Tasting two wines tonight — a Chenin, and a Pinot. More specifics and intricacies later, but for now I want to write… wife and babies asleep upstairs but I’d rather work. Don’t even want more wine even though I did pour self a night’s capping of the Pinot. I ignore, want to finish my mission and words and thoughts for day, my mood the entire chapter full of lows and anchoring ebbs, restrained reigns, wanes, gains — I’m in home thinking about Kerouac, my lit elevate. How he just wrote what he wanted, said what he had to say…. Being the business bloke I am now, I swear, if he were alive now, with all this marketing immediacy and nearness, he’d be more than a god — he’s be each sight and breath of pop’ culture. But never mind that. I’m focused on me here, and my mood today… why was it what it was and why. The two wines I tasted, bought, today, tonight, told me that I have still so much to learn and I’m getting older and I can’t let anything hold me in any hold.. any nay, any lowerings, and death-weights. No. I have to live, and not just exist. Like Dad told me years ago — “Everything you have impressed upon your students has suddenly fallen into your lap.” Certain certains will dismiss this, say ‘Oh that’s Mikey just being writer-Mikey.’ And they’re right. That’s all I am.. Mikey, a writer. Kerouac did what he did, and what he felt his heart meant for his story to sow. So here I go.. the somewhat-young writer, eager to take off. Yes… like Sal, I had an illness, but that doesn’t matter now that I’m where I am, 38 with 2 kids, this job, in the wine industry, tasting wines hoping to find… what do I want? I have not one parcel of a clue. I should finish my glass, I guess, ‘less….