7:37am, coffee made. May follow with espresso shot, or keep doing what I’ve been doing is the afternoon espresso dose. Pinot from last night, all I want to talk, write, think, dream about. Was not expecting that, one of the bottles sent to me from the VC guy. Lately as I’ve noted and madly disclosed wine and I have not had an amalgamated conversation. Rather, wine has been there and I am of dumb tongue. Last night it was I was pulled from a forced coma. Like now the wings are functioning, I understand a certain kind of music and hear it everywhere. Because of one bottle. No, that has not happened in months. Maybe even a bit over a year.And I’m not one of those Pinot-obsessed, Sideways-choking Spectator robots. I get bottles occasionally but…. This was different. Like a new discipline. I wanted my journal, pen, or this laptop but I wouldn’t let writing happen. Save it for the next morning, I told myself. And I did. Here I am. In a Pinot spell and cyclone, carrying the language and walk to my AE sea….
Didn’t write an EOD report yesterday. Will this morning, and write it here. I can’t get the Pinot out of my thinking. We push and shove but it wins. In chair, music in right ear, and how to go into the day. No matter when it ends and it in no way matters. I don’t see it ending as I’ve called it so.
My writing this morning feels different. The feel and composition, voice of my own inner-voice and lined translation perpetuates in new hue. Thinking about nothing, even the Pinot bottle, the small production…. I have to write about it, about her, the dance in the glass. When… later… piece by piece, article by article she urges I move. Finding quiet actually versus in character, voices and chorus in an inner-auditorium or studio of sorts. This morning, that’s me – THIS Mike Madigan. Newness, the beat, the ride and story of everything I am landing in and comprising Now. From wine….
Wine… why didn’t we speak. Know it was my synaptic net not syncing with yours. Communication blockage. But it’s over. A reader might not get it, and I’m concerned too much. Just write, the wine tells me the next morning, nearly nine hours after the glass last.