Escapist…. Geometric and ontological tryst. Letters and letters, reactions and reflections. Rich, complicated and poetically precise and composed Pinot speak. Ghostly raspberry and maple intermingle. This character is for people seeing their taste as sophisticated as well as those just curious about wine, about Pinot, what all the fuss is about. She instructs you, this Pinot apparition, shows and tells. There’s music in this bottle, clouds and limits of jazz and funk, ambient and a certain trip-hop envelopment. Elemental and constitutive codes as her expression intensifies. As more of the room’s air in the settling glass, verses are disclosed. Planetary and syllabic. Musical. She repeats her recital with those rose petal percussive pulses, light but enough assertive to land her thesis. And impression, and cognition.
Eager in saunter of bright spice and berry prominence. Track after track, in each sip. Sip, sip…. And I do, revolving in Burgundian vocals and chords. Centered and meditative in her rile. I’m a bit lost with this bottle, this song, this character and what to say about her. This is when I, the wild wine writer, yes self-knighted, gets a little frantic and may sip again, again, soliciting sagacity from he bottle itself. She, this positive wave of Pinot aura negates any nihilism about my eye, scope, frame. She reminds me that wine is for the positive of positive-positives. There is no room for nay. The Russian River atmosphere and phantasm situates right next to me, watching me write about her, watching me stress over words next— stumble then rhythmically perambulate down my cognitive tributary. I write more not knowing what I’m writing. This is an escape, and maybe I’m merely a diarist escaping the pattern, the normally. No more mundane badgering. She’s here singing to me, this 2015 Russian River sphinx, minx. She repeats her verses and stances and stanzas sip after sip. And I stay stunned— Sip, sip…
Watch my watch, and I’ve not only lost time but separated myself from it. I’ve escaped. It could be the wine or… no, it’s her. The wine. The Pinot in my glass. Stemless, here on the counter next to me while I listen to Miles Davis and think of my day in the Roth tasting room, how I’m contracted to see her, hear her, taste that shape, voluminously. Look at my watch, turn it upside down, pour this writer another glass as I need one after such day. She’s there, here, here for me to hear my entries and verses of question, frustration, confusion and simple observation.
I stare at the color, what’s in that little vessel next to this keyboard. MY wine writing takes turns other and unexpected, just in this sitting— more cherry, more vanilla, and more of us.. here in this Now. Like a death and rebirth commingled in the day, end of day, me in my kitchen writing and her wondering when I’m going to stop and just enjoy her, her company, her song and notes, and solo sequences. Now… that’s what I do now. Pour more. She, the mentor.