Later at night I enjoy a Thumbprint Cellars Merlot and go into my wined visions, me making wine and the type of Merlot I want to make and starting my studies of wine on everything from alc % to tannin, to TA & Ph, oak, filtration, anthocyanin.. skin treatment, everything. But I also just enjoy the wine and let it talk to me, what its poetry concedes and convinces me of, the integral intermission of its layered and positioned dialogue about my senses. My winemaking Comp Book (started today) is over there, on the counter, alongside the glass full of Merlot so I don’t drink it too fast– my rationale: as it’s far from me, I have to rise, sip then return to keys. And I don’t want to sip quick, I want to listen to its speak, this translation of ’12 Merlot. And no before you expect me to I’m not going to gallop on with these sentences in how heralded 2012 was. We all know that. I’m in this moment and I’m letting the wine wheel away the writer.. no over-analysis or diatribe, or score for this ‘TC’ Merlot. Just know it’s talking to me and I’m listening, something these self-anointed wine sages need more do.
Jackie asleep already with his mama, on my side of that delightful set of sheets atop the all-solving mattress. So the writer has the couch. And I’m more than at peace with such, as he’s with Mama.. his mama, and the way he falls into her hold is something I can only smile at, and all the more reason I need be closer to home next term, next year. No more of these colleges taking me from my Autumn Walk base– no, no… They didn’t take me. I let them take me. But not next term. Next year motions the family businesses.. the blog, the publications, all wine-wound, then the winery. Small. 3-5k css/yr. Another sip of the Merlot, see what talk it now talks. And I’ll offer no critique. Only more listen.