Traveling and tasting whatever I can get my hands on.  Writing a thousand words per bottle.  Yes, a thousand.  This offering I brought home will see a thousand words.  Won’t finish the bottle, I don’t think.  No, I won’t.  Have to be at winery tomorrow.  Not till 12, but still.  Composure, not-so-young man!  Composure.  Composition.  My sister-in-law told me, TOLD ME, nearly ten years ago, write about wine.  Wine.  Writing.  You’re a writer and even then I was seen as a wine something, so write about it.  Should have a dozen books out by now.  Fuck.  Should be traveling.  Not.  Okay… calm, Mikey… peace.  You speak of nothing.  You’re too Mercutio right now.  That’s true.Remembering my one walk at Dutcher Crossing, where I saw the fish, I think a Steelhead or something, trying to swim upstream. I admired his stubbornness, his bizarre devotion to motion, to going upstream.  Think he heard me walk down that Cab block and nearly slip into the stream, and he panicked.  I did, too.  Just looked at him.  He calmed as did I.  That’s wine, what wine is, I thought.  What’s around wine… in that Pinot, the one I’m about to open, there’s the story of how I saw it, how I parked near BB after a definite day on the tech tray, elected newness, something new in wine’s truth.