Dreaming Hemingway, Exactly

Shame on me!  Had a thought of making bottledaux into something resembling so many other “wine blogs” out there, for marketability’s sake.  Why and how did that ever cross my mind?  It’s the industry that’s done that to me.  Social media, held accountable, too.  This is a writer’s blog, understand?  Yes, there may be quite a bit of wine mention, citation, but writing cometh b4 everything.  Today, rough to the point of not even wanting to mention, even a sliver of it.  Drinking some red right now– well, I’m about to pour it.. just opened bottle.

I’m going 2B 34, in 26 days.  I just age, I feel.  My mood, angry, slight sad, but mostly I’m a cornered rattler.  Like what’s been recently seen on mountain’s top.  Didn’t run today, as I chose to have 2 glasses of wine [1 barreled SB, other ’12 Rosé] after work, just as event was starting.  I’m looking to dive into a tipsy typing tired, tonight.  I’m of 2Pac’s unfetteredness.  All my shots, aimed at “the industry,” which continues to stomp with Self-rise, a certain backwards head tilt, annoying assurance.  IT’s wine.. when will some realize that?  And social[ist] media, anymore, I’m simply not interested.  I just want to write, enjoy wine for wine, the art in bottle, and continue living.  The complication, anymore.. I’m just too old.  And only getting older, closer to close.  Don’t want to narrow Self in nihilism, but that’s candor, provoked by day.

Should pour Self a glass, even though I already know what I’m about to taste is mediocre, at best.  If the winemaker, whomever it is, were here, I’m sure they’d find some way to sell it: using esoteric chemistry references, speaking of inoculation times and oak regiments, acid levels, gassing before bottling, or whatever.  That’s what winemakers do.. they think of themselves as such artists that they’ll irrationally defend what’s produced.  Anymore, I think it funny, entertaining.  They make wines for a winery, mostly, exception being those winemakers skilled enough to have their own label.. but even they can be just as idiotic.  We writers, REAL Writers, write for ourselves.  We SELF-publish.  WE don’t wait for publisher approval.  We don’t write for a printing house.  WE, write4WE.

Starting to feel a little less fangy.  Still haven’t had my first glass of this red.  Not sure I want to.  Would swill really serve as helpful pill?  No, but I’ll drink it anyway.  Nothing on TV even remotely entertaining, so I’ll watch the writing movie I’ve screened more times that I’ll admit on this “blog.” Writing, not intended for anything with wires, electricity.. twas meant for the simplicity, writing freely.. ink, sheet’s link.  Not much minding this red I’m sipping.  Relieve the day’s over.  Not even detailing the day’s elements on the most secretive of journals.  Why would I?  So I could re-live it later, again, again?  No thank you.  My city, calling me, reassuring no days like this would ever be served.  Only espresso shots, a legal pad, a pen I borrowed from the maître d’.  Honestly, I’m again thinking of ending the blog at year’s close.  What if I pressured Self with that lack of immediacy.  And how many people actually read these “posts?” Even those “Liking” it.  Social media has no place with Art.  Yes, I know, I need to calm, enjoying evening, what’s in glass.

Putting all eggs in the professor basket.  Should be taking notes tonight, for Paris–  I mean, for Fall.  Did I just write that?  Okay.. the notes:

= Journal, the first day, emphasized and engaged; stressing the pen, paper, over mechanical.

= shorter works stressed, as they capture Life, the Literary, more believably than the extended page pours.

10:41pm.  I’m already on page 56 of this blog doc, on laptop.  Am I just throwing these efforts away, posting them to a bloody blog?  Now that I think of it, I will log this day’s details in journal, one not on laptop, in case it were to “hacked.” And that’s another issue I have with these expedients– they can be so easily violated.  I want my style here, on a Comp Book’s plain, no echopraxia.  Full confinement to my voice, eased, confident, relaxed, ready.

Re-watching the footage I today shot, of the vineyards flowering.  Has to be speaking 2me, right?  The current post I hold, at the Estate.. the last I’m to ever hold, before Autonomy, before this blog truly launches.  Surprised at the vines’ pushes to fruit.  Should have bought a new bottle, from a new, basically unknown, producer on the way home.  What I’m sipping now, I’ve had too many times before.  I’m always talking about newness, getting outside regularity’s box.  So since I get just jump onto road, leave for my city, why not start with wine, and just fantasize?  Yes, this is a “wine blog,” with Literary/expository slant, but I want wine to usher me to particular sovereign dances, if that makes sense.

10:58pm.  Running tomorrow, promised, decreed.  Thinking of Hemingway’s ‘Sun Also Rise’, knowing that’s what I need.. a brief Libertine lark, for Literature, nothing else.  Other vices, indulgences simply don’t interest me.  I’m a writer, not an 80s band member.  If I return to my city– rather, when.. I’m set on revisiting the Arc, the Louvre, the Gardens, firstly.  This winery, giving me nothing but material.  I mean, am I REALLY learning anything new about wine, wine business, the envelopments of a tasting Room?  No.  Of course not.

Should be getting ready for bed, but I’m not ready to let the day have me.  Not yet.  Looking at my glass, to left, with a couple sips more left in its field, I can only think of time.. what I should allow have meaning, impact on a writer’s Life.  TV muted, as always.. some episode of sitcom.  Annoyed just looking at the images, the horrendous acting.  For the ’13 vintage, may be changing my winemaking aims.

Tomorrow, day restarted.  I’ll redo 2day, if I can.  I know I should embrace it as day new.  But I want today done-over.  For the novel.  But am I writing a “novel?” I don’t know.  I just like the word, and IDEA, of a NOVEL.  But that’s a category, worse than a genre– well, about as bad.  I don’t want to write with marketability in mind.  Last night, when I asked the 100 students about the problematic nature of poetry, one of them said that poetry can’t sell like “real” writing does, like fiction, non, anything prose-y.  Thought that was so interesting, his viewpoint.