Cabernet, last night. Always my varietal… why. Don’t know. The dark dote of her.. her thesis which envelops and romanticizes everything in my relationship with wine. I don’t know exactly, but Cabernet has all parcels and tells of my heart, thinking, my poetic proclivity and she fits with me in my movement across page. Cabernet is poetry, for me… jazz and spoken word, new lessons on the moment and how to appreciate it, through her, my gothic vixen of a Bordeaux varietal. She commands and with apparition shifts moves from one side to other, with no pause, no flaw, and I just sit and scribble with taught awe. She reminds me of singularity’s meteoric meaning and value. All I need is her… in glass, talking to me in her slow then sped recital and verse rain, rile… I smile, then more note. I’m careless, not appellation or winery, or even vintage specific with this paragraph. Tryst, vertex, away in my smitten let. She’s antithetically ‘industry’. She’s art, a gallery, an escape, a flight and a stage, theatrically purposed for writers like me and others. My amour, poured last night and in a few minutes when I walk to the tasting room to set up… wine isn’t an industry, she reminds me. It’s art, it’s thought, it’s us, it’s not an ‘it’. She tells me to stop writing that word. It’s not a word. Cabernet, WINE, is more than a word. So be more illustrative and aflutter with mine. I will. Instructed, across my notebook’s page I strutted in grins and love and new realizations with what I’m to do in ‘the industry’. Be free… poet sipping then paginating reflections like the others don’t. Las night, credit her, lively and eased. She, my muse of muses for my manuscript musings, talking to me, still this morning, my memory of our conversation and what she me taught.
I fail with her, though, sometimes I feel. With Cabernet, Wine principally. Can’t allow self to use the same words yet I don’t want to shoot time away skipping through a thesaurus, or some synonym storm. Wine demands truth from me… a stratospheric candor which need be read somewhere… He vintage last night, ’15. Telling drought, elevated temperature readings and I need read with elevated volume and presence. Wine asks me, “Where do you think you’re going?” I tell her I know where I’m headed, because of her. Then, quite. More collection, meditation— blended repose. Me, a character cuvée, new synthesis.