Rather, spending 30 mins in office, collecting, writing notes on wines and business, selling wine creatively, and some other creative work for myself as an author. Going in several directions, and I love it. Any professional oneness is death… Need to gather pieces for chapbook. Where do I start, though. I don’t know. Don’t have money to print it, right now. So I guess there’s no rush.
Opened a Cabernet last night. Don’t feel like addressing the producer, or varietal, vintage, AVA, anything specific but the interaction between a wine writer and his wine, what was said to the other, what it made me think about. And for consumers I think such an approach is not only “beneficial”, but more rewarding— Don’t worry so much about the specifics, just for a moment. Enjoy the conversation between you and the wine. What’s its feel, its sense, its palate language? I’m not talking about simplistic descriptors. I mean that small amount of time, or significant amount, where you and the wine are communicating. As it opens and becomes more communicative and expository…. You don’t even have to really know what’s said, in word-form, just acknowledge it.
Turned around and looked over the winemaker’s head, out the window. Still raining. “You’re gonna get soaked,” he said, after I asked him how hard it was coming down, that I wanted to go for my walk. Not today, no problem. I need this time where all of yesterday’s wines are fresh in the writer’s lens. Debra said she was going to open a Melka Sauvignon Blanc for us to try. She told me this morning, and I nearly fell over. “Where is she?” What I’m thinking now…. I want to taste it! I can wait. And really, the anticipation stored away in my thoughts and Personhood will punctuate whatever I sip.
Yes, still raining. And the wines still haunt me. From what I tasted at Cornerstone, at Hill Family right before (Sauvignon Blanc and Syrah), then what I had at home. I’m haunted by the palatable vernacular. Words and descriptions and personifications… and if I don’t have that, I have the feel of the interaction, that time— me there in the kitchen standing, leaning against the island counter, whirling in my inwardly-gregarious hue.