Sipping a ’10 Cab. But the label gives no varietal specificity. It’s a cuvée, which I like. This wine deserves more than singular simplicity. As with my books, they deserve more than genre division. I write books. Are they fiction, non? Poetry, diarist excerpts? Novels, chapbooks, collections? What difference doth it make? They’re books. Ones I wrote. Today, surprisingly trafficked. MY goal for tonight’s session, do something, ANYTHING, for the 45-page project. Surprised to see Alice sipping this red with me. Usually, this character only sips sparkling, occasionally.
All day, in TR. When it’s exceedingly busy, I don’t feel like there’s much hospitality in my interactions. Just pouring. But one couple, up from Oakland, had a chance to speak to them about the wine, estate, what wine is to me, all alike. And that’s what wine should be, where the Art is. And WHERE that Art is: the Humanness. Just typing that, urges me to pour another glass. But I think I’d rather a beer. OR nothing. Maybe just the page, Road fantasies, on airplanes knocking out five or six chapters. Reading about Mr. Hemingway earlier, while at work and when I returned home. Kept saying to Self, “Honesty, Truth, Movement.” Like I wrote while at the box, the stationary will kill a writer like the one writing this. I have to travel, respond. In fiction. Or non. Doesn’t matter, long as I respond. I also saw several pictures of Papa writing on PAPER. No laptop, obviously. And rarely a typewriter, except with stills of his offices. Need my first office. Away from home, so I can concentrate, truly work. Don’t care where it sits.
Think this ’10 is better than its ’09 competitor. Was going to taste my Merlot today, but didn’t get around. Tomorrow, I have to. Alice’s glass, submitting aromatics, just inches away. Need another glass, just for 1 last visit, or “revisit,” as guests ALWAYS say when wanting a re-pour of wine certain.
Lost thought. Blame this garbage “reality” TV on Bravo. Looking directly at screen, thinking of morning’s coffee. No mocha from corporate coffee cave, won’t do it. Broke, this morning. But tomorrow, where it’s stopped. After this posting, I’m to paper, like Mr. Hemingway. Pushing buttons, anymore, just feels odd. Sounds even more strange. This night, like uncomfortable stage interaction. Need a break, need a glass. It’s probably changed in the last few minutes. Wonder what it now wants to say. Wish I knew what my wines, MMFM and MKCS, are thinking.
More scenic a fold than my other glasses, tonight. IT’s painting a picture, much unlike the ’09. Was going to reveal its AVA, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t want it to be admitted, not in this entry. I’m appreciating this wine as a WINE. Shouldn’t have even divulged its vintage, varietal, honestly. And in lines closing, thinking of collected characters. All in tasting Room. I don’t need to consolidate anything. All scribbles, traced to counter. And wine, behind all actions, interactions. You can never tag it insignificant. Clocking…