This MacPhail expressive told me to write more in a jazz tone, pulse and purpose. Bold but not overstepping any sensory lines, with floral voltage and personality, differentiation of chords and clefs, she wandered around my Personhood like a lost phantasm. She had me in a singularized and more sense-honed and sensual collection, meditation. I thought and thought about Pinot and my story, how integral and defining she’s been. Stopping by John Ash on the way home from a demanding day in industry, she was there waiting, brought to my table, just me and my notebook, I watched the still, placidly provocative puddle in glass, blackberry posture with edgy raspberry tint and talk. First sip and the narration started. There was no necessitated wait or needing her to “open”. She was on stage and recital-ready. I listened and more of the steps and ballet fray in my thoughts— realized vanilla walk with the fruit back-and-forth, oak hints but nothing intrusive or that blocked what she wanted to say to me, there staring out the window wondering the next time I’d converse with this bottle. I couldn’t fixate on that. I let Self fall further into moment there in chair, my out-the-window and Burgundy-brought stare. Concentrated, fixated, on everything she said. This precise composition and the degree to which it enveloped me, I had to note. Bringing out. My little pages and scribbling like Kerouac on the Road— “Rich, soft, commanding and purposed, clear philosophy and reasoning…”
Pinot and I have always be amiable, and noticeably amorous. Pinot is my Now, I thought while the people around me talked and paid no attention to what they were sipping, just talked and talked, which is lovely as that’s what wine embodies, the occasion. The Now… what you’re doing and who you’re with, what you want to say to that person, a right-then-and-there gala. Pinot punctuates wine’s most fundamental thesis— NOW. Though, MacPhail ushered such with unusual astuteness. With its poetic pagination and voice, coherence, way… I was transferred, with transcendental momentum and current. This character was, IS, the act of writing. Pages and pages, a narration, certain memoir parcel in one sitting, staring at vines and watching the people around me talk and laugh.. I was in immediate intersection, palate tryst. Why is this writer into wine as he is, with such bizarre and illusionary Wonderland-esque fervor, fever? For wines like this. That have me. Capture me. Lose me and find me, concurrently. Specific and jazzy alchemy. What do I do next, I thought, when near the end of my glass. Wrote, “Should I order another?” I didn’t. Sipped the last, stared at glass, the minuscule puddle and bowl’s lowest flat. This personification decided for me, where I’m going with Pinot, with wine, with these pages. Could still taste her, driving home… the verses halted none. I was, am, done… just replaying her son, stretch, texture-flown aria still around my sentences, non-scribbled musing, unedited page storm.