…latitudes and longitudes of grateful that one of my favorite wineries of ever-time is one of my assignments.  Have to put in place a business plan for myself before again narrating the bottles, for the first time in over five years.  Don’t want to get ahead of myself, just know I’m excited.  More than excited and mortally eager.  Not sure what this is, really, that I’m feeling.

Still a bit light outside, and the color of sky morphs into a puddle of turquoise-purple-gray.  My mood follows its atmospheric steps… and then, what.  I don’t know.  I’m not in much a mood to write but I’m aware that charge rather than pause is the only way I can go.  I can’t afford civility, or stability, normalcy.  I’m 38.  Thirty-fucking-eight.  Uncle T last night called me a young punk, I know to make me feel better but it only made me more aware of my progress toward true agedness.  Took a huge swig from this Racer 5, and now feeling more relaxed and careless.  Legs extended, bag at right, open, left has beer bottle and Kerouac book, phone and TV remote.  I only want to think about where wine’s taking me… wine… sell wine.  Sell it with words.  That’s what I’m meant to do.  And if not sell, then talk about it till you’re blueish-purplish-grayish-greenlike in the face.  Wine and that Merlot at Foley, the Merlot I bought in 2002 when I had that girl over, the Blackstone Merlot.. “Remember that?” I ask myself, hearing a dog lightly bark from somewhere just beyond the backyard.  Time moving quicker now, sky changing its color.. getting ahead of my Self, planning rest of night and early morning.  Where is my copy of Moveable Feast…