9 days till 39. And…. BONJOUR. Saying good morning to self and all around me in these minutes before a workday. A Sunday. Walking in here I had that feel, the ‘what do I write about’ inward jabs and anxiety of page, and when will I finally finish the book, my wine book and odd wine pieces and fiddle more with what people say and what I make up with wine descriptions and deconstructions for sakes of a laugh or to keep people reading… need a wine adventure. Something that unsettles me beneficially. But what. Have an idea… didn’t write it down. And I won’t. If it’s meant to survive and last, carry with me then it will.
Adventure…. Think one of my students is writing on that singular thought for their final semester submission. Besot in such jot, but it’s not for nothing, I’d say. I’m merely tripled and twirled and turned in these visions of adventure… putting self on edge somehow. With blog and books and only allowing self to live by what I make from that… and, accelerate my wine voice, propel it, promulgate it prophetically. So here… this morning, after having a 4-shot mocha with wife and babies at home I sit with a small coffee, not having yet sip. Waiting… observing all the life around me, woman walking in with stroller, baby inside probably 1 or a little less, more, playing with doll putting one of its limbs in her mouth.
I’ll be 39, and so what. After speaking with Mom and Dad the other night over a beer I find it motivating conveniently, getting older, but plainly irrelevant. Je me sens si bien, ce matin. And I won’t stop or momentarily halt. I’ll be 39 and I don’t care while caring more than I should. Wine punctuates life’s brevity, yes, but also the beat you’re in that it shouldn’t be dismissed or just taken and left.
This wine cascade of paragraphs, my new work journal, working in wine’s industry and business as I wish, looking out a window at passing traffic, me passing to and from and through thoughts, one to another. Staying moving and typing, no distractions. This morning, out for adventure, out for some creatively defiant act, something that will propel me into something that… does something, writes more of the story, composes more of me for me. Unfettered decisions and actuations this morning, before a week that could change my life with a couple meetings set and situated on calendar. Welcoming my new age and new wines, new characters, adventures and treks, for composition and character, clarity.
Preternatural, et je suis là. I am here, most wildly here with my wild types and morning, day at my 12. Emphatic internal narrative separate from any order or decision, I’m further shoved to my emprise in wine and its people, its language, Bordeaux and Rhône, Burgundy, Hungary, everywhere. I have to travel if I’m to know wine, and why not now with my books, right at 39. And for the rest of the writer’s life. “What do you want to do for the rest of your life?” Write. About wine. From wine and to those hearing winer as I do, well as the casual sipper. Tell something new. My wine tongue and literary inflection is the quest, trek, mission, mobile exploit.