The day after talking with the therapist and ending the day covering a few bases with a neighbor, writing is strange again.  The talk drained out, something one wanted to keep, the logic of the world getting in the way of contact.

But I have still have my sins to explore.  The guilt of having put to death a distant ancestor, a little mouse, on a glue board underneath the cooler, the small parcel of horror of having made an irretrievable mistake.  What possessed me at the end of that night to build a Maginot Line as the silliness of a glass of wine added to hunger, there at the end of a week, took hold?  Killing a creature is no joke.  One I'd caught earlier I brought outside and poured hand soap over it, to unstick itself and escape.  The boss would be happy, but in the end it's just a mouse, cleaning up the bread crumbs from below the low tables.  They get in, what can you do...  Viewed one way, they are company after all have left.

I wake and think of a college reunion weekend when my father came to visit.  Unbeknownst to me, the young woman I was mad over put a James Dean poster at my door, that parent's weekend, but hurt from her hanging up on me I didn't pick up on it in time, the golden opportunity.  What was I thinking?  Bothered by a tit for tat, almost thirty years later, you fool.  How could you have been so blind?  You had a lobster doll from the previous weekend's trip to Maine with your Dad, but the stubborn goat came out, while the Red Sox lost the World Series.  There should have been a meeting of parents, but I'd messed that up, distracted by a meeting with a thesis advisor.  What was it?  Why such feelings then, the bravado of self-medication...

The wine betrays us the next day.  We were creative in the night, finishing an article, hopefully, for a wine column, but the fancy now has its wear off time, aided by green tea.


They come in loudly, while I'm waiting on two ladies, taking their order, talking about wines.  The trio is playing quietly in the corner, but here at the bar is the reunion.  Business guys.  Double volume.  Bald show of establishing primate dominance.  A coat is thrown over one of the seven bar stools.  Ape-like greetings.  I return to the bar.  "Good to see you, too," the leader says sarcastically, staring at me directly, as I cannot hide a portion of my irritation at the current generation.


Comfortable now, the male, feeling he has established his dominancy, then makes show of some benevolence.  I've seen it once, and a million times.  The jokes are endured, one after another, the excitement one diffuses, the wine is ordered, the praise made of it, and some kind of peace comes again.  Entrepreneurs, shaping the world...  Intense, manners in need of wrangling... calming.


A woman comes in, wanting a Viognier, late, the night over, the band packing it in after their supper.  I pour her what we have by the glass, but no she wants a bottle.  Open it for her.  Boss, after greeting her, smiles and departs.  "I had one bottle at home already," she admits, then, "oh, did I say that?"  There are two gentleman who've come to the last sip of digestif, ready to go, paid up, but she commands me to bring forth two glasses to share.  They demure, but she insists.

Only at the very end of the night, as I try to reassess the Argentine Malbec, do I get into the wine, alone, listening to movie themes on Pandora, after removing the poor mouse that befouled itself as it succumbed.  I read through the piece I've submitted.

And then today, before work, I ponder my sins against my father, his hard work, his status, his greatness, not sharing him, his beauty, his garden of wisdom, with the beauty of another, another family, who'd also come, by miracle, to Amherst.  Like watching permutations of a Shakespeare play, playing out again and again, what was I thinking, why did I waste everyone's time, taint past, present, future, great disappointment....

This is what you bear while waking up, starting the day out, over green tea, the shower awaits, last night's dishes washed, sausages cooked, but not eaten yet, before yoga.

Creativity is not so great.  You disappointed the lady of your life, the Princess, being a schmuck for time eternal.

Creativity swings back and forth.

My lady therapist, before I go off exploring the heights of adept consciousness wonders about my base.   "It could all fall down like a house of cards."  Ouch.  But I feel based.  I know it takes the root chakra's energy to raise the consciousness...

I should not drink wine alone, maybe what it comes down to, even in this world of ill-mannered guests who demand too much, don't know how to behave in public.  Ah, but it is work, obviously, and it is good to have work to do in the world.  And I suppose at the end of the night, the worker needs a little medicine himself.

Drunken downer lady pours out the last of her wine.  I help the bass player load his equipment, down the stairs, out into the cold.  I return, attend to the last paperwork of the night.  I hear her talk.  How long have we known each other...  Oh, those margaritas you used to make...  They were strong.  That's the only DWI I've gotten, but I won't tell you...   She stands in the bar mouth with her coat on.  Give me a kiss.   Time to go home, I say.

I restock, bringing bottles up for tonight's wine tasting, the restaurant empty.  Replenish tonic and soda water.  A few hand towels for bar rags, a few lemons and limes.  Roll my bike from the basement up to the front door, gather helmet, mask, hat, coats.

I read through the piece I've written, a wine column growing, the subject how to pick wines for a wedding.  Feeling I'll never be going to one that is mine own.

Quick, do some yoga.