Little after 4, and I’m thinking

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the day is turning on me, but with positive attention and intention.  All projects done for winery, now I can breathe in my own sentences, decide what I want for day’s rest.  Have to drop by wine bar in downtown H-burg, get myself some beer…  Ever notice that?  As a parent, a writing parent especially, the whole day, your whole like really is like one big fucking to-do list.  How my parents did as grandiloquently as they did, in their professions which demanded so much travel, I’ll never bloody know.  Could use a glass of something.  What.  Had some Syrah a bit ago, but even though this is red wine weather, as they say, with all the cloud cover and cooler sphere, I can’t help but see myself pouring the writer a fuller than full glass of the Sauvignon Blanc.  Or maybe that Costello Chardonnay…  I don’t know.  Choices, choices, you know?

Co-worker next to me telling customer on the phone how we’re expected to get all this rain through Sunday, here in California.  Sounds odd to me, getting all this rain.  And I have to say, as eager as I am now to take pictures, I’m not enthralled with such precipitation promise.  But what can I do but work with it.  As a writer, a writer whose getting older and notices himself getting older, I’ll work with what’s on the plate, what’s right in front of me.

How was my day?  Honestly?  Look where I work, look at the wine around me, how I write for such an inspiring winery and in the story of such an interesting and humble woman, Debra.  This winery has done for my story what the others couldn’t— beneficially and irrevocably propel me forward, get me closer to travel, and strengthen my love of wine, winemaking and the vineyard itself. I should go get a glass of something for this writing father, pretend I’m a tourist, if not for just a second— no, treat yourself to ten minutes, Mike.

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