NEEDLING

Another wine bottle. Another evening. Listening to Gainsbourg, among others. What to do with myself? Not much to talk about, really. Trying to work on a screenplay, but nothing is coming out. Multitude of things happening simultaneously in my brains and within the context of reality as it presents itself around me … I sometimes wonder if I’m not an android onto which testing is being done … and that the world around me is merely a simulation of sorts … which would make all this, as in this scribbling, this drinking, this farting, this buying a house, this never-ending wonderment, this acceptance of the world as it appears, this living in other words, totally devoid of meaning as I can understand it … it’s like I’m indefinitely a teenager barely coming out of puberty … adolescence ad-infinitum … questioning my being here on Earth? Why not Pluto? Or Venus? Or possibly even some moon revolving around some planet somewhere within our galaxy? If not simply our solar system … a mere satellite I could inhabit? Instead I use my French-press coffee maker—which I no-longer use for making coffee since I no longer drink coffee except when I’m in Paris … though if I ever make it back to Italy, I think I’ll make an exception—as a decanter. My French-press coffee maker makes a great decanter! I discovered this second usage of this glass object the other day when pulling a bottle of wine from my wine cellar and, as I tried to open it, the cork found itself inside the bottle rather than out of it … it became imminent that I find a container into which to pour the wine right away … I knew the cork was bad, et cetera … I’m no wine connoisseur, and I possibly over-reacted … but I knew instinctively that this bottle needed to breath, and if it could breath without the cork drowning inside, then I might possibly have a damn good bottle. The French-press presented itself in all its innocence. I thoroughly washed it out, rinsed it, dried it, and poured the wine into it. It was a beautiful bottle. I was pleasantly surprised.