Home from day

img_2581at new winery assignment.  Didn’t have a chance to go out with camera as initially seen, but still gathered material, story, sold wine, have thoughts to cook and inventory.  Home now with a glass of Stryker Merlot, forwarding in my idea of editing minimally, not letting it stress me.  Just advised a student to “Edit lightly, but never eclipse the initial intonation and innovation— be anchored in initial scope.” Again I find myself in a sitting of needing to very much follow my own counsel and instruction.  Me, with wine and the worlds and words that swarms at me.  In the kitchen, wanting “descriptors even.. tired from day even though the day wasn’t one of those dumbfoundingly busy days at a winery.  I’m home.. need to focus on that.  My spot here at the kitchen island counter.  Just looking at the wine in this stemless plastic “glass”, the light above me reflecting off the dark puddle and oceanic as it gets closer to my nose, lip, has me reciting to myself— night gothic lesson for curious transient syllable stylists like me, sipping lonely—  Distractions.  Why can’t life leave me alone when I’m writing after a long day? that’s what the Merlot is here for, to comfort me and make me forget about the day, well not so much, but all the obligatory, all the must-do’s… all the all-the’s.

Merlot, what started this.  All this.  This book before it was even a book, this wine writer before he was serious or even aware of wine, and profusely before he had any blog to post on.  The Merlot is not instructing me, but telling me to instruct myself with all that’s around me… kids’ toys, earphones, my phone (which is the main culprit with distraction)— just happened again.  She, my Stryker Merlot, tells me to be more free with language, that words need no lassos, no restrains or chains.  Wine is not poetry, and poetry is only conveniently aligned with wine.  What we do with our breaths in wine’s presence and our own solitary engagements is what punctuates precedence.

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