This Pinot has always been one of my favorites. I know that for many readers this must be a dull and obvious choice, but I like its dependability. I've always enjoyed each and every bottle. It is not priced too severely and it makes me feel good. So few things do. It is among my favorite things in life.
I work a thankless job, and now I do so in a mall, an outdoor mall, but still a mall. I'm heading towards my mid-forties more rapidly than I can even admit to myself. So many of the things that I thought would matter in life didn't. Each day that I go to work I walk by an Abercrombie & Felch. It is ironical that Ernest Hemingway purchased the gun that he used to kill himself at this store, but it is also evokes other dour feelings as well.
Difficult to believe, the Hemingway thing, I know. But I wouldn't lie to you about such a thing.
I stake my reputation as a wine critic on it.
The gun was called a "Boss"...
The other day I saw a reflection of myself in that AF&Itch store front and I looked old and tired and fat. My mind took a snapshot of the image there, staring back at itself. All of those who work around me are young and very energetic about what it is they do. They seem to be getting younger each and every day that I must go to look at them.
I live in some twisted alternate version of Oscar Wilde's unknown novel, "The Strip-Mall of Dorian Gray"
Drinking a little bit helps writing. Drinking too much occasionally hinders it, and oftenly.
I just don't feel very creative lately. Writing is coming to me only with great effort, and noticeably so. When I go back and read what I have written it is a labor, yet mixed in among other labors, tediums.
There are too many distractions, too many things that must be attended to, no silence in my soul, no poems in my heart... instead there is only the inertia of the rush of traffic, the list of things waiting for me at home, the things that I promised myself that I would take care of, then there are the broken promises. There is so little silence in my life, yet sudden beautiful expansive silences all around me, but only driving to and from work, with the windows open, hidden within the roar of highway speeding by.
It is unnerving.
I come home from work and want to drink quickly to try to get the day off of me, to leave it behind, to escape its fevered hunt towards my sleeping, and its nightly stalking of my mind.
There exists only a small window through which I might hope to express or dispel anything, the metaphors of my life seem to be turning towards similes, just simple reminders, little lists of things to do, refrigerator magnets, text messages to myself... temporary screams into the network, another decree to the ghosts... and then only in some vain hope that if I somehow find some time later to look through my phone at who I might need to respond to, to keep my life alive, that perhaps my own name will ring a bell and warrant a response.
Well, except for this bottle of La Crema... I've had a bad day. This wine is silent and peaceful, it is composed of oceans, deep red oceans, with gentle currents and breezes. It brings to this dark night what Caribbean sunshine brings to others elsewhere. Those growing hair and heading south towards the sea lanes... many must shave it.
"There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realize his conception of the beautiful." - Oscar Wilde
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