Tasted through the wines and took care of some inventory obligations. On this day, 46 of 365, I look for things to do that I otherwise wouldn’t want to. I know that with my own shop, there will be only me to do it. And that’s where I am right now, in my shop, in my head, my imagination… the believable image of me wiping down shelves and organizing dummy bottles.
Slight rain outside, me here next to the sanitizer bottle, sink where fruit flies only till recently ruled. Quiet.. and it bothers me. Want to talk about the wines, not so much sell them as speak their language.
Everything in here tastes with character and convictions, a near-cockiness to all flavor scenes and perambulations. I type quick as I don’t know when, or maybe I should say IF, someone’ll walk in. This is the slow season, but you never want it to be slow, or think of it slow. If you’re just getting into the wine industry, days like this could drive you to a sharp form of enclosed dementia. But you can’t let it. Stay busy. Make projects your own, assume onus like you never have, and over everything around you.
The Cabernet, calling to me. My Alexander Valley vixen, showing all her qualities in slow, succinct sways and woos. She tells the story she wants to and I can only be subservient, admire her reading– her language and stylistic steps.
Interrupted– or not interrupted, but called to back to verify placement of tents for this weekend’s event. Sure to be hectic, lovely and crazy and colorful, motivating, plenty of material for a wine industry writer. This lull, more than short-lived. I review this morning’s notes on the Cab. “Hidden, geographic.. enigmatic, climatic, and gloriously anti-climactic. There is no end to her reading.”
Making the time, this spacial sovereignty, mine. The wine industry, with its varied tempos, very much working for the wine writer, only vowing to write wildly, this ‘Wine Wednesday’… How else can you speak about a living thing. Not with some boring, one-dimensional dote of notes.