On couch. But no TV. Last glass of the Chateau Guthrie, can’t remember the blend. Thinking about what I was invited to do this Friday, judge at a wine competition. Funny, as just the other day I was writing in opposite of such. Or, really, how some do it. Certain critics and somms… Not my brother Chris who invited me. I don’t follow anyone in the industry, wine’s flabby and blobbish dope of a crippled herd-industry, but this bloke I do. And I respect his opinion, his writing (which is what means anything to me much more than some shit from a bottle no matter how obscure or fancy.. I’m a writer and will always hold to the syllables and meter), his approach to writing wine, to people, his perpetuation of a kind chord of communication. I’ll write him a merci, soon.
Smooth Jazz from TV, and time to think, haven’t sipped the red yet. What is the blend… who cares. I’m here, in the room and present and feeling a certain deified direction and music from everything the wine, wine itself, is saying to me at this point in my story. I ask myself “Is this another of those times where someone tells me to write more about wine, this cal from Chris?” Must be. So I find a new road, something else in t what I’m sipping and I haven’t sipped yet but already the glass stares me down and up and into a new sentence rhyme and prime, layered time of the caper kind. Long day, and I’m starting to fade. A decision healthy, not sitting at desk in the late. Playing with wine and her cinema, portrait, scene, this identity I’ve had since.. when. Me in the wined frame, expanse. Why do I ever get disgruntled with this, this topic, this assignment. I always come back, am brought back. That has to be of monumentally mammoth meaning.