…me going to Bottle Barn and picking her from the shelf with no method.  Wine writing, I have to do this for the rest of my life, going forward from this altitude-spoke age of 40.  Then she told me to stop with that.  Age is an idea I’m choosing to value, to embrace and allow shift concentration mid and post-sip.  Stop, she ordered.  And I  more or less did.  When the last glass was done, I saw I’d finished a book, or something that was manuscript-mimicking.  Life, she professed and etched in my against the counter positioning.  She told me to be like Sal and Dean, just get out there, see what the wines of the sphere want you to write.  They’re all her, they’re all a result of this Pinot.  Two Kings having me feeling royal, or nt royal but with a set set, Road and story I need maintain and perpetuate.             While washing out the glass, she continued her track, more animated than when I was actually sipping.  Singing and smiling and bewitching, connected and narrative.  Sense of the spell and magic she was writing, that the vintage wrote and that she was translating.  Taking nothing away from the winemakers that helped in the shepherd of fermentation and making sure all levels were where they needed to be, but the alchemical arrangement and symmetry, the subtlety and voice, play of the grape is what persisted.  In a typical piece of wine “prose”, I’d just have to write some obscure and nearly-uncomfortable deconstruction, and slap a score off to the right or left.  Perfunctory, having no place in her hue or sequence of any sentences.  And yes, I may be rambling, but wine is about wander and more the Road than the stop…

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