While on lunch at the winery I collect myself, or try to with only 30 minutes to self.  Don’t have time to eat.  Need to get these ideas out, down on the page.  I’m rushing like the winemakers and their teams during harvest.  I don’t have time to breathe, much less fucking eat.  Lady yesterday, asking “So, do all Chardonnays have, like, oil in them?” Didn’t know how to answer.  Well, what I said was, “No.” But, even still I thought the question was interesting.  Funny, yes, but interesting.  How we use language to convey what we taste, what greets our senses and speaks to us.  We speak with the language we have.  Some wonder if they’re using the “right” words.  I never understood that.  The “right” words?  “I don’t have all the wine words, you know, but…” A lady said a month or so ago when I had a private ground in the breezeway with a view of the vineyards and Bella’s magnetic hill.

Time is just running out.  And wine is all about time.  These bottles are time capsules and our sipping affirms their importance and magnitude in it all.  This is an arena, a reflective maelstrom that encourages us to just further explore and be wild in our intellectual wine strides.  Not that it needs to be over-intellectualized, but certainly the thoughts are legitimate and meaningful to our existences.

12:30… the wine writer needs to be back in that room in 4 minutes.  So I should stop, I know.  Go back in there with my little pages and pen and listen.  What are they saying?  What bottle becomes a part of whose story?  That’s what brings me here to this industry.  That’s why I can’t let go of my wine memories and why I’m trying to remember as many as I can for this book and inoculate pages with them.