.  Pen2paper, or just typing at the Roasting Company.  Words, language, Literature: my fanaticism.  Back at the desk in 12 minutes.  Have to type faster.  Need enough time to pick up that Merlot I want.
Last night, Sauv Blanc, still on my mind, for some reason.  SB’s, starting to increase in their engaging abilities, to me.  Maybe I’m looking for it.  The psychosomatic dimension to wine, there always, don’t be deceived.  Like when someone says, “I get a lot of black pepper,” on a Cabernet, or “I get like licorice-y fruity leather.” No surprise, the sipper next to chants, “Oh,, too!” Not a bad thing, just a thing, in wine’s world, on the tasting Room stage.  9 minutes left...
Don’t think I’ll finish the entry.  Oh well, I tried.  Can’t rush the sitting, the same way you can’t rush fermentation, or malolactic in my and Katie’s case.  Have to stop, close the monster, unplug it, as much as I don’t want to.  Why do I have to stop writing?  To be responsible?  What would that get me, seriously?  I listen to some spoken word, currently, feel rebellious, slightly antagonized.  Have a tasting later.  I believe, 4:30p.  Might make the day’s remainder pass more deliciously.  Right?  Now I’m just writing, crazily.  Need 300 words...  Addiction.  It’s the mocha, 2 shots talking, typing.  I might just buy two bottles.  Like what, I wonder.  How about a Merlot, a Syrah.  Five minutes.  Leaving.  Packing up ... 
9:07p.  Home.  Sipping the Merlot I bought from Dan’s shop.  Nice profile, presence on palate.  Haven’t had a Merlot in some time.  Have I?  Same Wine Bar beats played at Roasting Co, now here, in the home study.  Startled, I just felt, realizing how far into the new Comp book I’ve scribbled.  Spoken Word, scattered in its sheets.  Need to do something with them, separate from my prose projects.  Missing the stage, I again scope performance, recital.  Poetry, verse, I’m beginning to appreciate the same way I do wine, winemaking.  This wine, singing like the first Merlot I ever sipped, the first wine I ever appreciated, thought about.  That Blackstone Merlot, think it was a 2000.  Yes, it had to have been, as I opened it in ’03.  Well, I guess it could have been an ’01.  But, I want to say it was a 2000.  I’m almost certain.  How does time dismiss us as it does?
11/18/2011, Friday

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