And the end of the day. Opened what I believe to be the last of the 2012 wines I made. This one, the ‘New Dad Cuvée’. Can’t tell you how amazing it tastes, notably after today’s tempo and day-sort, all the prepping when I wasn’t that prepped which I should have been, after the run this morning, and now at the desk in my home office. MY ebb’s a bit low, but now too trench-tuned. Hear son coughing upstairs and I feel like I shouldn’t be writing, and if I am it should be something interplanetary, sending us all somewhere — overseas, to a new, bigger house on some enormous farm plot of our own. But no I’m here conflicted about how I feel about this ’12 ‘NDC’. And if I should have another glass. Why not. Of course I should. But wait a second… why wine [Jackie coughs twice, and again… Wife goes upstairs to him, insisting I stay down here], why do I need wine in my everyday’s day, progression, time and pulses all?
What this moment to me instructs is to embrace who I am, and what I want. I’m sure someone reading this is eager to bow-and-arrow at me the ‘selfish’ tag. And they can do just that. Everyone in wine’s world and whirl is. Popping a small tall thin can of Perrier sparkling water. Need some hydration, the writer feels. Downstairs in dark while washer and dry upstair go and throw, to too much fro. So I try to collect down here, and I’m taken and pushed, bullied by the thought of ‘Why didn’t I hit 13.1 this morning?’ Yeah, WHY didn’t I? Honestly, I don’t think I stretched enough. And right now, my body so much it feels, in the right hip, the right knee, still both fucking ankles (inside, which has never itself noted before). The run was good, I guess, but I can’t help jot it as a failure, a matriculation only to be a dropout. Why? Ugh… a mood sinks, Me stops. It’s end of day, and I’ve been up since.. huh, when… 6? Before? Shit, now I’m one of those dads, it’s all starting to blur. I’m losing my fucking youth and I’m going madder than the rabbit and that giggling jerk at the tea table. “Calme-toi, mon ami!” I self-order, only wanting the night to get better. Don’t hear anything from Jack upstairs but I’m that kind of dad, the one who worries, the one who loves his babies more than anything and even when they’re not technically ‘babies’, he’ll them so still see. And when they’re all grown, no longer kids, it won’t matter — they’ll be his always-kids. I’m not a ‘New Dad’, and I’m not an expert dad. Just a dad, a daddy, a papa. Washing machine, dryer, upstairs with their roars and rotations, jumbles and jangles, distracting and centering me. Pulled in directions all. But, chapter closed. That bottle that was opened, now corked, in hangared. The once-New Dad centers in his type-stomps.