Today at the winery time would not agree with my intentions and my intentions had their own sense of time. Me looking out that glass door only thinking of my own wines and label, tasting room and inviting people over to taste them and me writing their reactions, and their stories like the man at day’s beginning telling me about his trips to Napa when he was younger, exploring wine country and tasting wherever he could, understanding wine more and decoding it, stripping it of mystery and any perception veil.
When into the coffee, at 4, Craft willing, I’ll do something for the book— But there again I’m promising. No more wine. Just words. Just tomorrow. Just more time at the bloody winery, in the tasting room and hearing people talk about wine like they see it as I do. And what do I see…. Not a bowl puddle. Not a drink. Not something to taste. A piece. A life to read and voice collection.