Reminded today that wine is about life— a tidal wave of vivacity and expression, music, love, and communication. Lunch with Paul M., sandwich I’d never before had at Dry Creek paired with that Pinot Blanc from Michele-Schlumberger, and the interaction that transpired, following more reflection in head that precipitated on ride to the delicatessen. My vision was full, as it is now, love and life in this log, this essay of a writing father trying to fit everything in— sitting on floor or living room while wife and babies upstairs sleep, me with this gifted Pinot from PM— huh, just realized, ‘PM’, time of day I’m most essayist, and most internally narrative. Haven’t seen my friend in over five years, we agreed, when I once saw him out on a town night in Napa of all places— and I say ‘of all places’ postured to me, as I’m never there, PM’s home enclave. Nothing abbozzo in my life, currently. All I sketch or paragraph I need release, not just from the interstellar adoration of wine and sentences, but from the commitment, my immovable sight in the atmosphere around me— from when I walk the vineyard on other lunch breaks to when the writer’s seated on the wood floor of his Autumnal Walking base, sipping a Papapietro Perry Pinot, listening to music at the end of an other wise carousel humdrum day.
Also reinforced with the 16th of août, my afflicting affection of so many things in being alive. All around me. As stated with those walks in the Chardonnay and Cab, and Rhône blocks, at Dutcher, wine directs me to certain certainties that are difficult to delineate give the qualification I’ve imbibed this eve. Love and living in this page, and all from where the writer lives, what he sips, the music listened— some mix tape from Thievery Corp’, if I’m not so off. Quiet down here for the writing father— another sip. This write is free, I’m free, and that’s my right as writer. Consider this a direct and staunchly tied reverberation from the conversation with my brother Paul. Sipping the Pinot again and as I tilt back and the light from this laptop extends to the bottom hemisphere of the Govino glass and into my eyes, hearing this obscure track, I think I’m on the Road, traveling, somewhere, writing about wine and all the yay-saying tellings of its voice and cultured angularity. “This doesn’t have to be a ‘dream’.” Wine says. And I agree. Wine with its love shoves me to a savory reality— romantic Hemingwayan notions and Plath pulses, my Feast so Moveable and my Bell Jar fuller than full.
And it’s again reiterated my the components of my moments that this is the mode I’ve chosen. Writer in and of wine. So.. recite more. Keying my notes for the next noted key in my fermented free. If I would have had more time at lunch, who knows what we would have webbed. But that’s a wish. Wine’s at my right, or left, or right, to actualize. No need to act in a guise.