Wine tonight has me meditating in specific modality, from the sight of people approaching the tasting room, to my morning vineyard saunters, to right now sitting on the wooden floor of my maison, sipping the last of this ’12 Chalone Grenache, perceiving all around me with realized roundness and humility– peripheral zen, now and later again I’m sure. Not sure how much longer I’ll be in one place, one spot and assignment, as my fervor for area with no waiver or volume settle. The next lift, she tells me more an ebb or subtly, of placement and collection, the nuit tells me more, that I need follow with this whimsical sole and step and clef, test and bet–
Instructores check this stage, stretch, and sip once ‘gain, my last full before the writer’s bed. Hear fridge, but only see a dark jot in plastic stemless goblet-esque set. I sip, fly back to Montparnasse… with wine, like the Now-Me. Freely and newly freed and pleaded in this self-read.