This wine, more of an instruction, imparting some stern sagacity, for me, urging this me the one calling himself a writer to do better, to be stronger, to proclaim more. To take more. Not just act like a writer but embody everything a writer’s known to be. To imitate your idols, it says. “Do what they do, but as you would do, as you will do.” It adds. I put the glass back down and look at it, take a couple pictures with my phone. Conduct a bit of a photo shoot, while sitting here on my backside with back against couch, eager to put on some music once my wife goes upstairs and to sleep. Driving West Dry Creek Road today at lunch after the light rain directed me as this wine does, an additional lecture, for me to get more out there, just explore and drive. Wine is about freedom, and following dreams and curiosities, doing anything but adhering to convention. Okay… yeah… I got it.
Another sip and it starts to open, spread not its wings but its own cognition to me, revolving in dreams and dreams within dream. So how to follow that order, I’ll have to think. Wine’s instruction isn’t always linear. Wine isn’t always that clear. And, wine not always reacts to my reactions the way I measure. It’s like a ghost, in my house, and not haunting but just situated. Watching me. Ready to critique— another sip. I retaliate by pretending I’m a wine critic. Not a somm’, but some noted newspaper bloke with an opinion that’s sought. “Too earthy for a GSM,” I write. “The fruit isn’t as visible as it should be for a Rhône blend… there should be more life than this, more identity…” Yeah, wine, what do you have to say now? And then I feel bad. Wine and I have always had a funny relationship. Not with consumption, but with the industry obverse. There’s always a rumor, always a sales intention, some aim to proselytize. I’ll ask again, isn’t wine supposed to be about dreams, freedom, the antithesis of rule and follow? This wine’s telling me too many different tells. “As I would do,” you said. So why are you giving me aforesaid anguish?
No more sipping. Glass empty. Relieved, frankly. Have to get to bed early to wake early, and this time I have to do it, and I say that but you and I both know it won’t so go. This morning for example, after helping wife with Emma, for feed, I came downstairs to rest on couch after son annexed my bed-side, look at clock and saw 4:23 AM. But what did I do, go to the pillow. Under that goddamn sheet. This wine again goes to protagonist pose and tells me not to worry about it. Okay now I’m truly confused. And, acting like too much a writer. Going this way and the other way before any ‘that way’, just circling theatrically amusing and frustrating my self concurrently.
If this wine is instructing me, it’s with a blaring peculiarity. I’m taking it too personally, I know. On West Dry Creek, I thought about how I just wanted to stop, park, get out and take pictures but I couldn’t. There was time, a time clock. The clock was watching and following me closely. Yeah, I got it. I got it, believe me. A quirky association. Should get back into my critic mode, tear this wine apart. What would that do, though? Can’t disrespect my instructor. I need more life than this, more identity.