Wine… what do I do

with her, now.  What do I write, narrate.  Rather than think about it, I just summon stories from the tasting room, and then think of all the vineyard walks I’ve taken self on.  Then how I need a new wine to write, tonight.  Not the same wines I’ve been drinking, lately.  All the St. Francis bottles.  Something new, something I’ve never known.  That Howell Mountain Cabernet from Robert Craig.  Maybe.  Too early in the day to think about that.  So I draw my tasting room, the one I own.  My crush pad, the barrels, how I’ll narrate my story, how it all started with the idea of wine and literature and the literary, narrative qualities and reality of wine.

She’s a whole question, worldly inquiry that I can only blindly follow and chase.  Wine. She always introduces something beyond what’s sipped.  It’s so much beyond what you see, and what think of, what you want from wine.  Abundance, thought, life, the reality reminded that you’ll be gone one day.  Everything around you is temporary.  You, are temporary.  So the story need be lived wildly, madly.

Much why I woke as early as I did this morning, and why last night while having that last sip of Sauvignon Blanc all fear and anxiety I had from days recent just flew away from me like it was bored with me.  I had nothing more to offer in terms of victim, victimhood.  It was done, because I was done.  She elevated me, again.  Again.  She always does. With her visual, with her movement and music, all of it.  More than nuance, or some flavor suggestion, but helix of ideology and possibility, dreaming and the dream bowing to a created, composed reality.

I’m being taught again, all over again about wine and what she really means.  She reminds me, again, that I am only to write her, to her and from her.  I will.  (6/5/19)

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