“Wine, History […] So much I haven’t seen. Dedicated to a literary exploration of wine, of the world, of wine’s world in the world. There’s too much out there and this is the only way to do it.” I wrote in my makeshift notebook, pieces of scratch paper from the tasting room stapled together as I left my little, mini-composition book at home, atop home-office desk. Where do I start? With me, my wine notes, and notes about me that may have nothing to do with wine, or directly. But wine itself skips in bursts of life so everything is wine… my typing now in the office on my lunch break, with a stack of cases for one of the winemakers to my right, is wine. This all is wine. When I’m not drinking wine I’m drinking wine. When I’m not doing anything to do materially with wine, I’m more ‘wine’ than I am otherwise.
Difficult to type in the office, all the conversation around me but the conversations entail wine business ingredients and mentions, specifics. Should go walk the vineyard, just a second, just to take a picture and keep with my consistency of being a vineyard vagabond (even though I am very much employed, and with domicile). Staring at a bottle now, on this desk, never heard of it before, and that’s just what wine is—