10:04, Mom and Dad left, and me here with the Pinot, the one a “friend” at work aside for me set. Listening to classic rock tracks from dinner. Dishwasher in full focal, and me here with this keyboard, indeed influenced, and more than likely not running in morrow. And why should I when my wife was enough celestial to get my some coffee for rightafterwake. MY wife, building her teaching career, and not settling, only advancing, having her progression ascend and never comfortably stabilize, she’s always moving and advancing– I’ll use that as the model, her as idol, like the grapes of this vintage that continue their maturation, their storying. This morning, walking the rows with a friend, I noticed, it came to me, the inevitability of a vintage. It will happen. Their will be grapes pulled and wine made. The writer must develop as nature does: inevitably. Tonight on the porch, sipping the Pride Syrah with Dad on the porch as little Kerouac played with his friends in minutes remaining before they were called away to bath and or bed.. he said, Dad, “It looks like something could come from these clouds,” meaning rain or some front. That’s natural, that’s more than just simply predicted– it’s definitively systematic. The writing need be the same, part of my climate and system and yes the wine to me codes but I entrench in my convictions and out carry my mission. Again at the pictures, the onset of real pigment and life and visual– me lost in the night and my session, looking at bottles on counter, by kitchen– the SB and the Pinot, SRJC, that I opened a couple nights past. And now this glass of barrel-borrowed Pinot, 2013, oh that amazing vintage– why are so many so quick to forget about 2012? I’ll never get that. And I’ll never get the innerworkings of the wine life and world and circle. Tired, and bent from Pinot and not knowing where I’m going with this narrative– can’t wait for the novel to be done, what Mass’ does with his life and how he figures all into his story, what he wishes and what he sees, what he does wit his adjuncted reads. My mind’s not the most sound it’s ever been, but I’m writing looking at pictures I shot this morning of Kevin and I walking that block and how the story correlates to my permanency here in this stage and moment– wish I were on travel, on some street and in some hotel unknown– is that not the life that we all want, the unknown and the unexplored?
Last sip– Yes. I know I’m one with wine and I can’t get away, not from the biological effect but from the character code it poses to my persona and Personhood. I remember the first wine that really told me something, something– a 2000 Merlot, from a larger producer– An old song, Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”, comes on, and I think and think and imagine me, the world and the time and whatever– confused and contorted– others talk but I don’t listen, at all, because they talk. I want to feel and think and postivize, that’s me and my aim, disposition.
Can’t thank my wife enough for the coffee– can’t wait to wake and not run but just write and look at these pictures more. But now, I drink this Pinot that my “friend” set aside for me in “her office”.