Why I want to make wine? I want my wine presence to sway symphonically with my writing ways. IT annoys me when people merely talk about wine as if they’re more knowledgable that any walking around the blocks with them. Just because you’ve been collecting “for years” doesn’t make you an expert on wine. And if you know so deeply what makes a masterful bottle, then why don’t you produce one? Not going to make it through this entry’s end, as thoughts of these people, this type, just anger and exhaust me. Wish I had one of those beers that Beth brought to work, today. The acid of this wine, telling me I should have had it with the burrito. Maybe I need to switch to that Carignane. OR one of my Cabs. No, this bottle’s contents are starting to even, develop a delectable [much I hate that word] grip about it. Pouring another glass for Self.
Why do I want to make wine–No, why DO I make wine? Because I want to participate in wine’s process, not merely represent it. And then devilishly sell it. Like he said a couple days ago, it’s a choice. I’ve made mine. Artistry 4ever. Like my little big sister/Winemaking professor. Think I might need to clock out early. Went to sleep last night quite late. I’ll finish this last glass, see what chords from it I’m able to pull.
Still awake, 11:11p. Feels though the clock should display something later. More forwarded numbers. Have the compulsion to watch a scary movie. Hate that phrasing. A “phantasmagoric horror” film. The new gig, at SV Winery, starting soon. I’ll be 33 in 4 days. Time passing faster. Feel like it’s winning the war. Need to keep writing. Might need another glass of the Franc.
Think I have an idea, after watching a news segment on an artist. Her approach is to expose EVERYTHING in her existence. Like a maximum marketing advance, by way of her Craft. Returns me to the thought/approach of me being the brand. Think I finally solved the Equation. Would have another glass of the C-Franc, but I’m getting more depleted as minutes maneuver past perception.
But then I realize wine only carries so much melody. Only page holds potential to tell what’s in my circulatory, mental. Only minutes from sleep, those dreams. When I wake, writing… To my script, no one else’s. Especially no pig winery exec’s. vinoLit, Literary till stilled… [5/25/12]