valley shapes

If I’m to write honestly, alongside this wine, I’ll tell you what suffocates a writer’s current mind: Time.  My son, to turn 1 in less than 48 hours.  This all hit me while sipping that Racer 5, down the street while waiting for pizza to be taken, home.  A character from today, gentleman from Montana, agreeable character, telling me how he makes wine from various berries, fruits, composes his own blend.  Also, how he’d won a couple local competitions.  I comp’d his tasting fee, his wife’s.  I found it interesting we shared winemaking urges, passions, just in different shapes.

Blending seminar, went better than I thought.  My vote, turned to be tiebreaker between 2 competing groups.  Vintage focus, 2010.. varietals, all Bordeaux, except Petit Verdot.  Glad it went so well, as a coworker and I spent most the day setting up, preparing for our alchemical frolic.  Again, looking at clock, wondering what I should do in this chair.  I’m thinking about wine, obviously, making wine, the wine I’m sipping…  My character.  And what else, but the Road.

But I think I deserve to enjoy a glass of wine.  In my home.  Away from tech, some device noose.  Right at this scribble, I’m in my teaching Comp Book, as the monster flashed 4% battery.  This pen-mover’s a sent doer for TRUE freedom.  Financial, technological, other.  No brick bag in my skip, swag.

Want to focus on Jack.  His 1st birth celebration.  I’m too Selfish, truthfully.  But it syncs with this “style” or voice of mine.  Lost my elaboration to that oration, but I’m circled; prey to my own anxiety, self-doubt.  Yes, I know, I say to Self, “Kelly would say, ‘just do what you want.’” Since that beer at the pizza place, I’m unblind.  This posture, new for me.  Sure I’ve written this before, too.  But I’m in my honest branch.  What else can I do, conveying writer struggles.  Memory: 2006, in that FT-er’s house, San Leandro, during my 1st teaching gig at Chabot, some “professional development” activity…  While another FT-er was speaking, I was writing about writing, what I wanted to write.  Wasn’t strangled by a phone, its apps, “social” media.  I was a writer, imagine.. to that past, I’ll sip slow, not at all fast.  Time, not defeating me.  Can only write letters to Kelly, hoping she’s even remotely compelled to respond from her levitation.

I’ve become obsessed with simplicity.  And adventure, after reading another blogger’s exposition, today– tonight, really, while waiting for that veggie pizza.  Tired.  Blaming day.  And yesterday, my shoulders, arms, still quite sore.  But, in full-circle scream.  I was acknowledged as A winemaker today, during those blends being made by guests.  If I’m to stay in “the industry,” this’ll be my path.  And I’m writing all of it.  But what if I keep it a hobby, just enjoy making wine.  And write about it.  Think that may be more enjoyable, actually.

Deserve another sip.  But, against MY character impulse.  Cork, re-inserted.  Removing Self from grape’s coast.  If I didn’t have that Merlot, sipped anything with caffeine instead, or even water, I’d have more speech to spill.  Now, a depleted mess.  My shores, now guarded, aiming at potential vintage invaders.