tomorrow last of Spring ’18, and this glass of the St. Francis OVZ, my last. Tom Wolfe died today, and again I’m reminded.. curt, life is a trash compactor wall. So I sip and scribble and meditate over day at winery, where I wondered how many times I can wipe down a counter, how many times I can walk out to the vineyard, saying to self I should taste the Pinot Gris a couple more verses till it says something that actually says something to me.
This Zinfandel isn’t with my sitting, not here on this floor and with me and these keys. Wishing self back to car, on my drive down to Anaheim in the harshest of A.M. dark time, morning, after getting coffee and letting thoughts trample me going across the Richmond-San Rafael bridge. I don’t care about my age, not massively nor with minuscule sole. I onward step and type and look to the light right above my head near a non-moving fan, hearing the fridge growl at me from left knowing the time is tempered and taught to squared legs.