Thinking about what he’s sipping more decidedly— it’s more than wine, this is more than an industry, and this new assignment I took with the AV winery and its sister properties is more than employment, some other job.  This is a yelling direction— a ravishing rewrite of totality, a scribble’s chiming of promise.  Sipping some Bacigalupi Chardonnay at present and wondering where the day went, where my life went.  I’m 22 days from 38.  What that means and implies I don’t know but I’m aware, and this new assignment could fix so much.

New business plan for the writer, new tone and eagerness to confront all reservations internal.  Wine tells me to think, simplify— “Nothing new.  Even if you think you have to.” She says.  I obey.  I’d never argue with her, with her curvature and vocalized rile wheeling newly garrulous color and quixotic talk…..  Me, renewed.  I have a lot to think about, going into this new age.  Has to do and deal with wine and then doesn’t.  So now what then, writer?  Don’t know.  Going to enjoy my pour, think like Kerouac on the train, or climbing the mountain, or by himself in the cabin.  38…. Fuck.  Wow, that’s really me.  ‘Nother glass…

(5/7/17)