I’m Full, like this Cabernet

“This wine is full of itself,” a lady, on the second tour I did today, said.  There was endearment, when I asked what she meant.  She spoke of the ’07 Estate Cab, what I wound up bringing home, from her analysis.  She also said it was like a staircase, having many steps.  I thought of how wine is wordplay, more Literary, musical, than I perhaps before accredited it.  I came home to little Jack quite awake, more vocal than I’ve ever witnessed him.  I then followed my thoughts to what this writing’s “supposed to be,” if it involves wine.  If I’m writing a “wine blog.” If you know me, you know what I think.  I’m just going to write, follow my own key pushes.  That’s the enthrallment of each sitting.  Right now, Jack listens to my Thievery Corporation station on Pandora, through my phone.  He coos every few measures or so.  I’m deducing he enjoys my music, as before he appeared unsettled when I set him down in his little open-top bassinet.  Although this session’s a little rushed, it’s in a tier of favorites, most-memorable’s.  My son, growing in complexities, intricacies, proclivities.  Much like a wine, a character in an Austen novel.  I can tell he’s engaged with the tracks, their BPM’s.  He’s musical, and certainly more aware than I am of a song’s tonal recipe.

Beautiful in AV today.  Can’t wait to taste the ’07 I brought home.  Also looking forward to 2nite’s writing in bed.  Need to go through some recent video footage I’ve shot.  Some interesting interactions, beautiful footage of the Kaz grounds, among additional catches.  This current track, slower.  Taking me to Paris, a boat ride on the Seine with Mr. Jack.  We talk about local cuisine, Art shown at the museums through which we stepped.  What we’re going to do the next day, and that after.  We’re on a family Art peregrination.  Thought escape; Conference.  He just spoke again, my little man.  What is he thinking, waving his arms as he does, be it involuntarily or purposefully?

8:52pm.  And, Lancaster’s (AV Winery’s) ’07 Estate sits in glass.  Had one sip.  Mild, well-paced for an ’07.  Feel like prose isn’t suiting me in the way I wish it, today.  Need a switch to musical, more rhythmic, cubist, penning’s.  Why am I using apostrophes so much, lately?  Because of prose, its laws, expectations.  I write alongside the whimsicality, spontaneity of wine’s world, now.  Poet forever; So rules, no rules, will ever rule me.

Prose tends to, or has the potential to exhaust both writer and reader.  Little Kerouac sees my approach, understands it.  “Whooooooo,” he says.  Remembering what it felt like to recite verses onstage.  Sharing meter, random rime, syllabic patterns, alliteration.  If I read prose, people would just listen, more than likely.  not move, react.  They‘ simply listen, some feeling forced.  Prose can’t hold music in its characters like poetry can.  So, switching modes…  I want concert, performance.  All Eyez On Me…


Intensely remedied, setting scenes on a

mezzanine.  Plenty fees entailed in ending

leaves.  My dialogue’s on a lightning rod,

awaiting strike; debating plight on a tightened

flight.  My sight’s enlivened like a kite’s height.

Removed, all hindsight.


(3/22/12, Thursday)