Writing with Wine
Ode to old spirits
Wine and books mean tears and feels. It’s refreshing, it’s calming. When I read Meg Wolitzer I can start to understand how to word my own experiences.
I just need to take the time to do that.
My life is scattered.
My energy bill in the background screen, a dimly lit candle with a millimeter of wax left in the jar, pinching myself back into awareness with every page turn, scared that the embers will combust due to said lack of wax.
Not sure how that works — to get to the end of the candle wickers.
What happens when you get to the end of a candle wicker? Maybe there’s nothing to even be afraid of. Maybe it simply dissipates.
Maybe we all just simply dissipate.
Maybe I should stop being so dramatic — the drama of today, the act of it all, the many retakes.
The way I will drink this entire bottle of wine and trust that it ends just like the speculated bottom of a candle wicker.
I’ll dissipate.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
I got up just a second ago and I felt that I had a case of neuropathy. It would be nice not to feel my feet and all the sores one could accumulate. No more pain and no more information flooding one’s nervous system at any given time.
Maybe writing with wine will make everything better.
I know that isn’t the full truth. And I’m not an alcoholic. I don’t plan to be and should not be because I already have too many comorbidities to inherit, and to all the primary organs — kidneys, heart, and brain.
Which ones will I acquire?
Or will I die unexpectedly like the daring alpinist or stung in unchartered waters by a sting ray?
Who’s to say?
Wine helps me to collect everything it seems. Helps me to gather the bits of inevitability — death to my $100 dollar plants, candle combustion, and the person I might become at the bottom of this wine bottle and its floral zest.
Maybe that’s why I’m drinking the bottle? To acquire those sophisticated tannins?
I can’t show up sloppy to Kat’s. I can’t cry and I can’t be sloppy tonight. I don’t wish to be. I wish to be tipsy and light and free to talk.
I won’t be in the department for much longer and who knows if they’ll continue to invite me to things when I take my leave to what feels like the lesser side sometimes.
I know I’m not less. I should stop seeing myself as less. I should stop giving in to self-loathing. It’s surly and unkind. Why should I treat myself this way?
I’ve gone on and on about X and it’s a tad bit embarrassing how much I have. How much I’ve thought about X the past week, how every time it’s me who initiates our time together.
X doesn’t want me like that and I should respect that and continue on with my life because I’m the only one who can stand on my own two feet.
I don’t think I was ever supposed to do nursing, to begin with.
I think I’m waking up.
To the fact, I am a writer. And I should learn how to write without an unscrewed cork and fake spirits running through the vessel where mine should be fermenting, ripening, speaking, and not merely absorbing all the time.
On another note, something I’ve noticed. Stop trying to flatter all the time. There’s a balance. Stop trying to cover your insecurities by thinking you can smooth over them by spotlighting people.
Just be real and authentic — and stop writing with wine.
