Hurt, Learned

Sipping a formidable glass of 2008 AV Cab, as it’s warranted in a fashion of ways.  The cut on my finger today, during an other wise tranquil Literary Lunch.  Reaching into my bag for a cord to connect my iphone to the monster.  Technology, always.  But I can’t charge the gadgets.  I cite Self.  My dripping impatience, remedial anxiety, ever-present angst.  I recall reaching into that pocket like the bag was hiding the cord.  When I retreated my fist, the most sensitive sector of my left index finger was re-sculpted with an uncomfortably shaped, dimensional gash.  Blood took stage like it hadn’t been seen in years.  Gabby, one of my friends at Napa’s Roasting Co quickly came to the author’s aid, bandaging me, assuring I was fine.  Disgruntled that I couldn’t type, I forced ink to legal sheet lines.  Happenstance?  Punishment?  A blend?  It taught me to recognize composure’s boon.  To settle, embrace peace.  Wrote quite a bit after the learning wound.  Now, at home, with my deepest of Sonoma County Cabernets, I type.

Wine bar beats on.  Harmonious ending to tumultuous installment.  Thinking about Sunday at Kaz Winery, the fun group that came though the doors, on my first day back pouring in 2 weeks.  Felt wonderful to be behind the bar, seeing my brother, talking to people, taking pictures, writing in wine’s indubitable space.  Amongst bottles, dormant vines, characters tasting.  Always pleased to have positive people step to the bar.  That’s what motivates me to write wine-themed fiction, the spoken word, the journals.

This Cab, one I’ve had many times before.  Now, though, it displays compiled complexities.  More flocking fruit, more night-like.  A romance about its palate presence than I remember.  Making sure I sip slow with these typed scribbles.  Imagining mySelf in my Wine Bar, as I often to.  On travels.  Now, I think of New Orleans.  Have always wanted to walk those streets.  Listen to their beautifully interwoven Jazz numbers, experience the poetry in those gorgeous quarters.  Another sip, I’m defiant.  Thankful for this injury.  The bandaid, laughing at my situation in this chair, but only to encourage.  No more stress.  I’m done.  What stresses me is rather laughable.  The only thing I should be worried about, ever, is this writing.  If IT will sell.  I know I can more than impressively vend my own work.  As it’s what’ll change life for me, all I care for, with passels of peace.  Not just the money.  But pervading Equilibrium, tranquility.  Happiness, to be simply worded.

Thinking again about the group I met at Kaz, their carefree rhythms in the Room.  I remember wishing I wasn’t “industry,” that I didn’t know this life so well, so I could feel something like that.  But, it’s fine, honestly.  There’s plenty to discover, still.  Katie’s and my wine project, future collaborations.  And these pages, there in each step to capture my gnostic germination, continuation.  Wine, writing, writing with wine.  ALWAYZ.

Looking through pictures I took on Sunday, eager to get back, walk those blank rows.

[1/10/12 – T]

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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