A fine talk this morning with my best pal. We’ve traded places and he’s living in a hutong in Beijing while I’m back “home” in the state of New York. He’s got a new job there and all seems to be going well for him, there in the land of hope and optimism. It was good to unpack the insanity of this past week with someone who shares all the same mile-markers as me, understands the same references. Murky thoughts I’d felt more than grok-ed were things I could now explore rather than shy away from.
And we laughed. It occurred to me in that moment where we were conjuring up some absurd scene where our mutual friend was feasting on something inappropriate with virtual reality goggles on, that gut laughs with friends was certainly one of the Covid casualties I’d endured this past year was the enjoyment of deep laughter with old friends. That isn’t easily or convincingly replicated talking to the just anyone.
Not sure why but I’ve been listening to one Ron Carter album after another today. I’ve something on with him, Tony Williams and Tommy Flanagan. Just now and they are playing a convincing, aching “Angel Eyes.” There is a bottle of wine in my bedroom that was signed by Ron Carter when we saw him play the Blue Note in Beijing and the manager, who hails from the same home town as my wife had him sign ot he bottle for her, as we were attending, on her birthday.
I’m going to go out for a bike ride in a moment. And when I come back I have a whole lot of blog posting to do. I’ve written everything and today, at last, am caught up. To my side is a glass of Pheasants Tears white, which hails from Sighnahghi, Georgia. The wine is made in amphora like qvevri, the Georgian vessel used to ferment and store wine. The wine is white with grape skin and bees wax that they line the walls of the qvevri, with. A thick consistency my gal didn’t like the look of it. I think its pretty wonderful, myself.