A Wined Now
Writing in low light in kitchen. Some blush wine, tonight. Rose, but this computer won’t do symbols. Right now, into a wined Now. No TV, just wine and myself after night at Mom and Dad’s celebrating sister’s birthday. Only tasted a Syrah as I had to drive back to this Autumn Walk walk. The wine tells me to relax. And I do. Coffee made for tomorrow morning and setting my alarm for 5… No, 4. I study Now with wandering thoughts. Unconcerned notions and no hypothesis as I hunt no solution but only more inquiry, exploration. Writing in this low light is not at all about writing in the room with lights low but in shapely acknowledgement of my living, me living here, me pushing these keys. The physical motions are afterthoughts. Life is an idea wrapped and garnished in thoughts new and developing beyond cognitive mirror. They happen, our thoughts. Me now with this wine thinking about how it was made and all the conversations my sister and I have had about wine and wine making, all my experience in the wine industry and how the industry always reminding you it’s a business, and they say that in a tone like you’re incapable of understanding, the sight only fines and refines.
Presence, immediacy, the special familiarity of where you are. You sit where you do, now in this Now, and wonder about tomorrow more than appreciating the current. Why do we do that, as Humans? Why do we need to know what’s next? Why not just give self to the scenes sequencing?
Listening to this saxophone, not sure who’s playing and I don’t need know. Not now. In this blink and breath, I’m too taken by where I am. Is this a revelation or some sort of confusion or delightful dementia? Looking at the glass, barely pigmented wine in it, and question why I’m here, doing this. How wine became such a sort in my story. Family, family wineries, all the families I’ve met in the wine industry and how much they tout and flout “family” they stay carnivorous pigs. Am I venting, maybe. Or maybe this is truth, my truth, my thought, thoughts. Shouldn’t thoughts be true, unfettered and fancifully fluttering from page? Always been my thought. The wine tells me to write it more but this fucking computer won’t let me put a fucking accent mark above the ‘e’. Low-grade shit-slop plate laptop. I move past, I write past, I sip past and into more thoughts of me in the tasting room and how I made that my own, writing in whatever light and traffic there was.
Glass empty. Need ‘nother. Maybe some of that Grgich Merlot from last night. I can’t stop thinking about that bottle, the character and expressive assembly of the wine. And then what. What. Me in kitchen with an empty glass now. My own wine, wine industry… all those walks on the Roth crush pad, talking to Chris and John the winemaking team asking them questions and them telling me everything and me wishing I had more than that blink of a micro-interaction.
More light. Wine and reason… what I’m doing now and why, to not be so invested, not to douse self in excess thought. Follow no one, no thing, no entity or idea. I see my destinations that only antagonize more journey. There is no finality for a writer like me, or you. None. None at all. The ideal is not envisioned but already present. Shed the ideological suppression that the present is all that is. Whatever your now-light.
2/10/19
