Can no longer write at night.

Only notes…

Jack and his Legos, making a fort, showing me architecture and asking me for ideas, if I think certain dimensions and attributes are good ideas.

Feeding Henry, him eating all the supplement, he’s officially two weeks old.

Jack telling me to be careful of his Lego masterpiece at bed, that I don’t step on it or kick it over.

Me opening a Mourvèdre downstairs, capping night.

Up for another feed, 12am. Time passing and not even passing but not anymore existing.

I’m going to open a winery and wine shop next year… whoso wines.

Wine talking to me tonight, again, and this time with more aggression. Ordering me to not dare leave, not stop writing her notebooks and songs, books, no matter how tired I am in the morning and not in the mood to write about wine and wine tasting, vineyard walking, winemaking.

That baby upstairs, what I needed. I’m thinking differently. More fervent in singular readiness and fixture.

Making wine my theology, dominant ideology. Nothing else. Nothing. Not teaching, not …. anything.

In my own head, walking my own vineyards..