SIXTEEN

10:23PM…  Sulfured barrels with Zach today.  Ever more in a winemaking reel.  Need make real.  So I save every coin I can– no more corporate coffee stops.  And I have to open a coffee shop in this condo, for one, ME– indeed, for the label to rise, and by a certain cry abide.  I’m sipping a ’12 Merlot, and I can tell it’s not ready.  Some winemakers would say it’s still in “bottleshock”, whatever that means.  I realize it’s in a drawer of downed dimension.  Understandable.  It’s its own entity, and it’s not yet ready.  But I’ll sip anyway, imagine everything I know it can sing.  Not yet pellucid, but promising.  I just imagine it tasting different, in about eight months, when I’m on the Road, in a hotel Room, looking out the window, or on the deck, or balcony, wondering what’s happening back home, what they’re doing in the tasting Room, without me there– I’m here, on the Road, and tomorrow I speak about wine, writing, writing about wine, and about my favorite authors– Kerouac, Plath, Poe, Emerson, Thoreau, Carver, Faulkner…  They’re still there, in the tasting Room, and I’m on the Road.. think I just established a new timeline.. eight months from NOW–6/27/14, 10:30PM–I’ll be on the Road, away, traveling, writing and lecturing.  Time for another sip to celebrate…

Had no choice but to sip it fast, like I’m about to be escorted to the chair.  Didn’t want to keep making trips to the kitchen, where I always keep my evening’s capping.  Little Kerouac’s home, and I don’t want to wake him, as he’s not feeling well as he could, poor bloke.  Tomorrow has to be more of the winemaking wake.. so I’ll sneak tastes from barrels, I guess.. imagine how my label will appear.  No more aimlessness, only reading, writing, studying.. I’m a student.. and these wineries, thinking they can imprison me, a writer, a scholar, a reader and thinker, are only deceiving themselves.  I’m more armed than the most rogue of sects.  I antagonize, and repel, for amusement.

(6/27/14)