Writing With Wine (excerpt) 1.

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I’m beginning to feel like a revolutionary.  I am prepared to march down the street, arm in arm with everyone.  A solid bond of people stretching across huge lengths of city blocks, walking with purpose, waving red flags, faces shining with a new passion for life and being in the moment.  Then bursting into a chant or cheer defining our purpose and reasons for existence which will be necessary as undoubtedly a line of riot police with helmets, shields and other unsavory weapons will appear, waiting for us to draw near before they begin with the tear gas and water cannons in their charges against us.  I am inspired by the events in Egypt but it doesn’t matter what country I am in today as long as I am there in the most thick of things feeling the emotions, the collected emotions of not an individual but a people; a people in revolt, in revolt of the mundane and everything not extraordinary.  Life insists on being dragged screaming from the gutters into the world of endless possibilities.  Dull is only a blade of a knife.  Nothing else.  Otherwise we must slice and dice our way into the paradise of our experience here on earth.  Hunger, disease, suffering all only words in a book with meanings ripped from their centers and plunged into the utter darkness of space.  See me marching down the street?  See the look in my eyes?  In my search for the true building blocks of my life I have at last pushed myself through a door that had never been marked by anyone.  Had never even been marked as a door but I began to push things.  I could no longer stand still.  Feet were made to move along.  They possess strength and stamina not easily comprehended but they must be set in motion and the motion will begin the quest to push things aside to give access to and through new regions, which simply wait to be explored and become the fabric of new, exciting existence and pleasures.


I have needs and desires.  If only I knew which lights I could turn on in my head.  I have never been an explorer of any faith.  I never knew faith was a part of the exploration process; that’s faith in myself, faith in the choices I make and that I even have the capacity to make such choices.  But I do.  I think we all do if we can push ourselves to and through the doors that don’t even resemble a way in or a way out. 


I’m stopping for the night.  Now my passion is pointed towards only one idea.  One activity, which means so much to me that I almost bow down on my knees, I don’t ever have to bow down on my knees but there are times when it almost appears to be the appropriate thing to do.  And if you think I am saying nothing but the truth right now then you are correct.  I was going to say I stood up from my table to step into the kitchen to find my favorite corkscrew but instead of saying anything I lift my eyesight up a fraction further and discover the thing is lying in wait on my table.  OK.  So I pick up the corkscrew and then I raise my body out of my chair and take those fateful steps into the kitchen.  I reach into the wine cellar and pull out my pinot noir.  It looks so exquisite sloshing around in the bottle.  A true microcosm of a world in there; waves of wine splashing forever against the polished, smooth coastline, wine surfers riding the pipeline on the tip of the curl.  I can see the passion on their faces, the look in their eyes screaming excitement, adventure and how extraordinary life can be.  They slide silently along the coast until instantly they are back on top of the next wave like the movement of the ocean never ending but pushing and then pushing harder towards some goal.  A goal post in the wind.


Goddamn it, I almost spill the wine once I have it in my glass.  I catch it in time so as to avoid a torrid string of cursing.  I hold nothing against cursing because it means so much to me but on the other hand if I can seize the opportunity to skip out of that particular line of words then I just might do it.  Finally, after a mind numbing several hours of waiting I get the glass to my lips and drink the glass dry.  There is no sipping tonight.  I am a revolutionary.  The status quo is no.  I don’t want to have anything to do with it.  This is where I draw the line.  This is where I pour myself another glass of wine.  This is where I make the lines rhyme.  This is where I could begin to fall behind but instead I change my mind.  I move forward past the ones who are blind.  I catch up with myself so there is no further need to rewind.  I hold the sun in my hand and the moon in my pocket.  I’ve run out of cash but I can still charge a rocket.  So I set it off and let it blast, speeding so fast it crawls into the past, which is exactly where I want it.  I let the pilot escape then close the drapes then sit back and pull the plug out of its socket.

I pour another glass of wine.  Now I have to put the goddamn plug back in its socket if I am going to turn on the television.  I’d like to begin an instant replay of the first night Lizzie made her entrance in the see-through pale green nighty.  I’ll never forget the moment when she let it slip off of her and stood revealed to me for the first time.  The first entire nakedness of a person who has in mind what she did then is a nakedness to remember.  So if this scenario would begin to play out right now exactly as it did that night I would be living in the past, but I wouldn’t mind.  I would relish it.  I would whisper into her ear things I never even thought to say to her our first time because of the nature of first times, at least with me.  But even though it’s not a sin or crime to live in the past, I am not going to venture there tonight.  It’s true Lizzie is probably in her apartment at the moment but it is not in the cards for me to put the wheels of sex into motion.  I am instead going to absolutely blast myself with the grape.  For so long it seems to me I have been neglecting this part of my personality.  I will not ignore it tonight.  If you could see across time and space then you would already know that I have finished the first bottle of wine and have brought the second to the table.  I am wound up.  I am tight but I am loose.  I am moving in the direction of the grape.  I need it to wrap its claws around me in this darkness I have created in my apartment, not darkness in my mind.  I will light some candles, maybe crack the blinds so as to add a touch of nighttime city to my wine drenched nerves.  The first wine I pour from the second bottle senses the glass to where it will next repose.  In it’s thought patterns it has decided to move from the bottle in a slow motion stream.  Agonizingly slow but with a beauty beyond compare: I watch with love rising inside my heart, my nostrils dilate ever so slightly and the aroma wafts like the finest perfume.  Of course, then I spill the fucking thing.