Posts Tagged With: wine world

MOCK SOMM: Kosta Browne Visit — a critical reaction

IMG_0983Yes I’d heard things, and I’d read, and kept reading, and was conceptually clasped and captured by the stories of Dan Kosta and Michael Browne. Mr. Browne had welcomed me to his Sebastopol production domicile for a 10AM visit, and I knew I was going to see ‘it’.. IT.. that materialized vocational utopia he’d created for himself as a wine character and presence and producer. One of his staff members, Joyelle–a gentle and cosmically celestial character that had me eased and encouraged after just a couple inaugural words of greeting and a sweetening handshake–welcomed me in and told me a bit more about the KB story and the new facility, new vineyards that they’d acquired and were working with, among so much.
Then, il entre, Michael Browne, with what I expected, that being a IMG_5941-0positive attitude that nearly muted me; the energetic and personified paramount of ‘It’, the dream reached, and in full fruition. Browne poured me a little of the ’13 ‘ONE SIXTEEN” RRV Chardonnay.. and of course, I’m proven wrong about Chardonnay, but not all that I try winery to winery are this acute with flavor encirclings and texture accuracy.. nice apple and slightly creamy pair with an evasive wink (meaning you want to chase it, keep sipping) of pineapple, maybe enriched apricot.. charmed and already fantastically trapped, we motioned for the magnum room, an artful and treasuring tomb of notable bottles, most of which are large formats intended for charity functions, which I found is very much an aorta to Michael’s vibrantly reaching charm and empirical character. There we talked about the charities and why he’s so “big” on them and why it’s essential for this to be part of his dream, his métier xanadu… AND! I saw it! The last of the “John Ash bottles”, as I called them. “Yeah, that’s the John Ash bottle,” he said. My thoughts were everywhere–minced and

The last 'John Ash bottle'...

The last ‘John Ash bottle’…

mystified and focused and varied.. “I’m looking at it.. oh my god… it’s possible,” I thought. And that’s much of what brought me to the Sebastopol acropolis, to see this tangible accomplishment, to see the result of the story, the journey, Michael Browne’s Road. And yes, the Professor in me shared the Kerouac/Paradise quote of “The Road is Life”. “Yeah, man,” Michael said, then sharing the thought that it very much continues, that his story is still being written, there’s more Road, there’s more, more… And we on sauntered…..

In the production facility we sipped what remained of our Chard splashes and went about the barrels, being cleaned and then the lab after the catwalk stroll– And let me stop there. Browne showed me the philosophy, the intricately meticulous methodology and practice behind punchdowns and himIMG_5949 knowing intimately how exhausting it can be for the interns, then showing me the punchdown device, or tool, contraption or what be that’s extended from and guided by a thorough and pristinely placed rail system, even letting me navigate it a bit. But, do note, I was so eager for more story and more expository immediacy of the Kosta Browne chronicle that I let him continue in his talk and demo.. then to the barrel room.
IMG_5952 Here, we surveyed the ’14 Pinots, both from the KB label and his new chapter-set, and Pinot genre and interpretation, “Cirq.” Michael handed me a new glass and a little, I guess you’d deem it, ‘spit cylinder’. And it’s a wise offering, as I would have sipped and let each thieving fall into my center. His ’14 understanding across all lots and mico-climates and maceration styles was more than apexing in talent and fluency– I was fabulously dumbfounded, and I now knew, and could see, feel that this oenological bastion stood an apex of mastery. And with Pinot no less! And where did he start.. the service roll, at a restaurant, saving those stray 1’s and coins and securing some fruit of his own– I kept thinking of the bottle, the ‘JA bottle’ he pointed out just a bit ago.. “Wow,” I thought sipping the whole cluster thieving. Can’t remember the vineyard’s name, and I don’t need to– it was the character that he interpreted and was so eager to share with me and talk about and how he elaborated on wine as colors– the offering and quite concrete a thesis that wine’s exude color in their tactile and gustatory placements.. Fascinating, I thought as a writer and professor, yes, but just as someone loving wine, and loving Pinot, and loving expeditious and daring, and simply fun twists on the problematic and often pugilistic varietal. “Different expression,” Michael intoned, sipping right in front of the writer, in a thin alley of new oak, swirling his glass, “same clone, different vineyards…with the goal of making a complex, well-balanced wine.” And what I sipped was more than meekly ‘well-balanced’. No. The pours were profound, instructional and intimate in their collective palate presence, and universally musical. And we talked about the quite a bit, wine as music, which I don’t have the time to really address here, just note it was brought up and again I saw that elevating passion and fervor’d Craftsman in Mr. Browne. I could only smile, plainly, and know it could happen, this can happen. He made it happen. “There’s color there, right?” he said before leaving the barrel room. “It’s just a cool way to look at it.” Agreed. And refreshing. I’ve always affirmed that wine should be fun and all his expressive theses aligned with such. Their own, and his own, pedagogy, if you would. Again, compelling. Gripping. Charming. “And that’s kinda just how I look at it,” he concluded.

IMG_5951 Jean Budrillard wrote that “…once you are liberated, you are forced to ask who you are.” And Michael Browne very much knows who he is. And now I do. Finally. I had waited for, as I told him, over 4 years to learn more about the story and SEE it, experience it, and learn from it. And I did, there in Sebastopol, about the barrels and the lab in that cozy waiting room, where our meeting closed, and where he said, after I asked him “Who is Michael Browne?”: “I’m just a dude riding the river of life trying to do the best I can in everything I do…and understand what’s going on around me…and live life and enjoy family…let the adventure continue… I guess that’s me. I don’t really know.” But I think this writer knows: A kind, demiurgic, winemaking and vocational sage.
And this writer, or wine lover, or whatever I am, so grateful for the day, for our shared sips and time.


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Deciding to Attend

Attend what? This session. I told myself that I wouldn’t write anymore today, to just relax this evening, but the ’09 Cab I opened told me to write, and to dive again into Baldwin’s essays. And how he views the world, America, himself. In the Paris Review chat with the interviewer he said he needed isolation to come to terms with who and what he was. And now with this second glass I think about who, truly, I am. And what, the ‘what’. WHAT, am I?! Nearing 36, and I have no idea I know, and I know the ideas will provide some sense but I need more, more sense and vision of what Mike Madigan is. I love Baldwin’s confidence in the face of oppression, in the white man’s world. In all the pieces I read I not only sense and read but taste a sense of fearlessness… That’s what I want in my ‘what’. But as well, in the PR interview, Mr. Baldwin asserts that first-person narrative is ‘terrifying’. And he also says the reader has no reason to trust first-person. I don’t agree.. if anything, the reader doesn’t need to preoccupy with “trusting” the narrator but rather consider their experience, or the tale. Being open. I mean, if it’s fiction, it’s fiction, it’s contrived by the denotative delivery. But what I thought was encouraging, just a couple words later: “…why should you need this I? How is this person real by dint of that bar blaring across the page?” It’s not a matter of needing the ‘I’, but rather considering the ‘I’ for what its ingredients are, conducting a character analysis as you move through the manuscript, and not to determine if that narrator is trustworthy or reliable or even worthy of readership, but just to process the professing prose. To completely write-off the first-person, the ‘I’, is unjust, unfair and too sweeping.
Maybe this is the Cab talking, this bold and vampiric ’09, that dares me to take on Baldwin, to readdress Joyce and his swirly swampy and granulated paragraph streamings… I don’t know, but I’m in a Literary tumble this evening, and the wine and its lecture and story and ‘I‘ only push me further, and I can’t stop, I couldn’t even if I wanted to. This is more than a blog post but a realization of what I’m to do, and that only ‘I’, this writer, can build the career he wants. Everything’s a piece in the novel, everything, and with us about to move to Autumn Walk I need take this prose with more precision and dogma, practice.. tomorrow, the meeting with the winemaker in RRV, finally, asking him questions and responding to his wines– yes I will try to stump or moreso challenge him and find what his views are while at the same time putting mySelf in the student’s seat, learning from his winemaking philosophies and his facundity. We’ll see. I’m not going there to one-up him or show a writer-versus-winemaker form, but to learn. Remember, I want to make wine too!
Last sips of the Cab, and I’m full from dinner, the tacos this ‘Cinco de’. Can’t understand how quickly the semester has past me flown, raced, like it doesn’t care how sensitive I am to Time and its duty. I need another sip… All I can say is “DARK”. Not the most expressive fruit fold on this wine, nor olfactory leaps, but there’s incredible texture and the most anomalous clasp to the tactile reception.. wooing and musical, yes, but I feel there’s more to be told, in a few more years. I don’t want to say “after aging” like some do, but there’s more to be said from this bottle.. don’t rush! And that’s what the wine’s telling me, with the novel and with the semester and my career as a writer: DON’T. FUCKING. RUSH!!! Okay, okay, I say. I’m understanding now, I get it. I’ll slow down, but not in this session, and not with today. I sent writings to 2 locations, 2 publishers, and I’ve posted to the blog a couple times as well– today’s a victory, I’m writing like a dominant penman, very much I feel. And yes I could be prepping for the next classes, but I’m very much of the thought I deserve this time in the nook, yes? The wine, again, telling me to decrease my Literary BPM. BEATS…

With nothing more to mold in this sitting, at this nook table, in my punctuality, I retire, resign for day, night and look forward to morrow, my morrow, the interview with the winemaker, yes, but more, more and more for the novel– remember, I’m a writer, not a bumbling blogger or “wine writer”– I’m thinking about my ‘I’, my story, and MY book. Not the expected– ‘oh, you’re in the wine industry, you have to write about that, and watch what you say…’ No, I’m without lid, and what’s the wine world going to do if I freely speak, and quills are summoned?


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Oeno-Caesura Narrative (inventory)

Sometimes I break, pause from the sips, to collect Self and know precisely what it is aboutIMG_5916 wine that captures the writer and why so often I write about it. In this most recent hiatus, if you will, I think of the varietal that brought me into consistency of sips and bottle-chasing. Merlot. The varietal that’s only popular to deplore from a less-than-quality movie and what now has me kerfuffle’d is how I’m returning to this grape type, after years of flying around from Zin to Syrah, to Malbecs and Pinots.. and now back, back to Merlot, the first bottle magnetizing my character in ’02, when I lived in an apartment in San Ramon and I called my mother to ask what I should serve for guests soon arriving. And she recommended a Blackstone Merlot, think the vintage was ’00 (yeah, it’d have to be, right?). Anyway, here I am, pensive and reflective and scribbling in my Composition Book a lecture to myself to extend this break, don’t sip for a couple days, build the anticipation for the next Merlot cork removed. Pride? Duckhorn? Trefethen? St. Francis? Kaz? What? What should I next meet? What kind of character do I want to greet me? And why do people hate Merlot? Oh yeah I forgot, letting some flimsy-brained film think for you is much easier and painless opposed to actually going to a store buying a bottle and thinking for yourself. Okay.. I’m corrected.
And, in this break from sipping, a curt and coherence cleanse if you might, I wonder what I’ll learn next about wine, its world and the many business models and sizes of wineries, and why winemakers go that way with a varietal interpretation while so many choose another path and practice, or some derivation thereof. The lessons compile, and for the English Professor parcel of Mike Madigan, I can only see more and more to absorb. And I’m overwhelmed, unannoucedly. Maybe I need a glass of wine before dinner– NO, wait, wait.. anticipate, deliberate. And so collecting my senses I hear the dialogue of a tasting room, tourists new to Sonoma/Napa, asking questions and discovering.. discovery.. expansion of knowledge and perspective and.. I should pause like this more often, and do just what I’m doing, listen. To myself and others, and wine’s story will enrich everything about me as a mere sipper.

And the other province about Mike Madigan’s character? One just in love with the translation of grape to bottled content. Professing so much love and curious exponential myriads that loudly envelope senses all. Notably olfactory, gustatory. Spellbinding swirls with the darkly tinted chroma. And just like that.. the glass tilting halt ends. Sipping an ’09 Cabernet from– Doesn’t matter. I’m peace’d, safe in my composing. Logical structuring re-structured in some useful cubism code, one I’m writing not yet. The ’09 tells me to wait, don’t write for a minute, “Just enjoy me,” it orders. I let the strings be pulled. No moving of pen, no typing, just a sip, another.. another.


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2day’s story–

IMG_57786:54, just got to campus. Optional day for students. Thinking of new ideas for what I’m building in being a writer, and putting the novel on hold, or rather having it be my toy truck project. One student in room with me. My adjunct days, or the dependent/co-dependent days of living so are coming to an end. Won’t go off on that and I know you think I will, but I’ll refrain..
The wines from yesterday, and just how I felt driving around, introducing myself and finding new interpretations of varietals and business models.. has me thinking of expansion, and doing something MAMMOTH in the industry.. blogging and tasting and Art and photography.. all of it, and blending it with literature.. saying this wine would pair well with– OOOO!!! Just thought of something else.. have to type it.. “class” if you’d call it that starts in 3 minutes, now 2. Jackie and I up at 2 till after 3 watching cartoons, but I have coffee don’t worry. Told Alice I would sleep between classes but I don’t see myself doing that, knowing me and how much I want to write after yesterday’s RRV mission…

Home. And I’m writing. Posted wine review, see what happens.. think there’sIMG_5746 something quite valuable and antagonistic, valuably antagonistic in this MOCK SOMM column.. again, we’ll see. I am tired but I know if I have just one cup I’ll write luminously and with seismic force.. I say that and cringe, thinking of the people in Nepal. How and why does life do that to people? Wish I could fly there, document it to tell there story, and help in other ways. But I know me and I’m certain I wouldn’t be able to handle it; the pain, the death, and the sight of harmed children. Was going to watch a WWII doc the other night and stopped when I saw a baby crying, atop rubble. I felt sad, sick, and ashamed I even saw that pained curvature to its eyes, mouth, brow, arm.. ugh, no more.
And my baby, little Kerouac, up early this morning with his cough and me bringing him downstairs to get his mind away from the discomfort, turning on cartoons. He was much better, more talkative and expressive for it, and we all went to bed for a couple hours following, so I have no regret in what I executed but my body and sight, thinking is affected. I’m slower, and sensitive I notice to sound and how I touch things, even these keys. But I’m sped in my keypushes so I’m determined and strangely comfortable, at Peace with this sitting (on floor, against couch, next to backpack).
Consolidating blogs at semester’s close, my left knee.. more coffee.. a nap.. haircut….. Jackie….. Just a few subjects strangling my sensibility at the moment, and how I discussed this morning with two of my stronger matriculants the contradictory and widely ugly hypocrisy of academia.. more I think about me and my story and role as adjunct I see these pages taking me away, and soon, and the inventiveness must perpetuate.. bottledaux as a company.. ‘WRITen’ as an idea, and the whole vinoLit philosophy I formed in ’09/’10… Think, don’t stop thinking.. brainstorm as I urge the students. When I look at some of their journals and see how heaping they are with thought and just true stormings of the brain, I realize I need to anger my own efforts. Antagonize them. TAUNT them. Treat them as caged cats that only want to fight back. SO I do I will I’m going to.. all day. No nap. Fuck a nap. What would that do but make me dead for an hour or more.. no writing when you’re sleeping. That sure as shit won’t finish a MS.
And back from a distraction. Email, social media, pushing the blog and what have.. So quiet in the condo, and I know I won’t sleep. And I’m not that tempted anymore. One of the social media tributaries is slow, or clogged, simply not functioning but I won’t let it damper. No.. I write on.. and I’m hoping tomorrow at Arista gives me more material on wine and wine thoughts and words as it has since I started. Huh, look at the writer fly across his keyboard. You know what, reader, I will have that next cup, if you don’t mind… And I’ll rise in a minute from this floor. Wine.. wine tasting.. winemaking. With more and more flowering showing up in the vineyards, my wine nears, my Cab. OR Pinot. Shit, what do I want. Why not try Pinot? The chemistry dimension or segment you can find assistance for, with. But how it tastes is my conduction. I’ll again study what we’re pouring and elect what tones I want visible. Yes, I’m challenging Pinot just as I’m sure it will challenge the writer.
Already coming to a thousand for the day and I can’t wait for tomorrow, for the reactions from how I describe the wines, which a better 99-point-something percent take to. And, sometime I instruct myself there, in the moment, in the TR while I’m connecting with a local or tourist on how the wine presents itself that day. Wine shifts shapes, I evermore appreciate and see and think that’s what people forget. “How will this taste in two or three years?” How the hell IMG_5793should I know, however the wine wants itself to taste. Now some winemakers will give you a thought that’s smattered in formula and some obscurely worded prediction (if they have their dictionary or thesaurus or ‘phonics’ book close by) . But I’ve found the wine is more cognitive that we give it credit. And, again, that’s why wine is quite plainly FUN. Why would you want to know what you’re going to get for your birthday, or xmas, or any occasion. Isn’t the tradition of surprise much of what contributes to and establishes life’s allure and cherished chase?
Looking at a picture from yesterday, of the soil in one of the VML vineyards. And I’m not sure, why, just the richness and texture and visual voice.. that image and.. I don’t know, but I’m captured and developing in my survey.. the seen, the scene.. I react and.. and….. I don’t know. Splendor, sense, Art, writing, a story, new ME: NEW MIKE. One I like, or even love. Again, I

Ideas.. a broadcast in addition to the writing.. just keep writing and working and thinking and capturing..


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Beauty Brooding

IMG_5691Attestedly, Pinot and I have a flimsy relationship– we bicker, we contest, we ardently altercate. But not tonight.. tonight we dance, thanks to this Russian River producer.. the fruit is not in any angle contrived or forced, or one-columned. I’m being spoken to, in song, in verse, this ’13 is like a convincing cloud of sensory force that I’ve never met; that other Pinots in set would envy and downright deplore for its palate prose. And maybe this would be the glass, my second, spurring the writer, but it’s Truth– this Pinot is its own mandate, a sovereign sewing of empyreal ebullience– wild herbs and field-y tones taunting the caesura of raspberry and maple, slight cedar– but I‘m not approaching the wine that way, with the dumbed cataloguing of notes and ‘descriptors’. This character deserves more, and more, and by ‘more’ I intend a story, and I envisage, some world, or setting, or moment where character like myself and another like-penner perambulate in words and recitals and– some crowd, listening to our words, all prompted by this Burgundy, from Westside Road… Next sip, forcing my diffidence, causing me to reject any and all boxes, and cherish my own chatter. When I find a wine like this, this is what materializes. And Pinot, of all forms, genres. This is no wine review, no silver-tongued sentence sequence, just me writing to wine; evidence irrefutable of the writer tilted and terrifically taunted by a new wine find. And Pinot… Pinot! I don’t want to be one of this new fashionable fold but it looks like I am. But that wasn’t the writer’s desideratum, by any measure. And that’s my understanding of Pinot as a presence: vagary, the espial; ensuing enclosure. But I’m digging too far as I tend to do, this writer-slash-professor.. I should have just sipped and scribbled, jotted some humdrum banality and skipped along with the glass-tilts. But that’s not how we arrange on page, we writers, the word-warpers loving simple syllabics with a bit of sip. And like Kerouac, there was a decision I’ve been meaning to stamp and solidify but it’s been tossed away from my perceptive plain, and pleasurably. And I thank the PInot, this ’13, for getting me to clarity some coherence of paragraph, composition.. wine wine always in a wine, me and my cyclical sentiments… my Beat.
And my glass empty. A lull ebbs in my Personhood. And to do.. what. Nothing. Just stare at this bloody glass as any Beat would. My curves and coursings opaque in any rationale, and so mundane when I re-write, and re-re-write. But this bottle’s solved that. And I’m untroubled. From this Pinot. Why does it confront me from sides blind? It, this contained vivacity light but not so, aims to have its Self heard. And I know you’re asking, “Where? From where? What winery?”
Why does it matter? I’m a writer, find love, a wine, mine, mind molded and resulted. Freed, me.. That’s REAL capsuled composition. So I sip again…..


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Mock Somm– New Wine Love/Promotion: Arista Winery, Russian River Valley, Pinot Noir, 2013

And we find a balanced, artful, poetically polite but potently IMG_5461persuasive Pinot. First impression, or ‘nose’, entails strawberry and maple-ized raspberry and a coy courting of chocolate. The sips’s summation reveals herbs and wild earthy electricity, and encompasses everything one loving Pinot from Russian River may seek. This is the idyllic etching of not only the varietal, the AVA, but the vintage… Arista brought to fruition what other producers only hope to with 2013 RRV wine, with this balanced bottle of musical and new-world oenological jazziness; a terrestrial palate hug; a Burgundian smooch.IMG_5463
IMG_5460I sip now, and find more notes and subtexts to the wine’s whirling, whether intended or unintended, I don’t care.. at this point, and this is not to discount the winemaker’s meditation, I find more taste tiers: caramel, rose pedal, cinnamon, and evasive cedar (but I’m on glass 2, in ever-truth..).
I guess the most charming element to me from this bottle is that initial palate contact that brings that wild, unfettered fruit; strawberry, cherry, raspberry, and maybe a little cranberry, maybe. This is the wine I brandish for occasion or just when I get home from work, when I don’t want to grade papers but just want to enjoy a glass and collect.

Small production, and I’m quite serious.. SMALL. Secure your bottles now, and be confronted pleasurably by this provocative interpretation of RRV Pinot!

Call Arista Winery at 707-473-0606 to secure your bottles! Again, inventory is low to begin with, only 250 cases total production on the ’13 Russian River Pinot, so move quickly!

AND… they ship cases for FREE!!!

Tell them the Bottled Ox sent you! Cheers!

Again, Arista Winery’s phone: 707-473-0606

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He finished the glass and thought, thought about what he was supposed to think, of his first vintage, 2012, a Merlot, and what, what was he supposed to think.  He’d start his label, yes, but Merlot.. Merlot, so many hated Merlot and they didn’t even know why, why, who why what.  Merlot.  So he sipped and noticed an added vocal layer.  But maybe it was how much he’d sipped of his own, this bottle, the first, the first from his first vintage, and this was what he was to build, fight uphill, and more than a battle, a cabal to all.  But he was distracted by his thoughts and fascinations, dreams, and paintings internally–

Finished.  So another opened, so he could open possibility’s locket ere long.


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Connective Shelves

IMG_5372Sipping some of my wine, the ’12 NDC. That’s New Dad Cuvée, if you forgot. And I get not so much weepy, but .. no, not nostalgic.. just reflective, and realizing that I can make wine and have my own label and write about it if I wish and create some new story for this writer. Discerning this moment and how the wine amalgamates with my current sentiment.. the adjunct war, coming to an end as I want it to– no surrender, no armistice, no walkaway. I’m sipping, here in the nook, to a bottle I, with much help from my friend Blair, produced. And I have to settle on varietals, I know. Don’t want Pinot. Just Cab, and SB, and Merlot.. that’s it. All Bordeaux. This sip… The Cabernet romps silence the Grenache assertions (and Grenache is the lead voice in this assembly, as I recall..). I feel this wine is its own occult oscillation, with the dark notes and visual, with the undercurrent of conviction and avant-garde story.. this wine speaks to me, and I made it!– Well, with Blair’s help. I’m not winemaker, but I’ve made wine with the activity and prowess of IMG_5371professionals. And here I am, after a day completely enraptured in the thought of wine, and I think more, about the winery I today visited and the Pinot I took home and the other wines I tasted in that rustic garage-like cove, making me think of what I can write and what I can do with wine and what I can write to while I do what I do with wine– postmodern repetition and mirroring; the Plath realization looking at the puddled cogitation in this bowl, this night’s pouring vessel. I’m just rambling I know, but like I said this was a night and day of wine…
Tomorrow, Ross’ funeral. I guess I’m ready, and I guess that’s why I’m sipping with such fervency. Who knows. I’m not blaming Uncle Ross, not at all, I’m blaming me, and my inability to decide that death is integral in this existential equation. I’m the problem, as I’m a writer; I’m to blame, I’m a writer, and death is everywhere, and I can’t hide from it; I’ve evaded it once, defeated it, to be technical and keep score, but I know it wants another scuffle with this Beat, so what do I do? For the moment, just enjoy the wine Blair and I made..

Now: still with caramel and raspberry and minty earth and herb. Need to share this, and the Merlot Blair with me aided, with the Arista faction. And soon. Saturday, then.. decided, for the next episode of the ‘cast Tome and I shoot every week.

IMG_5351Scattered in my thinking and I know tomorrow wil try me but I’ll continue, and stay in writer mode even though Tobias Wolff said in that lecture, specifically, that if you’re a writer at a funeral you should take time to grieve, not observe– but I have to disagree. I can’t just de-activate it, as some do, or can, or think they can.

So the wine’s done, and so am I. So till tomorrow, where I bid adieu to my uncle, my father’s brother…..


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Mock Somm: Sheldon Wines, Roma’s Vineyard/Anderson Valley, Pinot Noir, 2012

Virile and musical, rousing modulation with a pursuant pace on palate; light red fruit with earth and tea, spice and seductive sensibility; this is voice, the IMG_5365kind of rhyme I look for in a Pinot or any other wine, and I’ve never tasted here before so this was a bottle that made me subscribe, already envisage my return. Upon olfactory initial, I’m in redolent exchange, observing all dimensions in that cranberry, or earthly pomegranate, or rhubarb– I don’t even know what rhubarb is. Again, I’m not a somm– No, I know WHAT it is, just not what it tastes like, sorry. I’m not rounded, like a somm.
IMG_5354This Pinot stands as that poetic Pinot that I’m always looking for, the low ALC giving the fruit saunter a an invitation to be observed and appreciated.. again, musical, jazzy, Hutcherson on his keys, with the random shuffles and syncopation.. the romantic cryptogram, me thinking, thinking and fantasizing of my sip next. It’s Beat and pages set on palate telling it’s own story, and the winemaker/owner Dylan and I discussed today, there’s depth in this pour, in this bottle, here in this 13.5% ABV Pinot. “How can it be deep or have depth if it’s so ‘light’,” I just hear someone challenging. Well, that’s a whole ‘nother exchange. With this bottle’s submission and today’s visit I define depth as intrigue, innovation; enticing evasiveness and resplendently interactive transcendence; its own haunt, if you will. And that’s the lore of Pinot, but here it actually materialized. This is a Pinot that questions and answers.. vanguard and phantasm. My senses are wholly hexed, charmed, coerced in the palatable octave of this ’12.

Okay, so now a rating. I have to do that, even as a Mock-Somm.. so.. I don’t know… 96. “Where’s the other 4 points?” you’ll pose. “Okay,” I act, “I could have given it 100, and I want to, I’m just trying to seem sagacious, in the luscious loom of such a laudable and attractively actuated Pinot.”

So… ‘MM 96’

(But MM 100, if you promise not to tell…..)

Categories: artist's notes ..., Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

1 Ounce, 2 Ounce, 3, 4, 5

I think about wine, and what it must be like to make it and watch it intimately in its evolution. The winemaker, the one making it, loving it and establishing closeness to it, an intimacy that only they, the Makers, relate to. So I sip and stare at the wine, this Pinot, in glass; what it’s been through, what did they do to it and how does it see me, just the sipper, the consumer, the opinionated. I don’t know and I don’t want to know. I somehow want that closeness. I want wine to love me as the Makers love it, and I want to love It as the Makers do. So what to do, what do next, how to shift paths, careers, or not careers but presence, so soon, so sudden, so needed. It, this red, this Pinot, these pours, brought me here. I thank by sipping. And so slow.

Categories: short fiction, WHOSO MAGAZINE | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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