out to Balletto to pick up the pot pies I was promised after buying seven bottles yesterday, I’m back at the desk with a glass of Balletto Chardonnay.  Tasted at that winery, which was actually a small tasting room on the Windsor Square, or just off it.  I was not in the same discourse with wine.  And what I mean, is that something meaningful – no, memorable – no, GODLY – was being said.  Finally, something with wine and I.  Haven’t had a conversation with her like this in weeks, months, maybe over a year?  Everything from the SB, to the Pinot that was from a vineyard I know well, then an AV Cabernet.  Bellacana, the winery.  The finest, most gorgeously ghostly flight – I needed that, with exact map, in senses and ideology.  New music, everything about it music, jazz, Coltrane and Sonny…

Getting older, and less and less wine books, producers, flights are staying in thought.  I just drink and walk away.  That’s it.  Not Bellacana…. so… now I think of my label.  Wine I make with my sister.  The wine has me sentimental, going up and down scales, both the Balletto Chardonnay and EVERYTHING I tasted at Bellacana.  I think of this, the wine, and this morning again having doubts about wine and wondering if I should step away from her.  Why… it’s what I’ve been writing for years, even before ‘09 when someone recommended I start a blog about wine.

Wine and I are talking again, and in a rile that we use to do.  Not thinking about her, but entirely doused in the layered and ontological oscillation between notes and sips, syllables and visions of barrels with our wine in them.

Opening a bottle of the Pinot in a bit….  Writing.  Listening to this Coltrane track.  My mood entirely sentimental and loving for wine, everything about her and not any article that needs to be a certain way, or any expected content curve.  Just love, the bowl full, color, quiet, collection.