Wined Manuscripts

And I’m still observing, telling the story, the story of a tireless writer/father/runner/business owner/blogger/dreamer…  What else can I do?  Wine’s my story, the story I want to tell, the artifact I most want in my story, navigating my story.  Walking from the tasting room back here to my office, looking out to the Cabernet block’s left flank, across the pétanque court, I was reminded of me in this world, which so many regard as just an ‘industry’.  But it has to be viewed by writers as an envelopment of life, stories of love and enrichment, characters and their interactions, just walking the vineyard to expanding your bottle count.  Now I want a sip, a sip of something, what should it be.  Should walk back to the tasting room and pretend like I’m on some mission but really just wanting varietal suggestion about my senses.  What will I do.  Or should I wait, build anticipation like a visit with a lover?  Wine, me, the writing, intermingled and entangled, countless curiosities and ethereal echoes conceptually but more tangibly.  Nothing theoretical about this evolution, the progression of a writer in wine’s reflection and time, shape and planetary pulse.

Not sure how much a “business” I want to make of wine, but it’s defined— I need have it here with me, always.  People who don’t drink wine or live out here either in Napa or Sonoma won’t get this ardor, but it’s actuated, accented and self-emboldening, from when I have a glass of a Clone 809 Chard after work (neutral, non-malo), to the glass of Alexander Valley Cabernet I pop after the babies are down, right when I have dinner.  Wine will dictate the narrative of each chapter, each turn in this character’s collective chord.  There, in that measure and scale, harmony, I see the Self with evolved wildness, like a blend that some winemaker just went for, trusting his inner call, barreling it, bottling it, releasing it to the world for writers like me to sip while we scribble.


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