…not just about wine, but this, life, what I’m to do and how to be a more consistent and found character for my family. Family… this is all for them. Not for me, at all. Sure I enjoy wine and writing about it, but it’s more than that. Like the time when my friend Chris and I went to John Ash and had each a red, he a Cab I think and me the MacPhail Pinot. We tasted back and forth, shared, discussed and deconstructed as Chris at the time was the Lab Lead at Roth, while I was the tasting room narrator helping manage the room and just selling. Titles didn’t matter, we didn’t try to eclipse the other. We spoke, we listened. We lived in that moment at that table with people around us, pairing what we ordered with wine with our small bites. I see that happening in my Room, the tasting room I eventually have. People in, talking, about wine or not. As long as there’s life present, there, to its own music and beat.
No new wine, last night. St. Francis Cab, I think the ’16. Need to be better about noting vintage, I know. The wine was more gripping and seemingly aggressive and with its own loving growl and scratch. The oak and “varietal” character didn’t and still don’t matter to me. IT was the wine and me there in the kitchen, again, like the Chardonnay the night before. I saw the wine and felt her walk, communication and order. Cabernet conversation, from the pen and paper, the walls and counter. Everything was where it should be. Like the piece I wrote yesterday on Dave, I was just thankful to be alive, there, in the kitchen with the Sonoma Cabernet realizing I’m alive and that I’m sipping that with intention. The story clearer to me as a writer of wine and nothing else. Wine is the definition from denotative and connotative peaks for me and my Now.
Coffee, I mean latte. Feel something with today, and that’s the decision to re-write ALL negative presence, sentiment, tell, pulse, anything in my story. First sip confirming. The book, my book, from wined thought and wined possibility, my eventual bottles, telling my story and having my babies and family help with everything from the wine itself to how it’s told, narrated, not sold. Part of my message, as wine teaches me, is to be about dispelling naysay. Or, re-writing it. Using the existing momentum to reach what you see for self. To be free, as I am with this write. I’ve definitely assumed such an act and walk more so getting older, with writing and everything. To just create, act and move. Be free in flight and when on ground. And those bringing that scowl and lowering tone to your standing, accept it and love it, wildly embrace it. Then, you RE-WRITE IT.
Not sure how much I’ve written this morning, but it’s up there. Thinking about wine and what I could do with it, with her story. Making wine eventually, maybe, but writing her story and definition, her theory and philosophy and pages, her narrative, my vin-sown story…. All of it, from the vineyard, from walking between rows, meeting new people in the tasting rooms and doing those tours where I ask them about their relationship with wine and what brought them here… taught. I’m being taught.
Wine is an education vehicle and ideological map. The best thing to do, explore. Study if you want, buy tons of wine books or go on Wikipedia or whatever, but explore. Buy some bottles, and write what’s said to you.
…like, “chocolate” for a Cabernet, and “wild berry” for a Sonoma Valley Zin but I thought it sounded so lazy and effortless, like I didn’t care about the wines I was tasting. Like the wine deserved more than that. And she did, does. I do, too. If I were a wine right now, I’d be not exactly engaging, inspiring, or even drinkable. So I continue to play the game, first changing the music I’m listening to, some Lo-Fi Hip-Hop instrumentals on Spotify, some playlist I found. Actually I think it’s more trip-hop, or ambi-hop. I don’t know, but it’s not helping my temperament. Ugh, neither is this new track.
There. Thievery Corporation. Much better. What I see playing in my eventual wine room, MY tasting room, pouring MY wines. So… the descriptions, I’m still there, wanting to play with them, yes play the game but be more playful and not in any dote predictable with what I write about wines I’m tasting. The other day actually tasted a bottle of DuMol Pinot that a girl I work with at Lancaster brought in from the night before, an even she worked at the Mayacama club or whatever. The wine was realized in its identity, with busybody cherry and berry layers, promises of cherry and mint, some rich and compact rain-told soil. Not like “forest floor” as so many of these rusty bot wine “writers” put to page about Pinot, but with a nearly palatable terrestrial seduction to her. The DuMol reminded me what I need to be doing, and differently that all these others assembling paragraphs about wine. If you could call them paragraphs. If you could call them assembled or coherent, convincing or even alive.
I have been advised, told, suggested, even taunted to write about wine. Only wine.
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)
More peace, spiritual assembly, and meaningful movement.