A Barbera that I’m not moved by.

But I kept tasting.  Kids in bed, and my time, if it truly is my time, starts now.

“Love you Dada!” Jackie shouts from upstairs.  “Love you too bro!” I say back.  Over-budget in one area, and I wonder how I’d explain that to Jack if, when, he and I are working on a project and business together.  Already thinking about tomorrow morning’s espresso shot, double, in kitchen.  Saw a documentary about a writer I somewhat follow and study and how he’d be up all hours nightly writing and listening to music.  Then I notice…. I’m not watching any show right now, I’m not with a movie, but at the desk. I did it without knowing, without any intention…. Going to open that bottle Dad got me, the “Writer’s Block” I think it’s called with a picture of Shakespeare on the label.  And if knowing me, you’re aware of my antipathy for Bill…. Too much to get into, but I don’t admire plagiarists.

Said I wasn’t pulled or pushed any which way by the Barb’… but my glass is empty.  And that’s interesting to me since I never chase Barbera, and never buy it.  Jesse put this in the Sebastiani case I asked him to assemble.  Barbera….  Making me want to be wander Italy with a Composition Book, and see what I taste, what I see.  Some say wine changed their life, for me wine changed my sight of life – what I’m to do with it.  When I look at Jack or Emma, or little Henry who always reminds me how quick time flips, I imagine us together telling our story.  In bottled form.  Traveling together, me writing about it and releasing a book and having them there, ALWAYS.

Opening the plagiarist bottle, see what’s said.. se how my wined life turns and sculpts.