Saw on the store shelf and couldn’t self restrain, thinking of Chris Silva and how he’s no longer here, the brevity of life and all in this story I’m meant to do. My notes to me compile freely and with mountainous divergency. I don’t know what to now do. Just speaking to myself like I’m some reputable or respected counselor, therapist, or priest. Surely not latter, but I do internally note. I think of St. Francis and what it’s done for everyone in my family. There is no winery I more owe prominent parcels of self to than them.
This vintage, 2015, contrasting my memory of SFW Zin interpretation. Don’t want to get in to descriptors or any trite vino blather, but there’s something else being narrated, and. I’m haunted by Zinfandel. Zinfandel. The varietal I probably most scrutinize and at times I’ll be very honest, attack. This character, more voice and architecture about its place and speak, poem and song, what its truest of true truths and intentions be. And me, just admiring. Not letting these types progress with any certain octave or “sophistication” as so many say. This is love. This, an interaction rich and enveloping, encircling and pealing.
The winery in this glass, or that was in this stemless plastic glass, if you could call it that, a “glass”, has taught me … has taught me. So much about wine and people coming to wineries to find something, to see something, to experience and taste and see what we here in Sonoma County see everyday and some of us becoming not only desensitized but definitively detached. Me, no. Jamais. Glad I pulled this bottle from that isle as this is more than fitting, right before 39. I owe them. I own Chris. I owe my sister, who made this. So… the writer need write more and with more ferocity and animal pursue, much ado, to new imbued truth. Writing from wine’s knots and knowledge, from growth on vine to the ferments, to what I had in glass and now gone…. I’m firing myself as counsel. Hiring wine. What’s left in this ’15 OVZ bottle.