Not knowing what to expect from this Napa house. But they want me to speak to them and them to me through the Cabernet voice. I listen, greeted by softness and a certain restraint retained while also hearing the more loud vocals that you might forecast for Cab. Titling the class to see more of her shade and color form, I’m pulled in by a spellbinding and singing sense of Newness. It’s her beat, the beat from the visual and then on palate where more notes drive themselves to unification— soft and playful dark chocolate waves and climates riled by more purist and terrestrial balance, composition. I took my notes and then stopped, see what Mom and Dad thought. They were nodding their heads to the same beat as this writer seeing a new taste architecture in character.
She becomes more present and convincing with oxygen intersection, more expository delight and sight. She wanders and saunters all over your perception, and me with my pen put down I just experience— no notes, no pictures, no blogging. I’m kept and caught, stopped and rocked to my circulation’s most intricate ebbs. I love wines that do this, I thought, and swirled against looking at that color. I was somewhere else, I thought… not Napa, not in my Santa Rosa studio, or any of my dozen-plus Sonoma County spots. I was sent away, to the bank, in Bordeaux, scribbling to Cabernet’s definition, what she intends, not how she’s meant to deconstructed and expected by some publication. This was a truthful dialogue, peripatetic twist and turn, words and verses from each order and song.
Days later, going through notes, citing compositions and the questions that were put to page from interaction with my friends’ house Cabernet, I’m thinking more about Cabernet, what presence I need more of, what Cabernet means to this writer, and the epistemology behind Cabernet— denotative and connotative curves and blurbs, the music in her structure, what she wants from me, this paragraph and the next, from me sitting here trying to assemble my general wine life and wined moments with a wine I’ve never had before, a house I’d never know if it weren’t for my vino brother, Brian. So I write more, see my travels right ahead— unexpected Looking Glass in this place, that glass, the color and initial expression, how the air of the studio’s kitchen encouraged her communicative coast.
Each of her lines and verses occupying my world and mind and shoving me lovingly from one side of thought to next. You sip and are moved, still moving, still seeing more in Cabernet’s definitive dominance and sometimes forgotten charm. Cabernet voice, more of hers. More in her. She has my writing in more syncopated poetic meaningfulness and gravity, science and speculation, metaphysical wake and way. An admonition, I listen and hear only what she wants me to. I’m lead, I’m hurled to another galaxy form of wine and Cabernet, Napa and me the one jotting. Her beat, still, in a soft persistence and lift. A Cabernet I thought, prior, could never be written, played. But I read, I heard, I flew.