Kids going to bed. Jack coming down for something. Water….?

Tired still.  Nap didn’t do much.  Last glass of Rockpile.  One of the St. Francis bottles I bought and picked up the other day.

Going to start using new laptop in a bit.  Quarantine about to end, I can feel, and I’m either sad, or confused, analytically perplexed, or something. What am I supposed to think. Who knows.  At least I finished a book to finish a book.

Wine… should write more about her, it… my neighbor in back of this house has a light on, is doing work in the backyard.  Wonder if it’s with an ax like we saw the other day.  Wish I wrote like King, in that genre capsule, but I don’t….  And had too much wine to finish second poem.  Least I have the one from earlier, and those haikus.  Could wrote a couple more.

Kitchen especially quiet.  No dishwasher like last night, no music, no rain, no thunder like this morning … still can’t believe that…  Just me and these key pushes, slaps and taps.

Wine tells me to slow, meditate, be in the wine more.  Dark.. smoke-told and professed, and not from the fires, I don’t think.  My own label… whoso.  When.  And I don’t think I want my sister involved.  No shot at her, merely want to do so on my own.  Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist, right?  So… on my own.  My way.  No textbook.  No lecture notes, no lab..  Just the fermentation talking to me.

Glass half-occupied.  Taking my time  Still difficult to conceive I went tasting yesterday, actually out and at a table, something pouring for me… wine tasting, how.  This world now, different.  And that must explain my mood for half the day, yesterday… my birthday, but I’m not the only.  Making me think, this Rockpile, this purple puddle..