Last glass poured.  Quiet at night is different than the morning, when Henry and MAF are asleep upstairs, the kids away.  This time is dark, more still, more light-oriented.  I think of Sunriver more during this time of day, even more than when I run.

Sent a letter to Ms. Irby, over Instagram.  Messaged her.  Who knows if she’ll respond and it does’t really matter if she does or not.  I just wanted to write a letter for the day.

Just rushed a poem.  Wrote one yesterday I think, or the day before.  More poetry I keep promoting myself.  Not going to write what I want to do with them, or what I want to do fundamentally with poetry.  I’ve written some recently, and need to keep with that streak and street.

Yes, Mom…. I would love a Nespresso machine.  My response to her text after she read the last post.  Why don’t I have one in here already?  Why am I lagging on the coffee supply in this goddamn house?  I’m a writer, no?  A poet, a Beatnik?  A studier of Kerouac?  Right now there are more fucking kids in this house than there are cups of coffee I can make.  Not right.  Unacceptable.  Damning.  I’m 41, but if my sweet mama wants to get me a Nespresso… shit, who am I to obstruct.

The Sonoma Coast Pinot has much more conversation and way, complexion and composition to its whisk tonight than the other night.  Doesn’t have that stink manure curvature to her words.  Wine and I getting along better now, or lately, and I should write it like that.  Again the disconnect between wine and I should be a me-blame rain.  I’m anticipating something.. forecasting, waiting, rather than taking everything as a new conversation.  And, shocker, I’m thinking too much and too intensely about wine.  I tell students don’t think, just write.  And my own advice do I imbibe?  Guess….

Mom, I need that Nespresso.  Told you I would write you in this entry.  You deserve more words.  Was thinking about this today, and yesterday when having some Paradise Ridge Rosé… if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be writing about wine.  Actually, none of this would be on page.  You started our wine story.  Last glass for me tonight poured but writing this I feel like I’m sipping with you, for you, because of you.  Would I have found wine if you didn’t start working for fun in the St. Francis tasting room.  This extends and stems from all the thought I’ve given to time lately…. Wine, you, me writing, Katie making wine, Dad the collector and champion of kingly home-pourers…. You can only draw it in your thinking, on some inner white surface over and over.  So yeah, I need some espresso, even a Nespresso if you want to get one.  What I’d rather have is more time and wine with you, and Dad and Katie….  Wine makes me think this, not about having wine with you and them, but life… time… I know, Cat in the Cradle.  I get it.