Wine tasting today actually made me feel like one just in love with wine, not any of its perception, pretension (which there is none if you’re really in a tasting for the wine and not how you might look to others). I was tasting with people I never had, hearing their reactions and tells of wine stories and food pairings, people and having people over, wine and food and a room. Talking. Nothing more than that. Three spots, Lioco, Stonestreet, the Hawley. Hope I spelled them all correctly. Sipping some of the Hawley Pinot here at the island counter after doing budget, going over the day—or not going over the day, but replaying, with a certain color and texture, richness in recollection. Just walking around the square, Healdsburg, like someone from Texas or Iowa. Tasting wine. Curious. Innocent maybe, but pleasantly out there in the streets to taste wine.
Looking at the glass, possibly my last before bed, atop the keys. I need only write wine, the glass decrees. Pleasurable incarceration in wine and her storm and palm, presence and poetic steps. Barely written a thing today. Wine knows my writing inconsistencies and today in each tasting room reminded me of how effortless and painless it is to correct. Hawley Pinot, not a simple being, not one predictable, but a voice framed in dimensional shoves…. Write the fucking book, she tells, remands, echoes.
Obeying as best I can, but now starting to feel a pull toward sheets, the goddamn pillows. A little of the Pinot left, seeing self pouring and touring around Lancaster’s property in morning, afternoon. Tomorrow, frankly, I’m going to become atomic with everything I do, say, imply, how I move and recite. Everything. Tired of the same tasting room and winery shapes and scenes. New reality yielding in this current bright current and wave of seismic ambition. All from her, wine. Her songs. IT.