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.
(4/8/18)