Wine, words, typing, a house that’s so quiet it’s as though every touch of this keyboard echoes and calls, shouts from the kitchen here to wherever in the house.

Trying not to think about ‘what am I going to—‘

One thing about wine, or at least with me, she always reminds me of her presence in every scene, whether she’s there or not.  You drive down Occidental as I did today on my way to Balletto passing vineyards and little tasting rooms (really only one that I can think of, Hannah) and seeing myself as the owner.  Not as a sole business drive but one, one for true wine decision and nothing more.  Of course I’d like to turn some profit, not be forever in that startup red, but be with wine every day for the love of love of loving it, her.. her… that character.  Zin in stemless plastic Roth Winery cup.  Zini I bought today, a 2016 I think and I do not ever pursue Zin but this one I would.  I’m in need of writing this evening.  Not some show.  Not any posting to social, none of that.  Writing, about wine… I want to take my time with this glass and just be there, in MY tasting room.  A place where I work for ME.  Soon, I repeat repeatedly till the next grip of the glass…   I smell, I can’t place any fruit.  It’s there, I just know if I’m sensing the “right” attributes.  I know I always discourage and shove people away from that type of thinking but that’s what I’m doing now.  Why… and I can’t taste much.  I can tell it’s not flawed, or flat, or corked.  She’s just not speaking to me.  Or maybe I’m not listening.

I’m thinking too much and talking too much like these tasting room people I’ve met my whole wine life. Not the young lady who for me poured today at Balletto.  Brittany I think her name was, a doctoral student and well-placed and purposed and conversant in wine’s lap and laud.  The others I’m mentioning, those that always want to be heard and seen as some authority, want people to follow them for answers or something and just talk, and keep talking.  They don’t invite conversation, they just want to be the conversation, they want the conversation to be THEM and not her, the wine.  So I slow down.  I stop tasting the way I was in the past two sips.  And that’s all I’ve tallied.  The color is not only in-tact (not that I would expect much or any decline in a ’16 RRV Zin), but the intensity and contrast and tint have me in her spell, gothic narrative and shape, arrangement, language.

Writing wine is a trap for thinking too much, for getting away from the wine and in a reverse-cyclone of ‘what do I say, what do I write’.  This bottle is right where it needs to me, next to a writer.  Thinking of writing a letter to Balletto, someone over there, maybe my friend Jacqueline, or their winemaker if I could find him or her, and ask about the Zin production process… what is there experience with Zin, philosophy on it.  Same way I interviewed Heidi Barrett nearly 10 years ago I should with Balletto’s grape translator.  Just an idea for now but one more than likely with take for and be a letter I send.  I’m seeing Zin differently with this song, her track current with me here in the kitchen at the keys, forgetting everything that was keeping me mute and in place, a statue scribbler.  Not now.  Now I’ve become mad, madly attached to this act, to the being in the plastic stemless.  Why did I pour it into a Govino.  She deserves a real glass.  Easily fixed with next pour.