Pinot is there to ease me, sing and educate, provoke meditation and new sight, exploration of prior hours. She instructs the writer to not work as hard, not feel so obligated to fill a page. See the room you’re in, she says. Walls sing alongside her and the floral scape of her animated way.
Cabernet sings to me— tells me more truth than the world does. She’s knows my story and sight. We speak, then go to sleep. I’m left thinking, seeing the bank, sipping by trees and scribbling senselessly. No objective. Just sips.
Wine has been saying different things to me, lately. So many ask me if they should get into the industry, and if they should work here, or there, and what wine should they have at Thanksgiving, this Xmas, or New Year’s Eve…. I say, “What do you want to happen?” And if seeking a job,Continue reading
. They know. They know me and speak their poetry, madly.
Speaking. Verses. Listen.
In this. Her.
Tells occasion shape.
No nap, today, fought against pull and push to do so. Thanksgiving over, wife out shopping at one of those shopping special eve whatever’s. Me, home. Wine. Just finished glass of Claret. The night passed with such cruel progression. Indifference. Babies asleep upstairs. What movie do I watch, my dilemma. My life’s trouble. Think ofContinue reading