Miles Davis and I going over the last three days of Barrel Tasting. Sipping slow on some 2015 AV Cab, galavanting in my cognition, and thoughts, and philosophy-pronounced perception of all in my day, days, what I am and where I’m going. More than epistemological entertainment of my life, character, but more. Wine reminds me to adhere to my inherent character, propulsion and aims. Wife and babies upstairs asleep and I’m here with Miles while he throws notes to no percussion, and me with class tomorrow, vowing poetry earlier to them in a message, and to myself to provide and prove more recital. The Cabernet in my room settles, meditates and any stress alleviates. My Personhood further amalgamates. This is more than wine, when I write about wine. I don’t write about wine, I tonight find. I’m intoned in my thrown own. Me. The writer, the recorder of all around me, all specifics and seemingly insignificant blips.
Being one in the classroom, at the college level, the “students” who I more regard as my teachers, in front of them offering ideas I’m centered in manners I’m not anywhere else. Already see tomorrow, the rest of my story. Getting up early tomorrow either to write or workout or both. Maybe only write I postulate after again sipping the ’15… jazz notes from the screen and mind fly. Don’t want to be my own pesticitis, but I may be with how much I overthink certain certainties. Divided mind but pleasantly, in and out of this current room with toys surrounding me like encroaching force, and then me here with my reflections in and about Barrel Tasting, and my glass— this Cabernet, not that impressive but not at all underwhelming, not in any regard. My respect is for the one respecting the wine itself regardless of varietal, AVA, vintage or producer. Just wine for wine. No lacuna in this taste, or the one before… another, and more voice, more notes, more ascension and recital in the luminous structure and semblance of verse, voice, posture.
A freewrite at day’s end, at Barrel Tasting’s first weekend, end. Me on floor, not wanting to hear any voices, just jazz, the wine, what she has to to me say— verbal play and triangulating talk, around my perception and obligation, what I have to do tomorrow. Coffee already made, and today told me to wake early in morrow and put verses to page like an addict of addicts. Lady in tasting room yesterday, day’s close, with an obvious drinking penchant, stumbling from one side of the room to other. I will continue in same pew with poems, verse, early wakes. Miles has me in my own music, my own rebellious verses and with this ’15, a vintage known to be pummeled by water-lack, I’m only emboldened. Needed this sitting, this pour. I’ll help self to one more. The floral angles make themselves more known while I look around this room. Me just the writer on floor looking around his house like he’s never in it before been.
While I get distracted I find self re-centered, a wild collection of dreams and thoughts, romantic architecture of persona and mild setting of self. The wine’s to credit, I’m a narrator abetted by this 2015 potion. My loaded open-coded commotion, here with me as I write. Me and wine. That’s it. There’s nothing more complicated. IT’s just conversation inner and outer. Wine-wheeled.