I’m not in much mood to write. Not that I had a bad day I merely want a night to be gelatinous, and slow, relaxed and thinking with this Boekenoogen Syrah, ’13. The only thing missing, the idea I hoped for driving home, and driving back from the pizza place. I’m seeing publishing, my publishing, the safest place in wine’s world and I write it all.
And I see it, my huge wine publishing.. thing. Right now it’s just a thing, in my head. Wine and politics, and needing wine to take the politics, especially that of a Ted Cruz, or Donald Trump, or even a corporately coded Hillary Clinton. The Syrah has saved, and safe in my wine zone with its gothic color, its brooding wave and voluptuous flavor lobes. This wine is the wine type that has me in my new character and place, form and fold. So I sip my wine and don’t think about it much, and why should I in this mood and after today watching so many people drink their wine with no cares and laughing at my descriptions (not all, but a small few did, which was enough to unnerve this already-edgy adjunct)– And I’m a mess with this night and this semester, ending Week 14, to Week 15, then to end. I’m just going to enjoy my thoughts, not slowing and only speeding toward dreams, the pours and the empty bottles, counting them with those markers and walking them to the recycling canister. Need another glass. Then bed. There is a quit. At some point.