Alchemist, rereading it.  The kid and his animals, the journey and threats from outside.  Hmmm… how entirely pertinent.  Relating it to everyday life, and wine, and…. OH, have to order dinner.  Be back—

Wine and fiction.  Or, fictionalized (slightly) nonfiction.  Where is the line anyway.  Maybe that’s my personal legend, playing with stories and truths.  And now, before some people fucking suggest, I’m not a liar nor do I suggest anyone lie, ever.  The truth is far too valuable, and useful a weapon if needed.  I’m talking about the literary table, the narrative stretch.

Who’s to say what’s true or false in a story like Road, and who fucking cares?  JUST READ.

In the vineyard the other day taking quick shots in Dry Creek of leaves and small remaining clusters, thinking of my kids helping at my one-day winery that I hope to share with the Nurse, and my sister, family.. it be ALL ours.  Never sell it.

Henry walks in, just says “Dad…”, then walks away.  He of all of them is my strongest push to the vineyard, to see him running around, chasing me or one of his siblings, Ms. Terri… the blending as a result.  Just play, he unintentionally and with no real words or assembled sentences, just his presence and way, character, his projection of self.

Hosting a tasting for the MSP in early January, less than a month out.  Where the wild wine writer in me needs to set a certain knowledge.  Not to market myself, but to reintroduce myself to my truest writing SELF.

Mind everywhere, as I told the Nurse, sharing with her that I’d name a Syrah after her and a blend for her seraph of a daughter Jordan.

All the love and gratitude…. Even with all these fucking laptops surrounding me.  Too much tech tonight, just want to be a writer.  Of wine.  Even though, no sips ce soir.