Ten minutes left. Which means I have 5 to write. Coffee, cold, right. Waiting for Washington wines to get here. Friend said they should be arriving today. Need more wines to write about…. Store not as far away as it might appear on paper. Or maybe it is.. but either way I’m writing about wines as crazy as the writer’s able. Want to taste the ’15 Cab we have in TR, again, one more time…. Ideas again accosting me with encouraging viciousness. What can I do but keep with my written reap. Sounds from the crush pad, even louder than this morning. Want to walk around and take pictures, get closer to the barrels and tanks, see what’s transpiring as its transpiring, just walk around and be like an annoying tourist but not at all, educated in what they’re doing, fully aware, but not at all. I want the best of all worlds working at this winery— seeing everything for the first time and being proactively active and pervasively educated in the images that land on my lenses.
The Zin downstairs, again, speaking to me in its tone, that defiant and more texture-intended angularity. Thankful it met me, and I it. Zinfandel… not sure if I’ve had more a troubled past with her or Chardonnay. Either way we wind up together, smitten and in a sensory snuggle and me writing my crazy notes in the tasting room even if there’s a guest or three in front of me. Musical, all the wines today, like some grand collaboration between Miles and John, Bobby and Cannonball. Everything to a poet sings, from the cork opening to me taking the worm out of the cork, smelling it, slight purple stamp at nose-tip, then first taste.. imagining a scene, a breeze, some balcony, me, ‘way, ink to paper—