a show that a writer like me would like and always watches, sipping the red blend I took home from Roth, a bottle today opened, I’m here. Present. Thinking about what this blend says to me but then not, just drinking and thinking, meditating in the room I’m in, the Now of it all, quiet house with babies upstairs asleep, me still a bit hungry but the words and wine suffice. More than so do. Tired, and getting more so, needing to just relax and thinking I may give in to this pull to that writer show. Coffee for morning made, asked wife to wake me when she does for her ‘mommy bootcamp’ or whatever it is that has me more than emulous, in what she does— how she just gets up when her alarm goes off and drives to that studio when it’s still dark. Okay, seriously, more than seriously, more than merely “seriously”…. I’m doing it tomorrow, waking at 04:00 or whenever she does, and writing, like I do now, to music, to these beats, see my tasting room, corner, or “nook” as I earlier in the week wrote. The blend now assumes and percusses more a maple-sent send of a note. 2015, a vintage that had so many wondering where’s the yield, where’s the fruit, but what was pulled was prophetic and describing more a moment and character, conviction than those vintages that the wine “critics” and “experts” besieged you genuflect.
Exhaustion from a day in the tasting room catches the writer but he refuses to slow in fact he entertains getting another glass of the ’15 blend when this sentence is done. OR, maybe the paragraph. 19 days left in this project hat tis July ’18, and what a project, what a time to write wine, start my own label, invitation-only, asking family and friends only to come over and assure I comfort my hobby. And that’s all it is, all it should be… me consulting winemakers and somehow convincing Katie make the Cabs, Chards… two of each. Will start with one barrel of Cab, of course, then build or do whatever from there. Not looking to ask for any permissions or any invitation, promotion, or any such bar.
Closing the night, this writer. The blend now telling me to stop writing, to relax and enjoy the night and prepare for earlier writing as that’s where answers are, wine responses and solution, no dilution and only profitable profusion. My sight is in this sitting clear, a fitting fearing nothing…. The components of what I sip each autonomously actuate and dictate a juxtaposed take of my current slate. More to forward, more to the next line, and glass if I choose so. The wine now, just looking at me, with her darker than gothic add of an etch. Poe, in head, his poetic lectures, what I’m to do with characters that me unnerve or, and, insult.
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