of time, remind me of life and how I need to be more free and fearless, more into my scenes and motions. Now at home, prepping for next day, and everything in this room clearer than clear. Wife in next room working on a paper for her Master’s, think it’s in Education, and I keep waiting for the outside rain to finally reign. The old barrel reminds me that I’m not getting any younger, that I need to keep with me course and certain framings in literature, then the new tells me that everything is going to be fine, that every day is a new day… that every moment is a new containment and ecosystem of ideology. It’s Time fighting the writer… I’m not the new barrel but then I am in some assembly and acumen, but in other portraits I’m slowing, I’m not him, I’m not Mike at Serra High School— I’m definitely not Tom fucking Brady. This is Time at war with me, with all of us. Wine reminds us that we need to do what we need to do, what we want to do, that we navigate our ship, that we steer, that we pitch and hit and field.
Finished one of my son’s packs of trail mix… he’d be mad if he saw, but he’s upstairs in some swirl of dream and I’m down here fearing time and battling it with a half-Pinot-bladed sitting, writing my worries of getting old and how at one time I was that new barrel, so ready to intake knowledge and any idea offered. I can remember my first day of Kindergarten, my walking into Sixth Grade math in the morning, my first day at Serra, Foothill College, SSU, then Cal State East Bay…. I’m the aged barrel, now. Fuck. What can a wine writer do but reflect upon and meditate in his subject, wine… it ages. The barrel determines the personality and presence in glass. And me in this room, in my own home. Talking with myself in some epistemological stray, in wine, and what wine has done to my understanding and hold in and on life. What I survived in 1996, and how I reflect on where I am now and what I should be doing and maybe I’m doing what I should be, but maybe I could be doing more.
A vineyard walk would solve all. Not an option now, so I thin of looking in older videos shot, on this newer phone and the last. But I don’t. I think of my walks around Dutcher Crossing’s lots, and the Foley spots I’ve walked since boarding, early May of last year. I’m an aging barrel, but I’m still holding, keeping together, not letting much out spill or sneak, leak. I’m composed, I think. Reflecting in my time, times, from early earliness to the Now, where I am on Autumn Walk with two babies and a wife. Ten years. Plus. Quiet. Look at both pictures again. Wine reinforcing the harshest of lessons and lectures. Learning from my moments, and appreciation of the forward, the irresistible lessons and profusions to that line, where sun meets terrain.