In Wine’s Way

img_516021:17.  Day’s end.  With wine, of course, this Mendocino Ridge Syrah my sommelier friend sold me, recently, and this track has me thinking about everything — high school days, today at winery with some guy with whom I’ve never before worked, the visions of love with wine and characters, my character the novel’s for, and everything.  On the floor as I began day, with those 1100+ words. Now what.  I’m just writing, with wine’s code, ode, pose, and Road.  And when I’m in my travels, I can only see this manuscript, this Massamen legend pervading everything.  Look at me, nearing 40, fearless and younger feeling than I’ve ever felt.  Daughter’s toy doggie on floor next to the writer, and the TV off.  Track playing, and all’s balanced, or somewhat.

Haven’t sipped from only and one glass for self poured.  Not ready.  Only now the keys and meditation, Sal and Dean in my veins’ gleam.  In family or living room, not sure what an agent would call it, just looking at the wine.  Not sipping it.  Rather, looking at screen as I type.  Bad habit.  One story I wrote, in grad school, about Cindy the neighbor, coming over to talk and we wind up kissing between sips.  She leaves and I sip from the glass, thinking we’r kissing again.  When did I write that?  2003?  4?  Fuck I’m old.  But I’m where I am, and I remember what I do, and that’s where the gems are.  All those notes from the CSEB parking lot, that one night I thought I saw lightening from eye’s corner.  I’m a recorder of my Now’s… a sorter of loud and crowded poem clouds.  But I keep with my sitting, my sips and types, this current beat, already eager for morning coffee.  I’m too much a beat writer, beat from working, and from clocks, others’ thoughts on me, the evaluations and applications.  What if I stop.  What if I end those days, just let this Mendo’ Ridge speak to me with bravado that cuts and hearts like Eastern potion, swords…

While my family’s in Burgundy, I’m here in Coffey Park, writing to the wine I opened, the second of 3 bottles Brian me sent.  Tonight it tells more coherence and play, more purpose and form, like an essay with admirable balance and step, show and device.  I’m analyzing, but not.  In a thought rising, but caught.  I lean back, hands locked behind head and return to these buttons.  Something suddenly feels skewed, askew, but anew.  Eyes now seeing this place, my home, house I own barely, with babies on floor above… what I do, recording my Now’s.  I can’t stop.  If I do, where I sit I’m doomed.  So, only current throws know.  I think about nothing, but where I am, what’s done… glass, types, people messaging me on what I’m doing and if I’m writing but the cirrus cloud-speak nearly immediately’s pulled back into blue.  I continue.  Coffee for morrow, known.  Brewed, cued.  And in next nuit, to friend’s new Room to again skate through Italian bottles, varietal translation.  At end, day, avec wine.  My beat, my seat.  Read.