It’s true. I went to Bottle Barn, telling myself I was just going to look around, see what wines I’ve never seen before, and as I’m trying to cut back on wine intake in conditioning for next year’s 26.2, whichever one I do, I didn’t think it would be that difficult to just look. Have fun looking around. Take pictures. Just look. There were a couple bottles I was pretty tempted by, both Pinots, one from Monterey and the other from Oregon, but under $20. But I stood firm. Not sure if this was a induction of discipline or some blanket testing of self. I slowly stepped around all varietals and finally made my way to this back section where more expensive and limited bottles rest. It was again order of me, by wine itself, to say in wine shape, its scape, its sounds and songs and chants from the bottle and vineyard. I write about wine because of the language and literary qualities, yes, but more so where it takes thought. It defies definition and restriction. By not spending money, using ‘the barn’ as I call it, as a meditations place, I was more rewarded. It wasn’t just “fun”, it was forming.
When I think of all the bottles I walked around and where all of them are going— dinners on a Tuesday night, some graduation, some gathering after a funeral, or just some chap or gal after a long day at working popping something open to relax… the stories compound. My story elevates, and just from being around wine. How does it purpose such? Some say “wine is life”, and it’s ‘bottled poetry’, but I see wine now as its own epistemology— thought octave and atmospheric quip. Now I’m having fun, writing about wine and looking at these shots I covertly trapped on my bouncing back and forth and in between rows. And if I’m talking, writing, a lot, am unusually loquacious, then blame and credit wine. She urges me to the real me. This is the me that’s more me than I know how to be. This, is wildly fun.