End of day. Not sure how much I’ve written, word-count-wise, but I’m assured it’s up there. Coffee made for morrow. Ready, ready for all to change. Done with last glass of sparkling, and the writer just thinks, looks right at the xmas tree, knows he needs a nightcap of something, but what.
Better as a standalone wine than a blending agent. There’s nothing that mirrors it, in terms of personality and texture, reverb and its played chords. The conversation of PS is hardy, dark, forceful. But, there’s a certain romance to its flavorous rhythms and feel. Its own music, smile, conversation and portrait. Why just blend that away? Why not let the beauty stand on its own? Each time I sip a Petite, that’s well done of course, I’m reminded why wine is meant to be in my frame, why I’m meant to converse with it and why wine’s expansive echo will always find me.
of collection and assortment of ideas this morning. Sitting in the back room, that conference-y room and table at the back of the Hopper Avenue Starbucks. Not sure where I wanted to go with this sitting, no real aim, just some time to self. So I can have more sense of self, somehow. Year comes to an end, we also get one year older… but that’s the wrong perspective I’ve found. And resolutions? Why wait for the new year? Why not now? One of my “resolutions”, or really plans (inferring I’m really going to do it rather than note some idyllic resolution), is that I’m going to take more pictures. More photography. More scenes and scapes and characters captured with a lens. Not just on my phone but with a camera. Photography has always gripped me. Pictures, images, the visual that you’re just drawn to and kept by. The scene here, a Friday stage– people waiting for the weekend and talking about what they’re going to do over the next two days. “We’re going to my mother-in-law’s…” one lady says, while another man is on some business call I’m guessing, earphones in and speaking into some small white rectangle somehow harnessed to the right cord. Do they know I’m listening? Another man sits down with his laptop at one of those tall-boy tables and starts typing, and angrily. Is he finishing a novel? Is he a writer? Why do I care?
One more sip of the coffee and I swear I’ll leave.
I left right after that sip and arrived here in Dry Creek about an hour ago, maybe a bit less. And, all I want to do is walk around out there in the vineyard and take pictures, scribble notes in between the rows, let myself just absorb and be absorbed by everything. The life of this “wine country” we live in is out there, pervasively and intrinsically in the vineyard. So why am I not out there now? Well, technically, not even technically but actually I have quite a bit of work to do here, writing and other. But on the time I have for “lunch” I will do anything but lunch. I’ll be active, I’ll make use of my moments, I’ll be out there in the vineyard taking pictures and scribbling and if not then just walking around out there. Why not? I always think of how many people would kill to have a workplace and environment like this around them as much as I do. You know?
Still have my coffee, sipping slow, staring out the window at Dry Creek, at a large block of vines. Not even sure what I’m looking at, what type, but I know I love what I’m looking at. Orange, red, yellow, brown, all doused about and in fog. I’m just looking… This counts as work, right? No? Don’t care. I’m just going to keep gawking, looking like I’m a tourist from Kansas, in wine country for the first time. Funny, though, I do feel like I’m here for the first time. In love with what I see. I will get out there, soon, sooner than soon, and just look and walk, yes take a couple shots but my fiercest aim is to just be out there, walk around, smell the air, watch the fog and low clouds arrive then burn off and rush away. Done with coffee now, need lunch. Or just the walk. Hate to sound like a record completely broken but that walk sounds splendid.
Everyone wants to sound a certain way, I feel, rather than just talking, conversing about wine and sharing ideas and insights, what they taste and not in a superficial or snobby way. When you sip your wine, the empirical focus should be on the wine and your connection to the wine, nothing else. If you want to talk about what you’re tasting or what notes you pick up, it should be for fun. And if you’re in the industry and you’re discussing it with colleagues or your fellow tasting room-ers, than there should be no trying-to-sound-like’s. Wine communicates with us, honestly and with whatever flavors are primary to its character. There is no competition, it just wants to share its identity. While we sip wine, and if we choose to talk about what we taste, why don’t we all try to just sound like ourselves, delight in the wine we poured ourselves, and live. Use your language, use your words, enjoy your time with the wine.
Is this the best Grenache I’ve ever had? I don’t know. I want to say yes but I’m hesitant– why the balk? Why? Okay, it is. Met Steve, the winemaker and owner of Les Caves Roties de Pente, the other day at an event at the Sonoma County Fairgrounds and he was convivial enough to trade a bottle with me. This purposive of Grenache has more palate push and texture, communicate fruit and completion than other Grenache scenes I’ve seen.. Metamorphic and metered, more verse in the glass, prompting me to be more free and riled in my literary lean. This wine is perfect for a poet/essayist/songwriter like I. So, I fly into this wine further, more conversation code, rattled, from its fruit yodel as oxygen swings and digs into its tasty luminary. Les Caves Roties de Pente, catching me with its storytelling stride and tasty candor. So many I’ve heard call Grenache “the poor man’s Pinot”. Well, they haven’t had this. This bottle is defiant, delicious, something the over-heralded winemakers should study. Interested in a way I am NEVER with other varietals. I nearly feel indebted to Steve, for providing the most enriching wine education I’ve embraced in years. Need another glass–
A Merlot that is more than the stereotype, it negates the stereotype which is an unruly pin. From the dark smokey olfactory lean to the encompassing palate. Fruit and structure, conviction and demanding dialogue. Forget that it’s a Merlot, if you have an edge against Merlot. This was a voice from wine I needed to hear– sincere conviction, sauntering across and beyond my senses with melodic ardor. Near and distant, dark and light, a delicious dichotomy with syllabic syncopation in profile and its mise-en-scène sense. Rich and deep with presence and its beat continues into the next sip. Self-personifying in a way that most Merlots can’t be.
While finishing the first glass, before even thinking of pouring a second, I stared at the bottle, the artful adornment on all sides, varying colors and balances and suggestions. Was nothing but a savory spell, this 2012 from Meeker, a producer I haven’t sipped from or visited in a while. This wine defined the night’s writing session and how I closed the day. Just the story I needed, just the galaxy I wanted to meet, and the ghostly wave I knew Merlot could always bestow.