Vineyard, Doubled by Luke Dylan Ramsey – Day One

Introduction

I travel a lot, almost always with family. Since I turned eighteen, we have often visited vineyards, to drink and eat charcuterie, be talked down to by a sommelier, buy bottles that will later flood our luggage with blood-like liquidities. We have been to massive and massively famous vineyards all the drinks down to small, out of the way vineyards, from the Golan Heights to Cape Town to Napa.

I’m somewhat middling on this practice of ours; it’s never my first choice (museums or bookstores), I don’t like day drinking much anymore, and someone usually has to drive after the party has ended… and it always has to end. Sometime. Someday.

Maybe it’s the Christian in us. We love the blood of Christ. I myself am not religious, though I read a lot of religious texts. My family is devout, and on both sides, however.

I often daydream of someday buying a plot of land and disengaging as completely as possible from society. I imagine I’ll feel a sense of relief. No longer needing or wanting to care or share. Maybe I’ll buy land in Canada. It should be warmer there by then. Kill a moose with a shotgun. Use the shotgun to ward off visitors with warning shots set to skim above their huddled heads.

I’m a starving artist, though, so this reverie will remain as such, possibly forever.

I’m as scared of climate change as you are but having a jungle of land seems like a mess that would match my state of mind.

I’m a paranoid person, and appropriately so. I have struggled with agoraphobia in the past. There are many days when I just hate all other people. I’m an introvert, and I need solitude. I deal with my problems by writing, usually, or consuming art. I had a weekend to myself in one of the houses I grew up in and busted the majority of these poems out in a frenzy of loneliness and paranoid fervor over the course of about twenty-four hours, with later edits and additions birthed pretty quickly afterwards, during a weeklong stint spent almost entirely alone, dogsitting a poodle. Basically Salinger-lite.

This series of poems is the inverse of a journey; they are more of a slow devolving, or a delving into consciousness in all its forms. They are a going away from nature, not a summoning towards nature.

Exile, cunning, and a divorce from the culture at large.

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