Long as I’ve been up,

the wine writing daddy needs this. No TV, everyone upstairs asleep. No voices. Me fixated and concentrated on my wined thoughts. Decided to open a ’13 AV Cabernet. Discussing with co-workers earlier what we wanted from this business, from our careers. First such multi-character back-and-forth I’ve had in longer than I can now deconstruct. Some time, since such. I know where I’m going, that’s all I know. She tells me to enjoy my visions, this Cabernet. She also tells me to stop worrying. About anything. “You’re in control, don’t you get that?” She hammers. Think I know what she means, then other times I just pour self into self-doubt’s cup. I don’t feel like working tonight. Just freewriting. Being me, and as freely as I could and can ever see. Wish it were raining. Could use those drop sounds. Would pair more than well with this Cab.

My own wine. My own winery… Goddamnit, I’m having these thoughts AGAIN? Take a breath… just enjoy the thoughts. An adjunct English Instructor, starting a winery. Or do I want a wine shop? Or both? One of the participants in the after-work talk said her cumulative promise was to be self-employed. No boss. No one telling her what to do. Simple, but I agree. My aims are a bit more anatomical, so maybe I disagree. What if I can have both. Shop, sell my wines in the shop. Then… have the shop be a client of the larger creative marketing and media verticality… This postulating wine and I having a much-warranted discussion, after this day type. I have to stay in wine, no matter how moody I get. It’s never the wine business or industry, or the tasting room… it’s me, trust me. My biggest problem is my attitude. This Cab reminds me, tries to help. Hear daughter cough, then cry… pauvre fille. Cry stops, but I wonder if I’m wrong for collecting as I now do. Glass gone, and I remember what Mom told me ’bout them. To cherish them. All from my late-Aunt Terri. Life and death accentuated in tonight’s sitting on this hard floor which now pains the writer and suggests that maybe I look at the wine again. Capping of night, sit on the couch… think of tomorrow’s lectures. HST, Plath… life, death… my love of other artists’ work that furthered into the inescapable connection to that end. There need be more poetry about me, with wine, with the shit in the industry I still scrutinize and cite, jab and stab.

This morning, up at whatever hour, I was concluding the day would be a demon-day. Testing me– no, more. And it did. So… the writer celebrates with his aunt. Can still see that grin… the teeth.. hear that laugh and feel her hand in mine dancing at my wedding in ’07. What happened. Why. What will happen in my story. And… pourquoi? Too much for this floor, and having an empty glass as I do. My wine diary… need submissions and just scribble. I’m deciding more wild ways, more poetry in my vinified haze…

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