Didn’t plan on writing this morning, while here in house, before heading out to errands, but I couldn’t resist the keys. Taking day off from class, after barrel tasting. I’m not complaining and no I’m not too exhausted to work, I just needed a day to self. Thinking of my wine shop this morning, driving the kids to school and listening to music on the way home, seeing people sipping their wine or even having an espresso, writing or reading, or talking to each other. Anything… the point of the shop is a positive place, a place for meditation, collection, to be healthy, alive, in their own place of peace.
10:01, and I don’t want today to get away from me. I won’t let it. First to bank, then to get haircut.. then…. Boring. Could use a vineyard walk. A run. Need to run. Rain’s to be on its way, I’m told, so I should head to gym. The writer this morning doesn’t know what to do with himself. No interest in wine tasting, or even being around a winery, which is to be expected after BT. So… I write freely here in home, no music, just quiet, the slight hum of the fridge. Didn’t wake when alarm sounds this morning, shamefully, but I can recover. Or try.
Pictures…. Vineyards…. Bottles. The Roth cave. Everything on my phone, camera. My wine life, or much of it placed in image form, in two devices. More, if you count the old phones in the file box. More images than I have time to sort through, but many place me in a vineyard, near wine, near wine’s story and voice. The scene and imagery, poetry and education, its encouragement and existential echo and variables.
Now not even the fridge makes a sound. I’m only here with my words, with my wine shop thoughts, and seeing my story compound and expand from one point on several maps to several other dimensions— several, severe love for wine and the people in its contemplative table.