work, knowing now, pages and pages, FREED
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, “What do you want?…What do you want to happen?” Wine is overthought, more than most things, or professions. On the way out of the office tonight someone asked me about wine and working in wine. I was on my way out, so I didn’t have time to elaborate over too much, but it reminded me how I’m seen, and where I need put more of ME, if in this pursuit of knowledge and business and knowledge in business.
Tomorrow morning, should I wake when I want, I’ll write wine. Only wine. Even if it’s going over my final days in the tasting room or all my vineyard walks…. Wine is material, writing material and story, not something to be peddled or pimped.
.
They know.
They know me and speak their poetry, madly.
Speaking.
Verses.
Listen.
I write.
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 of how fortunate I am with my family and to have such family, to be sitting where I am, here on this we seek to shed, new one one the way… Day of giving thanks, I need to show more giving of thanks, being thankful.
Tonight, I do intend exploring more wine. No aim to wake at 4am or 4:10 like this day. No. I may actually just sleep in. I will. What do I mean, “may”? May have to punch out. Take the night as it approaches me, describe and translate it, or in such order reversed… then wake tomorrow with more thought. More story. More ME. Tired now, forgetting I’ve been up since 4-something. Think 4:10. Has it been that long? Yes. It has. Me, that writer. Now. Time to Self and I sip wine and be here, writing. A writer.
Does the writer want apple pie or Chardonnay? Both sound like they sound, their own precise appeal and connection. I’m not torn between both but urge to be curved by both, somehow. 9:08. Feel like bed but I won’t. I can’t. But more, I refuse. Why can’t I be a human, just have dessert or drink wine. Is it that complicated? Are my thoughts the hinderance, the block and or impediment? I think it may be just that. Not in any kind of a writing swoop, and I can’t figure anything of it out. How does pine figure. What type a figure be me, I, this writer.
I feel like I’m not doing a thing, while doing too much. A mess. Should have taken a nap.