My daughter, tomorrow 4….Time this morning absolutely speaking to me in multitudinous ways I can’t seem to catch and inventory.

She sits over there, on the couch, excited it’s a “stay home day” as she calls Saturdays and Sundays, any day where there’s no school or work and we’re all home.  Next year, the writer 41, and Jack 8, and wife 40.  Time lecturing me, telling me to optimize the time yes but more than that stop fucking around.  Go for it, but more emphatic than that.  No cliché language and no bumpersticker talk.  Plan each morning like this, don’t just be on your phone and I’m not, in fact I made a point to take out this laptop and start my paragraph stream for day.

The book, taking some shape but not sure what.  Stemming from my AE life, how that’s reminding me of approaches that WILL pay and take me to where I want to go, on the Road and writing about wine, writing about where I am and what I’m doing—much like this morning there being a bounty of material in just this, this, the kids doing their thing and me here frantically typing trying to make up for the night I spent last night at the company party, where nothing was accomplished other than trying wines from the Foley portfolio, none of which impressed or taught me anything.

And the wine industry…. Last night, so humorous and fun and more so more humor in the dancing and the coin-op video games and pinball machines, and foodtrucks.  Not saying we should have been talking wine and barrel sampling all night, but what was the takeaway from last night.  If anything, TIME.  For me at least.  I shouldn’t have been there and I knew it.  Should have been in the goddamn chair, here at the kitchen counter while wife and babies were upstairs asleep, sipping no wine but decaf.  The more I don’t sip wine the more I want to write about her, and where I can find here… those rare bottles, those tucked away shops like the one I saw in Beaune when I went there with the family.  The wine industry now to me is utterly anti-wine, anti-art and LIFE, utterly and devoutly opposed to enjoyment of wine from a more universal sense.

I used to love the tasting room, pouring in it.  The it in it all, but now I become sick when I think of any procedure or meeting associated with something that should singularly persist in enjoyment and ease.  True, it’s your doing if that’s your full-time assignment, and I did it to myself for far too long. No more.  Last night… I felt like Duke and Gonzo walking around the casino floor seeing the lizard monsters, asking myself what was the goal of the night.  I know, I know, to part, to have fun, to celebrate.  But celebrate what in the wine containment?  At one point, walking from the fancy portable restrooms, across the polo or equestrian ground where some rich man either does or does not do something related to horse showing or play, I was tempted to leave.  What the fuck was I doing there, and what would I get out of it… I truly felt lost, like I didn’t belong there, like some force or opposing metaphysical oscillation rounded my state and physical form and put me there.  I know that’s not true. I know I have more control than that.  So while there, at least on this walk, I decided to make it an assignment. Wien industry people celebrating, but celebrating what.  The work they do, that they’re all together…. I wouldn’t get an answer.  And perhaps the question I’m asking is unfair, I thought.  So…. Just walk, look around, what do you hear and see.  80s music, and those foodtrucks, video games and pinball noises and balls and people hitting the sides obviously intoxicated and angry or showing off, then the surface I was stepping over.  Who owns something like this, and who owns a structure of this size when it’s not their only property and structure of such size.  He has others?  That’s not wine.  That’s not something to celebrate either… he having us all over for his amusement, and even if he’s not amused that should be even more to cite and question.

I stopped in that thinking and made way to the bar.  Girls asks me what I want and I say the Rose of Pinot and she hands me a Pinot.  “Oh, I’m sorry I was going to do the Rose….” I said, not sure she could hear me.  Turns out she didn’t hear me all along, told me all she heard was Pinot.  So I drank it, went over and said hi to some people I knew, my good buddy Jesse who in essence was my plus-one, or I his as he’s still full-time with the company, and couldn’t speak.  I thought about wine and my writing of wine, and that no writing was getting done being there.

But, the more I sipped, the containment and more critical anatomy to my inner and meditative composition began disassembling itself.  I was into the wine, and she speaking to me… telling me to stay, learn from this, learn from the event and the people, write it later, write it tomorrow morning over coffee or a cinnamon latte thing from the Keurig.  And now here with my second cup, watching both babies now watch their cute little cartoon or animation gnome movie, I can’t squander nor dismiss or even mildly fiddle with time.  This is all going to end one day, so…..

My statement on wine need be bolder, and purposefully and passionately against anything industry.  Against the winery collectors…. Contra the people that just do it ‘cause they can.  No anger, just telling wine as it need be told, for my babies, and anyone reading my pages.  Time tells me to stop in what I saw, how I last night spent time.  I write about it now, sure, but I could’ve have been in the chair last night, made it a stay home and write night rather than being part of his circus.