Wrote wine piece of day, and…. Don’t want to say it like that, but I’m re-honing on wine, and only wine.  Write about wine as I always have but with more mad rile.  Last night sipping the Pinot on the floor after what felt like the longest fucking day of my life, I saw myself pouring my own wine and walking my own vineyard with my sister, my kids, Mom and Dad.  Talking about the vintage so far and what we’re going to bottle in a couple days.  Need to open something troublesome, tonight.  Something I shouldn’t.  What. One of the Balletto bottles?  Should I get something at Oliver’s on the way home?  No… use what you have.  Save money, I tell myself.  Keep stuffing 1’s into that envelope, maybe that will get you your tasting room one day, I tell myself over a latte this morning.

Write only about wine.  Write more than just descriptions, but images, what she teaches you.  And yes, wine is my delightful and enveloping witch everpresent set to educate me on my Now and see through all understandings.  I’ll wait till home to see what the writer’ll open.  Right now, just keep seeing the vineyard, me traveling and speaking about my wines, writing about them… the Cabernet, the Syrah, Chardonnay.  All I want to make.  All wine wants me to write about, so the decision is quite painless to find.

9:26.  Fuck…. Gotta leave soon.  Jotting wine thoughts and scenes in the Kerouac journal…. Today at lunch, get out of that goddamn van and write.  Anywhere. Take yourself out to eat.  A certain order. Needs to be done.  Write only wine, what she tells you… the Pinot from last night and the reality you not knowing what to open, thinking you have to plan it but that goes against the story.  Wine is the Now and the happenings you don’t see or forecast.