Back from dinner.  Had a Vermentino, one from France at the recommendation of my friend Ritch, or “Ritchie” as I’ve always had him known, to me.  Then some Nebbiolo at his suggestion, again.  The acid and the fruit pulsed together like some theatre dance, one I couldn’t understand but only know that they went together.  They had a togetherness, like me and the writing act.  So here I sit, on the floor of my home, my mnemonic motions don’t sprawl as they usually do.  Thinking of wine, and what I’m doing in her world, just free writing while sipping, like now, a Friday night which means utterly nothing to a writer like me.  Tomorrow hoping to wake early and run as I did yesterday morning, arriving at the gym before 05:00.  But now, I just type, while sipping.  Wine and me, with this popularity, and fiery chemistry and interconnected concurrency.  Sipping the Pinot I opened before wife and I went to Rosso.  A ’12, Sonoma Coast, not speaking to me much in the beginning sips of this pour but now thoroughly harnessed to me attention and inner musings.

She more and more walks around my attention, encircling it with taunt and encouraging tough.  This bottle has me in the Now, in the moment, educating and enriching in all its powers, making me smitten and the story expands and more me demands.  She’s instrumental, decidedly cognitive in her sentenced saunter and lecture, calculated approach and addle— and I don’t mind being in this spellbind, bound into some coma of sorts, my senses chained, restrained, hardly pained.  She, wine, me, on stage eternally, collaboratively.  She won’t allow distraction in this maddened past when… future is present and presently I’m future-beset.  Not go-let.  So I meditate further and collect.  Look at the glass, and think further into pasts passed.