And the writer sips wine. No surprise. Wife in other room watching one of her reality whatever’s, and the writer looks for a book to read, a promise I made to myself in the morning’s thousand words. Right after class, rushing to the conference room at SRJC to collect with syllables, my usual wine-readied tell of peace. So I’m here now, not allowing Self to stop. Didn’t get decaf I wanted, and I have no reg’ coffee here, so I have to either keep sipping wine or switch to H2O in a bit. Latter… consider this the writer’s last pour. This Cabernet, gifted to me the other day, yesterday actually, nevermind… presents itself with a flirtatious lightness that I didn’t expect. Thought Simi was one of those powerhouse mammoth, behemoth producers. Don’t mistake me, I’m happy with what I’m sipping, scribbler just a bit taken, no so much aback, just to some unknown side with what I’m sipping.. calm, tranquility, and unusual ease. From Cabernet! MY book, still an abbozzo, but something I’m paying attention to, following through with, somehow. My vanity is obvious… in vino and literature, and my babies will one day read this and study Daddy like they don’t know him, but know him so well, but pretend he’s just a subject. They’ll be in a Lit or Comp section and see that I’m one of the required texts, if they didn’t know before Day 1. How will they read ‘A Real Wine Book’? Starting to not like that title, and I don’t think they will either. Maybe the title should be ‘abbozzo’. Then I see myself in the same world as Hemingway— we’re roommates, we’re hunting buddies and I don’t even hunt. We both love wine, we sip in the cabin, on the deck, looking out at the Keys and that light-blue set water. This light Cabernet, if it’s even light (maybe that’s just my horridly-ness as I write tonight), provides me to think about he day at the winery, only day two at this new assignment. Images through the flight, through the entire menu and which ones more speak to the writer, which are writer wines and which are just made for whomever. As I always say— still in class. Learning. This, not a draft but completely sketched. In love with contradiction’s eternal vintage.