Today, again, enrichment. Wine’s song differs in each scene. Knew Mom, Dad, and I would be dinning out in Napa’s coercive downtown, but not sure where. Either way, about I tumbled in day. Thinking back to the drive, morning voyage, I remember asking Self, “What if I didn’t move back here, out of San Ramon?” Life would be odd, there. Take that as you want. But I was meant to be here. My WRITING needs these vines, their rising tints. I’m possessing my moments, directing them. Here, within wine’s wherewithal. I executed efforts, genuinely, today, even though distracted. But, I couldn’t wait for dinner, with Dan & Sue.
After a Bounty Hunter beer, we decided to dine at my brother Steve’s joint, Carpe Diem. Have plugged this savory spot ad nauseam, I know. But I’m going to do so again, after an interaction more layered. Steve us greeted, instantaneously, upon landing. He seated us, poured us some bubbly, of which I can’t remember label. Either way, all flawless. Most especially, the hospitality and attention of my new delightful friend, Allison. All three of us had flatbreads. Galactic in presence, presentation. Can’t remember what Mom had, but Dad and I had the Mamma Mia. Mine, minus the cucumbers. Dan selected the wine, an ’08 Justin Cab, Paso Robles. Must have been astrological, as the alignment of bottle and plate was more than persuading. Fanatically purveying. The Particular Palates, as I them stamp, Mom and Dad, found Steve’s errorless encapsulation truly encapsulating. My Self as well, even though I’ve before been. But this was a night special, most memorable. Not just because my two favorite Humans were with, but also resulting from Steve’s accommodation, Allison’s nearness, her poignant, unscripted congeniality.
But I don’t want to write another review of ‘Carpe’, as many call it. It doesn’t need my lines. It’s above this squating scribe. I’m in studio. Sipping, scribbling. Remembering the day. Tomorrow, one month from 32. How did this happen, my age? Not going to dwell in dismal swirls. Seizing Days Mine. Notice those capitals. They’re intentional. The dinner pushed me, to change or maintain as I see sane. Maybe it’s the Malbec, I’ll bet. Aside from deconstructive druthers, I’m seated. In sip. Me, a meditating manuscript mover. A Professor, 4ever.
Thinking of wine, this Malbec. The distant, not-so-familiar. This glass occupier, I have to be honest, needs therapy. Not much personality. “So why are you sipping it, Mikey?” Because it’s one of the last surviving bottles in the refrigerated burrow. It does have some coherence of character. One struggling, disenchanted, but somehow tenacious. Malbec, I’ve found, can do that sometimes. Maybe that’s Mike, a Malbec. But my moments, with ones loved, memorable. That’s what deserves the focus. Tonight’s dinner. Steve’s nonpareil, Carpe Diem. Night’s rhythmic situational rattle, pushed me to appreciation. For Napa, for Wine, for those like Steve. All the affirmative, the yeasayers. Those codified in fermented patterns. Now, the Malbec encourages me to liven. But how? I have to be up at 6:15a. Want to go to sleep. I’ll sink, sensing sips, reveling in revering grape mirrors. The industry’s poetry’s done this 2me.
(4/28/11, Thursday)
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