About more, as I get older. You can probably tell by now, I’m not settling. And never wavering, in these Creative convictions. Time, 4:21pm. WELL over 1000 words for the day, and still scribbling, typing. The 1st chapbook for 2012, more than half done. I credit Mr. Jack, and reading an entry I wrote while on a Literary Lunch in January. That box, still fresh in thoughts. So relived to be out, yes. But, miss my cubeNOTES, all my reflections. The characters I captured in the cubes around me.
Would love to pop that 2002 Merlot downstairs, from St. Francis. Can’t. Told Mom we’d all taste it together, see what kind of character’s under that cork. And I can’t touch that ’07 AV Cab that I scored at AV Winery the other night. Thinking… Maybe no wine. And that’s more than fine, as the little one in the Room across the hall does more than keep this writer alert, at ever-ready. Ginger Ale, like what I now sip, always suffices more than simply “sufficing.” Will save my wine-anchored deconstructions for the morrow.
Wine, Winemaking… Maybe I should try to produce a Pinot. And not just to be another producer of the beauteous Burgundy. I’ve liked Pinot for years, loved it. BUT, not sure I’m at that oenological echelon just yet.
Opened the book, to spot quickly random. Equipment, sanitation… Where do I get equipment to make my wines? How on this indecisive Earth could this penniless penman afford tanks, barrels, measuring tools, bottles, space… Do I use someone else’s? Should I be worried about this, already? What would Katie say? Maybe I should make a list of questions to pose her.
5:43pm. Back into the book, a chapter addressing analysis and control of wine. Can’t help but think of my writing. While editing, I should analyze my prose and verse. Deconstruct to determine how much control I demonstrate. Wine, forever presenting itSelf to me as magnanimously Literary. In a matter of hours, bed. Then cometh morrow. Time, quick. But I’m of such precipitancy that it could never instill idleness. Eventually, yes, I will stop moving. But, till then, I’ll torment the hour glass and watch my pores end in showered mass.