The varietal that brought me into wine, that invited me into the collective compositions and narrative, luminous elucidation of it all. After tomorrow, I’ll only write about wine. Not be int he tasting room. Not have to look at schedules and calendars, first thing in morning when the coffee’s barely taken its place in my pulse. I’m sitting on the floor thinking about the past 12 years, in wine, the industry, the stories and people, everything. Merlot, from Dutcher Crossing, inarguably the winery that made me the sales and marketing and wine storytelling expanse I am. Or that I think I am. I’m nearly 40. It’s time to leave. And more demanded, time to enjoy wine as a true consumer, not one saying they’re the consummate consumer, which yes I have from time to time to generate sales, which makes me feel like a slimy industry gargoyle. But you do what you have to do.. to get that sale, oui? Integrity. I’m finding less and less of it, valley to valley, county to county. I’m a consumer, now. I write about wine. I’m finally a wine writer. Wow… I had to leave the business, or industry, the tasting room, whatever, to be what I’ve always wanted to… writer of wine.. translator of.
Haven’t taken my first sip yet. I’m just staring at that Dutcher puddle, fruit from Napa, Atals Peak somewhere. See it.. when I first arrived there, interviewing with two people now dearer than dear friends of mine. Time, whatever it wants it just takes, and that’s my time, my life, this Now, that Now, every breath and second in a tasting room. Now, I fight back. Tomorrow, my only plan is to thank everyone at Roth, at Foley, then start traveling. Now I enjoy wine as a writer, a traveling wine writer who looks for any vineyard and cottage, any hut or terrace he can. Why am I just being this, now? I’m a wine writer, ‘cause I left the industry. There’s more than forecasted knowledge in that. I’m learning of my control, the nature of my dominance in my story. Wine is part of it, but not everything. So now, I sip to sip. Imagine going to a tasting room and not identifying myself as ‘industry’. Look at stemless plastic glass, cup, again, and breath, lean my head and neck back into the couches cushion.
First sip of the entity, and I’m in a tasting room. I’m thinking of how I’d speak it, how I’d “describe it” if that’s what you want to say, to a guest. I can’t tell, anymore. I’m just into the wine. Staring at her shade and shape, sense and poetic form, radiant rile and speak from dimensions theorized. I’m lost, found, loving the delicious duality and dichotomy of not just this wine but my wine story, the past, since ’06…. No miss. Only a cherishing tryst. I think. Again, I’m lost in this, not sure if celebration’s the word, but something to the tune and tilt, tone of.