Not sure how to approach telling this character’s place and pulse, tone and feel. Lively, yes.. energetic and eager, like a singer ready to share notes elevate her audience, but at the same time… something different. Something coherently bizarre and scattered, beautiful and confiding in me all her wishes and visions for herself, coastlines and mountains, sequestered valleys and hills that garnish Italian terrains, distantly proximal. Snapping myself out of some peculiar fog-though-veil, I focus again on her concerns for me, for our interaction, for our story. Dizzying pear form with mineral-directed dotes and notes, keys and chords singing to me over and over, till I want to book my flight, my first, to Italy.
Had it with a friend in his garden, near the Russian River, and the bottle more than contributed to scenic composition and the immediacy of our moods, that occasion right there— the reasoning as to why I was there after a seemingly endless day that warranted a new wine, new character and pages. So here, days later, looking over my notes—jots I peppered into journal right when I arrived home from friend’s affable cottage—I read of the floral form and synthesis alongside the music she played, this bottle, urging me never budge from wine, my wine exploration, writing about all characters Italian and other… this bottle more than instructed me. Me, newly emboldened. More eager for new wines, Italian and other, more.. yes.
She said to me, “You’re in the right place, just keep moving, remain in provisional skips.” I listen more to her through notes I took when home and find all the notes returning to me… honey, kiwi, an atmosphere, that view of the water, a petite abode near a vineyard. Transported and transformed after sipping driving home. This bottle was a story, a short story contributing to some larger amassing of musing. I usually don’t sip Italian whites but here I found new shapes to wine’s ideology and philosophy, so now I keep with my replay, tell myself to keep exploring as she said.
Perfect bottle for doing what we did, sitting in the garden under towering redwoods or whatever they were and just speaking on the day, wine, why we’re in wine’s center. The why to the what, the when to the where. The wine was kind, and if not perfect then with a stellar syncopation of all wined aims, desires and gentle inquiries. When in Italy, I’ll look for this wine, wines like it, and if I can’t find this bottle then I’ll hold it as a paradigm, a paragon, a proxy for all other sips while there… there was brought here, my ami’s maison, relieved the day was done. New story started for me in my wine sittings, like writing here now wishing I could taste it, her, again. What new voices would materialize and further in my wine furtherance decide. Waiting or my first walk in Italy, to a café, where I’d having this, or a scene and song seraphically similar.