My life is poetry

Today I was walking in the vineyard getting ready to take pictures of bud break and I was feeling sort of lost and dejected and anxious and I was asking the sky for guidance and suddenly I felt the warmest squeeze on my shoulders and all of these encouraging thoughts came flooding to me and I thought about an idea for a novel about a great battle between good and evil (because you’ve never read/saw one of those before, right?) and suddenly I burst into the happiest tears and I was the happiest that I’ve ever felt before and knew somewhere deep inside that I was not alone.

Some other stuff happened too involving four-leaf clovers and a red-winged blackbird, but I’ll save it.

So yeah, despite being not religious at all, I had a religious experience today.

Then I took hella pictures of exploding little grape vine buds.

Time for sleeping if I can make it so.
—-

I had a dream that I was at the Blue Fugue and there were two girls there and I asked them how old they were and they said that they were 16.

One girl had been roofied by some skeezy dudes and I offered to bring her home so that nothing bad happened to her.
I know that I was carrying her in my arms at some point.
I feel like I do that a lot in my dreams.
Carry women in my arms to bring them to safety.

Also, there were girl scouts in my dreams again.
What’s that about?

—
(The next day)

I woke up this morning to the Austrian winemaker, Helmut, saying my name through the cracked bedroom door.

He says it this way, “Jee-en-uh”

I was mid-way through clambering out of a body of water that Eric, Bukowski, and I had fallen into when a rotted dock gave way from beneath us.

I had been carrying a bag full of VHS tapes and was carrying it high above the water hoping to keep them from getting damaged.

I snapped awake instantly and remembered the I was to take Helmut to the bus station so that he could make his presentation in New York.

I opened the doors and rubbed my eyes.

Helmut stood smiling in a gray suit. He’s been staying with us for about 5 days now.

He is responsible for the dessert wine made at Macari that is drunk at the White House and knows the perfect amount of English to match his sincere personality.

For example, he has twice asked us to explain what the word “excited” means, but he knows the word “happy” and to me, that’s all there really needs to be.

For a verbose little fuck, I really enjoy simplicity, though it’s difficult for me to return it. I’m sure there was much that I said that wasn’t transferred.
But he kissed and hugged me goodbye when he left and he smelled like my father and his smile was warm.

I drove the Macari van back to the winery and set to walking back to the house.

I found two four leaf clobbered instantly and decided that I would bring them to Eric and Pete (the mechanic) at the vineyard.

That is, until I saw the horses.

The Macari horses are across the small road from the winery and they are far from me, chomping grass and swishing their tails.

I wonder if one will come over to me and so I begin to greet them loudly, hanging my arms over the wooden fence.

They all look up immediately, but all but one instantly look back down at the grass.

All except a chestnut brown horse with a white stripe running down the middle of his face, who continues to look in my direction.

Soon enough, he saunters across the field toward me.

I was smiling wide enough to break the ends off of my mouth, twirling the four leafed clovers between my fingers.

When he arrives at the fence, I instantly feed the clovers to him and he puts his nose against mine and begins making snorts, which I return eagerly.

I read in a book in Junior High about a girl that talked to horses and animals of all sorts and in the beginning of the book she does this with a horse to show him who she is.

I talked to the horse for a while and I pet him on the nose and scratched him on his mane and he seemed to like this very much.

I told him that he needs a good brushing and that I would love to ride him sometime if that was okay with him.

I also needed to pee quite a bit and so soon enough I needed to keep heading down the road in order to make it to the vineyard before I burst.

The horse followed along, trotting when I did, much to my pleasure.

I continued the leafy walk around the bend, passing a small boy kicking rocks in his driveway.

In Eric’s office, a cat stood on his desk and he was leaning out of a window.

My life is poetry.