Yesterday opening up the winery, I was

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completely shackled in thoughts… so many, everything from inventory to where I’m going career-wise with wine, to what I’m seeing in the current offerings being poured at bar.  My visions were spread and profusely varied, straying from me then coming back, begging for further deconstruction.  I just walked by the barrels, stared at them through my phone’s camera, then walked a bit more, opening up registers then turning on TV, walking outside to open umbrellas and enjoy the air as a tourist might.  Not sure there was a point, or if there’s a point to this post.  I was just wondering, wandering where this wined story was, is, taking me.

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On one of my passes, saw my friend Alex who works in the cellar, topping barrels.  I asked if I could snap a couple stills of the carafes.  He said yes and I did, we rambled in a bit of chat small, then I went in the tasting room to man the counter.  But, I had to ask, where is this going?  What does wine want me to do?  Write about, yes, but what else?  Sell wine… well, yes.  I know.  Of course.  What.  Else.  There has to be something else and I have the feeling that I already have it, I just don’t know where it is in my ratiocination.

Wine perpetuates in her provocation, leading me one way only to spin me around, a IMG_1169dance I don’t understand but willingly enable.  Love and more than love and more questions than answers, which is just what chants the love I cite.  She saunters and gallants in her ideation, a terrifically triangular taunt… aroma, tongue, placement, then the haunt, the left apparition that stays with me and has me followed to page, to bed, sleep, then I wake the next morning revolving in whatever I the night before sipped.

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mikemadigan

Writer/Blogger - bottledaux.com

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