Lovely.  Now on floor in family room, liberally sipping the Sanglier Pinot that came in my shipment.  Yes, I’m on their list, and I can’t let go of that story, how Glenn reinvented himself after 40.  OR, simply followed through with a dream (although it was anything but simple, I’m sure).  He just made it all happen.  Didn’t complain, didn’t have his hands out, he just did it.  So I sip from the Govino cup my wife brought home for me after her most recent race.  Need to adjust the light in here to the atmospheric tint I prefer.  Wine, wine, I’m falling back in love with it as I’m only seeing it as a hobby, and enjoyment.  Yes I’m at a winery 40+ hours a week which is full-time technically but my perception is leisure, a material-seeker for the pages.  But I;m already tangential in my thinking.  The Goal of tonight is Meditation.  Listening to this Hutcherson, and sipping my Sanglier.  In falling back in love, or lust, or love-lust with wine, I think of all my wine memories, and after talking with Deb this morning about all her times since becoming a winery owner and one coming so far for her dream and after so much sacrifice (some of which is tilted in pain’s curvature)—  I can only think.  Think of my wine memories, my stories, like the night where I went out in downtown Napa with coworkers from ‘the box’, to taste wine and make “connections”, or “network”, where I was quite eager to gather content and learn about other brands’ stories (which I thought they were, too), but was dragged into a whim’d gathering, only meant for, well, nothing.  I don’t associate with that now.  I’m after stories, more than just “content”, ‘cause that could be anything, but something to build my wine life.  Further understand what I’m sipping.

And what the fuck?—  The wine’s gone.  How.  I’m too into my thinking tonight, and the wine isn’t helping, or it is, isn’t— NO. IS.  Kerouac offered only his confusion, and I the same but with a more annunciated and fervent poignancy.  that’s just me, the educator, professor, whatever.  So eager to fill out that FT app for CSM, so far away, but what about my writings and my wanderings, my STORY?  Remember what that adjunct, Renee, at Solano said as she told me she was looking to apply for a FT post at some East Bay community college—  “…so that would mean I’m giving up on my writing career…” Something like that.  What writer would ever allow themselves to think such horrid sludge scenes?  I’m always going to side with the page, and as Dad said in our Perfect World conversation, “You’re a writer.” So why do I look left, right, back diagonal, or any way?  I should look straight, straight at the page—  Coming across old wine “content” with me— noticing the Pinot catching the writer, typing more difficult, but I persist with my madness, deconstructing the Pinot and its fervor, dynamic, self-personifying perambulation…  More in love with wine.  Wine is MINE.  Again.  For the first time in years, years…   The video I’m watching now, shot five years ago today.

I’m trying to reinvent myself, just like Glenn.  And 40 is there.  Not around any corner, but right in front of me.  The day, flashing back to me, from when I touched down on property; talking to Debra to setting up for the tastings, pouring for the club members, talking to a co-worker about coffee, to pouring at the B&B on North Street.  Like I wrote in my lecture this morning (which I still haven’t posted), not posted.  This is wine ripple and reverberation, the writer keeping with his sight but then fragmented…  ellipses, ellipses…..  Still on this lower floor.  Ignore time.  Just revel in rarified corner, I plead Self.

Splendid send, downstairs here, on this Friday night, no TV, only the atmospheric and visionary light.