wine page


EOD, and Zinfandel.  Something I don’t often do. Usually a Cab, or Pinot, or some red blend.  But no, I’m drinking Zin.  One my sister made, a 2016 from three separate vineyard blocks.  Glass next to me, not yet tasted or even nosed.  Had past vintages, but not this one.  Day 2 of new post at Sonic, fin.  Today was information, products and definitions, certain services and approaches.  I’m not overwhelmed so much as I am in acknowledgement of what I’m doing, what this new character entails.  Not thinking about it now, and not ‘cause I don’t want to, I want this wine to speak to me, tell me something about me and my wined self that I don’t know.  That I’ve never thought of before.  Like what.  I don’t know, clown.  I haven’t tasted her yet.  What does she want, what did she see in ’16 at those 3 vineyard sites, sights.  MY sight now looking at her in the glass, or stemless plastic glass, cup, goblet, bowl.  I’m overthinking, something I’ve been trying to combat quite viciously of late, but how can I when thinking is my opiate.  Not making me smarter or any more complicated than the next human but certain one of developing activity.  Who knows if I’ll ever jettison this trait of mine, this me of me.


Tiring but I can’t halt in my page assault. Need visit pages from vault.  Haven’t written in days like this, seems like months, like I’ve let my writing life just fly away like some pet bird I don’t love any more.  No, No, I tell the page.  Wine still there not being touched.  I’m too into the room, its quiet, the kids upstairs asleep already (already, they did go to bed rather late but it didn’t take them long to drop into dreams), and me here, with these keys, the next day ahead of me and the Napa trip literally hours away as I see it.  First touch of Zin’s figure and she voices her voice with stern step.  There is no waver in her writing.  She urges I the like profess and practice and perpetuate.  Near one minute after sip 1 I still hear her sing, feel that echo and octave.  There’s something more to this tenor and talk that I can ever measure.  So….  I’m here, in the Room, writing to a Zin. I refrain from fixating on the Zin and my usual turn away from Zin as this is different—or not different but some how a varied climate from composition usual.

I can already see myself walking into the office tomorrow, having pages written from waking more than early.  4am, god hour, where the room is my deity and me but a follower and proselytizer, not so much spreading the word but speaking about the hour, what I did.  The office noticing something about me, my pages on my sleeves and skin, jabbing from my smile.  The office, Sonic, teaching me sight, how to confront the page void, that I don’t need fear it nor feel shamed for not touching it in a couple days.  Feel self closer to the Zin, and he smile, her movement which is more than just simple left-right, side to side, circular or triangulated shifts arbitrary.  More than a stroll or sway, it’s a month massaged inside of a day.