Kitchen and coffee, dropping off Emma before Jack, which I thought would be brilliant but wound up making Jack late and had to go to office and get some pass to return to class as attendance had already been submitted… but I don’t let it slow me, on Friday’s eve, which means nothing to a writer who writes and notes and does something 
Jazz with me, morning with me, wine with me even though I don’t it now sip. Actually, especially since I don’t now it glass-tilt. The grapes on the vines, just showing who they are— no makeup, no guise, disguise, falsity. Just visual candor. The vineyards. Me, always there, always. Write my life from a vineyard, just stay out there and look at leaves, hear the air and the notes it wants to share and how ever long its pieces, numbers, like this Cannonball Adderley track, “Autumn Leaves”, all I looked at yesterday on my lunch walk, the leaves and the colors and how they want to tell me what to now do, how to see the county and that Petit Verdot block overlooking that valley to the north (I think) of Roth Estate. The air in the blocks, now, in Autumn, is all jazz. Each slight or significant gust is a varying short and sequence of notes, teaching me a wine writer to let go, be free, be wild, be YOU. Of course, I said back to it yesterday, making reluctance progression back to the tasting room. Wine for me is nothing to do with wine— But, out there, in the rows, the cordons, the vines, the rocks around the roots.. the sounds made by a writer stepping, peering in with his camera like a paparazzo more than hungry for ‘that shot’. I run through more of my vineyard shots, some I’ve already posted and shared with the world but I don’t care. I “revisit” them for my purposes, to get closer to the music out there, the sounds, sensibilities of the visuals… memories of old wineries, some enjoyable experiences while the others are nothing fleeting of loathsome, horrid. They all teach, they all had their stories, now part of my story, a wild and wandering wine freewriter— huh. Thought of something. But I don’t know if the ‘something’ is a marketable something. Do I need it to be salable right away? Maybe. Or not. Who knows. Have more coffee. I bring the quaint cannikin to my journalistic lips, encouraging more expressive blips— What I say int he tasting room, how I present wines, everything from the Pinot Gris to the single-vineyard Cabernet that I could never get enough of even if I swore off wine entirely (and even if I did I would write about how much I miss her, and I do, even now…), new languages and poetries, performances for and on and in and all around a writer’s kinesthesia. Le vin ne me laisse pas arrêter de penser à elle. (Wine won’t let me stop thinking about her.). Et je ne veux pas. (And I don’t want to.). She is my topic, my literary love, ever. My time, my place, my work, my non-work, my play, my passion.. tell and rile, world, storm, Reflective Equilibrium— In the vineyard standing in front of a vine, not sure of variety but I don’t care, I just recite to her, and she listens, or I have myself convinced she does. Best reading I’ve ever offered.