pensée du vin

20:14. Hate that I can’t think. In hotel. Kids asleep… A little of the Corliss left. Will have that then bed. Can’t remember what day it is in the wine shop countdown, but I’m already significantly into its write. Going mad in this hotel room. Why can’t they paint our house faster– I mean, it’s painting. I’m rude, and speaking from no experience which just makes me an asshole, and idiot. Not sure which of, more. Have to taste more wines, study more vin businesses. MAKE MORE MONEY.

Ah…. and after a slow, meaningful wave of my love, that Carliss Malbec… I’m back to my maniscript’d nuit. Quiet… but not the same as in the Autumn Walk Studio. Wife waking early tomorrow for her workout class. Hope I wake with, if anything to just write the wildest jots and maniacal lines on wine, SHE pushing me to write this way.. this tempo and rhythm and compliment to second, day, dream, hour ever.

Defining her.. I’m not concerned with if it’s possible. The possibility/plausibility, any likelihood of cementing a definition isn’t true concern to this writer. More an exploration– but that sounds too familiar.. then what am I doing with wine, purposing so much of my life to her– writing, time in the tasting room, social moments, photography, family, and whatever else. What is the intention, whether conscious or un-? Before I can “define” her, I have to know ‘why me’, first. Why am I sipping her now in this hotel room? Why did I spend over 8 hours at a winery, today? Why am I not putting more into education, teaching at the JC? Can I define me? Or, am I mostly connotative composition?

She’s the ignition behind this inquiry. The lights to a contemplative Road. Think the Malbec’s gone… what am I feeling. Not lachrymose but… I don’t know. What– Could I describe it? Will I? No… keep writing, like Brian told me. I will. And I don’t really hope at all I find anything. Especially not an answer. And all forbid a bloody definition.

MOCK SOMM

Last night’s offering…  A revisit of sorts.


Colorful in its approach and landing— for the music lover in all of us, with its wild berry syncopation and spice-assumed paradiddles, the narrative in this bottle is energetic, scattered and coherent— flirtatious form with gorgeous candor and decision.  She sings from those maple licks and rose airs and lovingly fragrant plumes as the glass’ bowl greets you, smiling antagonistically.

The story from this bottle urges temperament and also a rush through the atmosphere sequencing— she stays with you, not so much teaches but encourages, playful shoves across senses and scenes.  Mad, in a way that provokes you to Road— driving to this vineyard to see what else is written for you.

wine sketchez

Ramey Wine Cellars – 2014 – Syrah – Sonoma Coast

Laid-back Syrah…  Just what I needed after a long day.  Light, foggy, coastal fruit with that flirtatious ghostly edge.  Something you need to just speak to you with light blueberry and caramel carousels.  I sipped and just thought about the day, honestly, and I have this wine to credit for that.  One of the few times where the wine made me forget about the wine–  It ORDERED me to forget, just resign myself to the Now I was in.  I heard the bottle’s dialogue sing and speak to me through light but convincing texture.  It’s a song, a saunter, charm and atmosphere to itself.  There was something there in that bottle, in that translation of Syrah, that calculated my consciousness and flew past and around my rationale with unusually understated but poignant dynamism and capability.  After three sips I noticed a cherry-like subtle smatter but then it away skipped like a coquettishly phantasmic vixen.  I kept sipping.  I was done with my day and more relaxed than I could have measured.

wine sketchez

Schug Winery – 2012 – Merlot – Sonoma County

img_7869Easy-going Merlot with that jazz that I look for in any wine.  And it’s not the Merlot type that so many self-sworn “experts” just want to write away with disgruntled barbs and obnoxious dismissal.  This bottle shows rounded and eclectic palate presence with an unusually convincing fruit structure entailing cherry, blueberry, a little strawberry and mint-chocolate.  Soft grip and a tremolo’d finish that’ll carry you to the next sip.  Not what people think of, or what they’re told to think of (what I find happens most often), when Merlot comes up in discussion or is poured at the table.  This wine shows speed and swagger, sense and syllabic sensibility.  Its own language and sound form.  One of those Coltrane solos that you replay over and over while driving down Highway 1, window down, where you smell the ocean, where the ocean talks to you through phantasmic breezy shoves.  After about 40 or so minutes open inviting oxygen down through neck, she starts to narrate what Sonoma is entirely about— elegant approachability.  No vanity, only a story and conversation through Bordeaux’s always shoved cast member.  It’s relaxed disposition is just what makes it un tel amour.

wine sketchez

Via Guisti Winery – 2015 – Vermentino – Carneros/Sonoma County

Not really one who chases Vermentino, but I found this one on a local wine list, at a localimg_7145 restaurant while out to dinner.  I didn’t know what to expect but I was irrevocably riveted by all sensory approaches, the paradiddles that sang to the palate… vanilla and orange, lemon and banana, pineapple.  This was not a wine that was trying to be safe, or mainstream.  It wanted to be honest with its narrative, tell a new turn in Vermentino’s volume and place, character and voice.  I kept sipping till dinner, nearly ordered another glass but had to refrain.  Been haunted ever since.  Wish I would have had just one more glass.  What I remember most was the texture of the wine and how it so luminously complimented the flavor complexion.  Maybe now I will hunt this varietal, but I’m fearful.  How could any other interpretation have this magnetic degree?  I don’t want to obsess over that, just want to remember what I tasted, how it taught me something about Vermentino and myself as a wine pursuer.  Easily one of the most pedagogical and enveloping white wines I’ve ever encountered.  And I have to laugh, as it just found its way to my life, my story, my writing.  You can never know what to expect in this wine stage, and Via Giusti’s enigmatically ethereal bottle reminded me of just that.  I left the restaurant more than enamored.  I was in longing, curious, writing in my head what I’d do if I had a bottle when back home.

Loop Do a True 

Frustrated with myself as I wanted to post a piece I wrote about Emma, earlier, but this evening is about a vent, a shelling of sorts.  Nothing negative, just that needle-esque candor.  Right now on floor of bottom floor of Autumn Walk Studio sipping night’s cap and thinking about day, how crazy it was at the winery.  How I love and loathe such momentum in tandem, how people that ask the dumbest, most self-absorbing probes of wine perturb and infuriate me— one lady today feeling the need to ask a question then use the answer as the foundation of her grievance— example: “Did this see any oak?” she asked about the Chardonnay.  “No,” I riled, “we wanted this to be clean and bright, expressive and charming.”

“Well,” she said, spilling the remainder into the pour ceramic in front of her, between us, “I like the oaky Chards, this is too thin.  Why didn’t you use new oak?” I dodged the question and told her something that made her feel more empowered so she’d shut the fuck up.  ‘It’s wine for fuck’s sake’, I thought.  Why do people get like this over wine, and I have to be honest it’s less than a percent of people walking through that front door-set that have such demeanor and lean.  I always watch from behind that bar, writer I be, to see what I see.  You have these presuppositions at times, we all do, but you never know.

Already I can feel myself getting lazy on this Studio’s bottom floor, and I haven’t even lifted the night’s capping of captain cappings.  So now what do I do, with this time to myself, after getting up when I did with daughter, then soonafter son— the writer’s a pretzel, self-promulgated in prose promiscuity, yodeling from this idea to that, and I get more frustrated with self.  So how is this helping.  I think of the vineyard walk I took yesterday, how if I were the owner I’d be doing the same thing as the current owner.  True acuity and familiarity with the property, telling a story.  It’s all a story, a zooming and tangibly scenic story-set.  I’m relaxed but not, as I see again how life’s shortness motivates us.  I’m angry, but then I’m not.  I refuse to smoke from negativity’s cig.  I’m here, now, downstairs, the fridge going mute, and me finally having a whale upon which to write.  Yes, each moment I can write while having two babies is like joyriding a whale, in the middle of the Pacific.

I’m okay now, with not touching the Emma piece.  I’ll get to it tomorrow.  Typical writer procrast’—  So now harm in my creative skin or waves, telling tide.  What’s going to happen tomorrow at the winery, who will ask what?  WHAT?  Feel like I need to know now so I can have some witty fucking response.  The wine industry’s like a circus, then like a business, then like a riot, then like a war.  Which facet do I better like?  Not sure.  You know what, curtly, I’d rather write about my daughter.

(8/27/16)