The moon has been extravagant. I hear my host's cat left her a present of some mouse kidneys, I was lucky to be looking in another direction. A dog crunched a gopher in El Dorado. Chickens talked at night. It must have been the moon. But that moon, so fine, so clear, I could see the footprints from 40 years ago as I stared up, past Jupiter. And it was hard to go past Jupiter. Giant. Courtly. Imposing. Hurting from its recent wound. Hard not to be fixated, as if staring at the planet could change everything. In the day, with Jupiter put to bed, I can see the deserty hills as bald heads with transplanted plugs of vines. I try to make sense of the landscape and the wines and what exactly is the soul of California wine, because I believe in such things. I'm not sure I have the answer but having had discussions with tremendously disparate points of views, thoughts are percolating. Sergio Traverso believes in matching vine to place. Karl Wente believes vine trumps place. Abe Schoener who is questioning the impact of sulfur on fruit, don't use it here, to subdue the fruit's exuberance. Hank Beckmeyer, who takes care of his vines as if they were his goats, or perhaps he takes care of his (and wife Caroline's) goats as if they were the vines. Thought for food. Tried to go into Ubuntu last night. Kicked out by obtuse hostess who said, "We stop taking orders at 8:15."