Woke today, my second day as a thirty-nine-er, with a small pain in lower back and thinking, “So this is when it starts?”” I know that’s the wrong framing, so I quickly shoot it off to somewhere where I know it won’t be back, embracing rather a more defiant and creatively radicalized depth. Have 20 minutes to self in this coffee shop to collect thoughts, work ahead of me and me uncertain of what that means, what that is. What would I rather be doing… writing and blogging of course, but today… with wine… without… new projects, new pages… a book to today. How would I even do that. Have to think, plan, see more, see wine as a philosophy and thought walk, acute cognitive trot.
I know I need to stop complaining about 39, and like the DMV guy told me yesterday I don’t have to acknowledge 39 if I don’t want to. If I do acknowledge it, it’s a choice. True. Choices… another thought right when I left bed. Starting this chapter, Thursday, a work day, with fearless standing, gaze, beat. If I’m a blogger about lifestyle, and wine, and psychology, literature, then it’s in the inwardly encouraging condition.
Nearly time to leave, get in car and drive from Santa Rosa to Healdsburg, the Chalk Hill AVA… more on thought plate than I can inventory. But this writer does his best, seeing vineyards and new life, new vintage, propelled and love-shoved forward by morning itself. I’m 39. So what. I’m alive. I’m present, newly impassioned in wine’s pages and paragraphs, verses and beats. Today, its own book, the day where I’m convinced in my convictions and composition, character. Health… wine… the words from what’s in bottle keeping the writer assemble and musical, lively for day, this week and next.