Mom and Dad’s, writing in the Nook Office as I used to before the 228 days.

More than merely motivated.  Fiery, eager, assured of my presence.  Knowing this Road is the correct one.  Hate that word, correct.  I’m present, closer to my little vineyard and tasting room, or studio, or lounge… you know what, forget all those words. It’s a room.  No need for caps or attention.  A place for positive people to taste wine, talk, not about the glass’ contents but each other and what brought them there.

Mom’s dish tonight’s a certain celestial pull.  So grateful.  Not missing the loft, just sipping this Nook.  Reminding me of when….

Doesn’t matter.  Waiting for the day where I’m checking on barrels with my sister.  Arriving, checking on clusters early before those fucking yellow jackets arrive.

Time, proposing the offer, lot of new notes, the truest of dotes.  Taking care of me no but more so collaboration.  Will have to be up early, heat back to Windsor then dash to SF for a call with a property manager. 

A vineyard, my image.  Onto hat I lock.  

All my old shot revisited.

Walking on my lunch break on the Dutcher Crossing property.

Washing hands, seeing this new Mike Madigan having coffee looking at a Cabernet block.