In a cue caused by time, and the times themselves.  Just absorb the blithe Chardonnay and don’t think about it, I tell myself, the wine tells me.  This Westwood ethos has a way with me, with the room, with the Now itself.  Telling me to deject and surgically remove all toxicity from my immediacy and scenery.  Wine isn’t anything obstructing, only inducting.  Inviting, pleasing, not so much educating but an offerer of new approaches and sights.

Sip 1….  More lemon than I thought I’d feel.  So I’m on a river, or bordering one… blanket set down with a friend, not eating any cheese but some cashews, and vegetables, locale in Oregon, or near Lake Tahoe.  Wine has me completely set in the time and forgetting it alongside.  Not encumbered by anything nor am I worried.  Time passes as it will and I tell self to tell self less.  Simply be present, with your friend.  She asks me what I’ve been writing and I tell her everything and nothing and she has no idea what that means and just takes another sip.  I do as well.

This is all around and over wine, this Chardonnay that walks in a way other Chards don’t know how.  Allergies begin a little but noticeable assault, I fend off or try with another sip.  I focus on her, this character I’ve written, and what she’s been working on.  She doesn’t want to talk about her work.  She doesn’t want to talk at all.  She tilts her glass and head and looks at the river.  I just look at her, then the wine what’s left in my glass I sip it quick pour more and look around with her. Again, a mood that I don’t know, a category without category…. Just noticing where I am in my story, because of what I sip.  Chardonnay did this, which isn’t common.  My wine diary I feel is fill with slander toward the Burgundian seraph and now I have no idea why.  Then I do…. I was sipping THOSE interpretations.  Those skews of Chardonnay … the audience pleasers.

Another sip.  Pause before.  Just look at glass.  The wine has me realizing that anything I want I can have.  There doesn’t need to be mediation or deliberation or some exhaustive fixation.  And stop thinking, she orders, my character… the wine, I mean.  She tells me be so present that the present is all time you’ve touched and what you have not.  This Now, at this desk, quarantined but not as I was out in the filed again today, set in a new Newness.  A new beat, and madness.  Searching for the maddest of mad ones in my Self.

The Pinot I tasted earlier didn’t have this hold on my soul.  Nothing to this profusion.  Wine, all I need write about, she says.. the wine and the seen fictitious apparition at river’s side.  Allergies again fire their shots, and land.  The wine will help I tell self. Or not. Either way, I continue sipping, glass tilts in new revelation and new Newness that sing new jazz notes from present and past dotes.