Currently, wine has me

img_6120on a meditative slate, scope, slope.  Getting to the winery early this morrow as I often do and with iced coffee, revolving in the meta of meta-metas of wine, and the vineyard, the people that pass through here and me with renewed purpose and poise, sight, poetry about me.  Wine, its own emblematic bastion in my head this morning, commanding all perception and creative election.  Driving on Chalk Hill Road, looking out at buds breaking, speaking new life to me but as well new tracks, renewed and renewing tests for self.. the philosophy of which is obvious, RE-WRITE.  Everything.  Even the way I now write, embracing the Hunter S. Thompson logic of not caring, not excessively deliberating or collating concentrations.  But just living, and living madly, wildly freely.  Wine reminds us that you can wait, wait, wait more if you wish but the Now is what you want to seize upon.  Wine isn’t wine, but thought, vision, sight and poetic compounding of perception and music, new intersections of sight and understanding… time capsules shelved then removed to appreciate and further learn from your current current.

This morning I write so freely and with such intrinsically imbibed utterance that I forget about where the pages are going, any book I’m working on, but just write, just develop in character… Precisely what wine commands.  I see Self in books, reviewing notes in the library with students around me, and this student, this bizarrely analytical penner, this morning, more a student than he’s ever been.  And, from last night’s Cabernet, sipped on floor while reviewing notes and entertaining new vision and vortex for my writing life.  Writing is wine… I, suis wine.  Wine s language and thought and what you’d otherwise dismiss and not care to further understand.

Haven’t written in my wined pages for a couple days, as I needed collect and introspect, further see what I’m to see in my story in wine, her composition.  Now, I’m assembled, collected and more coherent avec plus de but.  Much more.  This Now, this breath, here at this polished wood table int he shape of CA, where yesterday I discussed win, life, poetry, literature, love and kindness wth new amis, I’m reminded.  Reminded of my mind and where it need be.  Magic in the meta, spells in this writing, a bewitching perambulation about wine and me in wine, me in this tasting room before anyone arrives.

The other day, driving back from Anaheim, and a bit down here too in cruelly early horas,  I considered ending this blog, and wine writing.  Not sure why.  Perhaps a momentary stretch of bitterness toward the industry, which happens with me from time to…  But I halted it, permanently anesthetized its advance with a note, while stopped in some dry, dusty industrial town I’ve never been to and more than likely never will let into lenses again, to have lunch… scribbled, “re-write… onus… make own… make what you wish… re-blend the attributes and attractive qualities and equations and encore re-draw”.  What I’m doing, this morning, at the wood table.