08:44. At winery. The morning and kids testing me with interruptions and crazy kids/baby behavior that in no way would allow for me to write. But that’s fine. I’m here in my wined zone, writing, seeing Chris in the lab working on blends and trials I’m sure. My thoughts, in and out of the Syrah last night, Mendocino Ridge character…. A voice that was gentle and assertive, self-personifying and beatific, everything I look for in a wine but this was magnified, propelled at my sight and total character with pace I was unprepared for, completely… but it didn’t matter. I kept sipping and seeing, the Mendocino altitudes and sights, everything in my wine story consolidated… thinking about her now makes me forget the scattered haphazardness of the morning, how tired I am from waking just after five and throwing myself into writing. I’m here, there, with her, the wine, something of elevation and poetry, more verse in the fruit sphere and sensibility than I can here catalogue, but I have to… my job, a wine writer, to not just write about wine but be with her, in all letters and expressions, sounds and beats. I momentarily leave the winery, and I don’t know where I am.. only with her prime passion paragon, stringing and singing with stanches conviction. Energetic like the babies this morning, but with some oddly formed and teaching containment. I try not to think with too much force, an excess of exertion, but it’s difficult, demanding…. I succumb to losing self in Syrah thought and perceptive knots.
A Syrah semaphore, signaling me to follow her, following wine wherever it wants to take me. Be contained in the ideas of wine, but in no one location. Again I leave my office and find myself in Souther Rhône, Northern, Mendocino County and Australia, with varied myriads of notes, songs unusual and electrically etched in memory and purpose. She hold me then lets go and I just blindly follow, admitting I’m an admirer or obsessed confessional avalanche, much like her. We’r more alike than different then realize that the contrasts are what whisper and breathe multiplied life. Eased and inaudible smoke, amiable cherry chords, rose petals that haunt me with light roars…. I’m on page, right now, from her spell, morning more eased and musical because of my last sip, a bit under 12 hours ago. I’m like one newly in love, or with renewed love, kissed by telling atmosphere and scene, me in a serene lean, in dream, meditative ravine. Why I’m writing about wine, and how life from the wine re-write my current writing life, any measure and thought on life, where I am and what I’m doing, what I’m to do with wine. Hearing my finger type about her, smiling, smiling for the remainder of day I’d guess. Nothing will stress or undo this writer. Nothing. I’m composed and with new character composition from her, her words, from when I pulled the cork night before last to last night with my last sip before sleep— kept, her smile, the year, words, color, where she takes me, all philosophical parcels of what was in glass, to now at this desk, with me pushing keys just after nine o’clock. These are the wines that remind me why I am, here, what I’m doing, why.