Start with Sauvignon Blanc. Not exactly reflexive or necessitated by anything particular, just how I’m beginning my evening with both babies asleep and the week nearly behind the writer. Fruit arrived today at Dutcher. Zin from a vineyard down the road I think. Was going to head to Dry Creek General to get a sandwich or something but when I saw the fruit in bins on the gate’s other side I had to take pictures. Be in it. IT. The transformation and shifting of the fruit. It’s more than mere “processing”. Especially at a family winery like this. It was real, cinematic but not. Right there. I had to see it, again, like I do every year.
Sipping this SB I wonder what was on the crush pad, in those same places I stood, when the fruit landed. And then I sip and think of nothing meaningful but how lovely it situates and waits for my words. Wine is more than a relationship, or reckoning with a certain perception promulgated by noted publications. For this writer, it’s a scene, a scene that follows me. More than the effects from two or three glasses but the poetry to it, in it, the kisses from the texture of what you sip. When I was on the crush pad today, seeing the Zin berries arrive and then be lightly crushed and de-stemmed, me watching a spectator, story and story compiled— the sight uniquely and individually is entrapping. It’s more than a fashion or lifestyle, but a state, a state that remains in your character and walks with you from vineyard block to block. Should have situated as a winemaker, but now rather the writer’s just a writer, observing and oohing and ah-ing at what they do, what I sip, from the Dutcher SB to their Carignane which I purposefully left in the kitchen so I won’t too fast sip.
If you sip too fast you get typos, and that’s just what I see in the two above paragraphs. My error. Just what I did, my flaw and folly and fumble. “What the fuck?” I say to myself, but quietly as the babies and wife are upstairs, dormant, unaware of the first floor thoughts from this pen-to-paper-er. Should go get my class— I mean, GLASS… sip here and entertain what I’m to do with the remainder of my night. Told myself I wouldn’t sit on the floor afront the TV and write, as when I so do no pages are bound. My composition is more corybantic than composed. But why so fight? Why not embrace? It’s reflexive, so, as it’s more me than some résumé or cover letter telling some devil what they want to match to their ‘desired’s’. That’s not wine. Wine is walking, wine is more than a state, even. It’s a story, it’s truth, it’s in front of you if you let it. The picture in my conception, current, is me in a hotel room, night, after lecturing somewhere, and sipping a glass of Napa Cab looking off the Florida coast. Don’t interrogate, reader.. just accept, or entertain. That’s the image that landed in my cognitive shapeliness while giving babies their bath. And now I finish in such measure, a new place deconstructively, with more love and more wined stateliness.