Random 1999 Merlot

Not in the mood to do anything, but be idle.  This ’99 wakes me, revives the scribe.  Deep notes.  A delectable dampness to the berry, spice, licorice.  Mint, scattered chocolate.  The finish, hovering about my spine.  Appreciating age.  And not just for fact my birthday was 2 day in rearview.  This stemless pour makes me remember what I was doing in 1999, this month, day.  I was finishing Foothill College, Los Altos.  Preparing for Sonoma State’s English Department, where I met Gillian, Bob (R.I.P.), Sherril.  Wine, capsuled time.  This bottle stops me.  Sits me down.  Conference.  Colludes with me, for composition.

Time, always taunting our pens.  That’s why I feel lazy in editing my manuscript 2nite, ‘cause I wonder, “What’s the point?  What if the editor doesn’t like my words?  Who is he to critique my speak?” Again, what I’m after with these vinoLit sorties: AUTONOMY, true SOVEREIGNTY.  In 1999, Fall, SSU, I met Bob Coleman.  He order Individualism of this author.  Now that he’s ethereally anchored, I’m solitary with these entries, this stance.  Shouldn’t say that, as Dad speaks just as piquantly.  He told me, long before SSU: “If you don’t think for yourself, others will think for you.” This 1999 Merlot brought about all this retrospect.  That’s what wine catalogues, rosters: sequence, details, appreciation, people, MOMENTS.

Now, a rich, sweet, provocative leather about the 12 year old bottle.  But in wine years, she’s 24.  She’s tenacious, having her own aims when colliding with particular palates.  With writers.  Not so still anymore.  This old bottle brought me to life.  Maybe she’s 36, in pour years.  Not sure what to think of her right now.  Time, 9:22p.  I remember looking at the clock earlier 2nite, holding onto the time I saw, 7:42p.  Time, a diligent devil.  I’ll give it that.  But this Bordeaux ghoul assures me, my sentences.

[5/31/11, Tuesday]

One-Legged Editing

After not getting much more than four hours of dream in night preceding, I’m not in much mood for editing an ignition chapter.  THE ignition chapter.  To my first novel.  Another jab that further exhausted the writer, all the uncovered blunders.  Some weren’t uncovered at all.  They were as obvious as the concrete crack on your daily walk.  I need a night to me.  To this log.  And if I do decide to edit, it’ll be when I open that ’99 Merlot.  That’s right, I’m dipping in the bottle catacomb.  Bought it months ago.  Hope it still projects posture, a particular palate presence, gravity.  Even if it fails, eventuates a flat fall, it’ll be an entry.  Relieved to be back in bunker.  SipNscribble ... 

[5/31/11, Tuesday]

Night Note, A Van Gogh Stroke

Bright, this pour.  Zinfandel, Napa.  How possible?  Not sure.  But I’m drinking the possibility.  Chapter One, done.  Editing tomorrow, while on lunch at NWG.  I’m right there, at the toll plaza, I know.  Nearing fruitful flux.  My implemented incantation, beckoning moment.  Sipping to what I know, and of which all momentarily be spectators, readers, viewers.  Locked.  Thanking the wine.  The Silver Oak from a few nights past.  That’s what truly told me.

Spoken work, on the page.  Wine, not at all poetic.  More, mesmerizingly scattered.  That’s the Aesthetic all need to at least see.  Such song, what makes the mind type, write.  May lose sleep over thoughts of how the morning’s photos’ll result.  What it’ll do to the page, these rhymes, my recital.  Mikey, a marvelous mess, 2nite.

[5/30/11, Monday]

1 Day Into 32nd

The ideas keep coming.  Lovely.  Must be these new pictures, with the new camera.  The vines, vibrant, as joyous as this writer on his day off, this Memorial Day.  Feeling peaceful in this new number.  And that’s all it is, truly.  The wine bar beats, more magnetic than yesterday, if that’s believable.  Tomorrow morning, leaving early, as to capture early rays on the vines.  MikeMadigaWineMedia, coming to life, and this new device, only accelerating idealized actuality, creative & vocational autonomy.  Not just the business, but the writing.  Responding to these photos, a bottomless crater of creativity.  Can’t believe how green the leaves are here in Sonoma Valley.  Hopefully this overcast will retreat, and soon sun the sky secretes.  Four days this week at NWG.  Learning so much, it’s almost frightening.  Why inject that word?  I’m becoming obsessed with every quality, intricacy, of the wine business’ beautiful body.  My first affair.  Sip, sip ...

[5/30/11, Monday]

5/29/79, Tuesday

I was born.  Writer.  Music lover.  Literature obsessed.  Life lover.  Emphatic about family.  Years later, seeing wine in a way contrasting, but predominantly syncopated with others’ perceptions.  In that, wine means occasion.  Family.  A smile bundle.  Today, 5/29/11’s Sunday, 32 years later, alive.  Not merely existing.  Today, continue to write life, love, wine.  For me, family.  No more birthday blues.  Just confidence.  An assertive Aesthetic.  Raising my glass, disengaged from past.  Can’t get too reflectively nostalgic on this anniversary.  Work ahead.  A book to finish.  Money to be made.  More happiness to sip.  Like my friend Sarah said, “another year of vinoLit, a year wiser...” 

I’ll be writing4ever.  Writing for my life, like Professor Gutierrez urged after graduate school.  And this music, my 2nd Reunion with its recipe, who knows where that’ll carry me in these sittings.  Keeping the pen moving, I’ll never die.  The weather outside, highlighting Sonoma County’s encompassing character, dynamic Nature.

Feeling lyrical.  A new Creatively collective fury about me.

No need for recovery, me.  Above water, then under like a

submarine.  Too many heaping notebooks, that’s another thing.

Like a breeze through palm trees, I respond free.

Momentarily gone, see?  Bottles, obscure vertical, I want three.

10:37p.  Back from dinner.  Birthday jubilee, at end.  This one, though, unforgettable.  Going forward, all2change.  You can bet.  The more vinoLit, the more independence, the better4Mike.  Tomorrow, pictures, with this new camera.  Respond, with scribbled leaps.  Books, books, books.  On wine, wine, wine.  Its world, stage, ways.  Back at the desk, now, listening to music, sipping what remains of last night’s ’07 Napa Cab.  Staring at the ’93 on my desk.  It’s angry, I know.  Why don’t I just open it.  It’s staring me down.  Or trying to.  This writer, not shoved by an 18 year old.  Thinking of today’s tasting, in Kenwood.  How do I sparkle like those pours, with these pages?  Bright analogous predicament.  Sip, sip ... 

Tannic Tumble

The weather, confusing me, us here in the wine world.  I love the rain, nestling overcast, yes.  But, I want to see rays highlight our beloved vines, especially now as they extend madly.  Will bring my camera with today, should we visit a winery.  Alice, more excited about my birthday weekend than I.  Need to follow her lead and not be so gray, cloudy mySelf.  I’m thinking somewhere in Russian River.  Feeling Pinot-y, the day before 32.  Wish I could connect with your input, reader.  Maybe I should post something on Facecrook, see what my “friends” offer.  Maybe social media can be helpful.  We’ll see.  Feeling especially anti-social media, for a while, now that I think about it.  Smile, writer.  Enriched times ahead.  The beats it affirm, assure.  Sip, sip ... 

[5/28/11, Saturday]

Finally freewriting with the wine.  Tonight, Malbec.  Just kidding.  A 2006 Silver Oak Cabernet.  It’s my birthday weekend, so it’s the perfect warrant for such cork removal.  But, just as I release the potent potion, I tire.  This was a long week like something all so unfamiliar.  Consolidating all writings.  That’s what my characters want from their author.  To bed.  Notebook by pillow.  Book beckoning ...

[5/27/11, Friday]

2 New Wine Treasures

Little Vineyards.  Went there once, like a fool, when it was closed.  Decided to visit again, on a day I was sure they were open.  Thursday.  Did a full tasting inside, with Linda.  Each pour rattled me.  The non-vintaged Band Blend, the ’08 Syrah, ’08 Petite Sirah.  My favorite: 2008 Center Stage.  Like the formidable reds at this Little spot, tucked away scenically, serenely, to the side and behind B.R. Cohn.  Linda told me that the bar at which I was tasting came from an old bar in downtown Glen Ellen, where Jack London himself, one of my favorite novelists of ever time, used to sit, scribble, sip and smoke.  In fact, it’s rumored that the burn marks on this counter’s surface owe genesis to Mr. London himself.  

The collective profile of these reds: deep, pronounced, haunting.  Lingering.  They pushed more than a lasting impression in my mental recorder, my notebook when I returned home from my newest of winery discoveries.  Mr. London still with, as well, telling me to soon go back, buy a bottle of the Band Blend, 2008’s Center Stage.

Robert Craig.  Had wanted to taste a bottle from this winery for years.  And the other night, thanks to my longtime wine comrade, Mr. Adam Glatt.  Enjoyed a bottle of the 2008 Affinity, which is mostly Cabernet Sauvignon.  Boastful notes of blackberry, herbs, slight tobacco or cigar box, chocolate, carrying me to an animated finish.  As I understand it, this bottle, Affinity, is RC’s flagship.  Not difficult to decipher the reasoning.  This wine is provocative, textured, ravishingly redolent, and this wine writer’s terrifically assured the others at Craig’s Napa tasting salon continue such.  Looking for my phone, as I eyelessly type.  Need to give Mr. Glatt a ring.  Want some more seductive Cabernet serums on palate, brain.  I understand they have a Zin, Chardonnay, and a Cab/Cab Franc cuvee.  Another adventure, on books.  In journal.  To locate, capture, more treasure.

[5/27/11, Friday]

vinoLit, 5-24-11

Allergies aside, Wine’s side continues to deliver a memorable ride.  Finally get to taste a Robert Craig wine.  The music, paired well this podcast.  As wine is poetic, I realized while taping, it should be expected that the verse flying through the speakers would co-mingle magically.

Still reflecting on the team with which I’m so propitious to work.  Already lived the through the opposite.  And although I hated it at the time, I’m now feeling indebted, as it made me all the more appreciative.  Still sipping for what I’ve developed an instant Affinity, reflecting on my Now.  Sip, sip ...

Profiled Wine Scribe

As the night’s stance slouches, I swim in certain circles.  Those whirled in wild wine.  Napa, Sonoma?  What does it matter?  It’s like a game that never ages in appeal.  The wine, twirls the stage in unexpected ways.  Still waiting for this cursed podcast to upload.  Why am I doing this to mySelf?  This isn’t wine, certainly not writing, Literary.  This waiting for digital.  Virginia Woolf never had to shiver through this nonsense.  Capote.  This sitting, teaching me.  Robert Craig’s Cab, too.  More past authors.

10:27p.  How is that possible?  Wine may like time, as it brings grapes closer to barrel, bottle.  Not me, the writer.  When this blog sinks, the author finally flies in lines, imagist ties.  Battling between two impetuses.  Wine, writing.  Writing about wine.  Confined.

[5/25/11, Wednesday]

The OenoPhilologist’s Gist

It embodies tranquility, poetry, true Equilibrium.  Up early 2morrow morning.  Lovely.  Back2Napa, to exist in the wine’s true quarter.  Is that a dart at Sonoma’s side?  Of course not.  I’m typing on Sonoma’s mountain lean.  Thinking about the tasting Room.  Won’t fib, I miss it.  This Sunday, my birthday.  You’d expect me to take the day’s total.  but I’ll be clocked.  Pouring, writing.  Working, for the novel.  It’s almost done.  Each page, indebted to wine, wineries, their winemakers.  Wine writing, not blandly paginating wine reactions.  This wine, revolving me with predictability’s lack.  My instabilities stack.  Let me out of the barrel.  Meant 2B feral.

Pictures, Books

Finally an opportunity to freewrite.  Been scribing seriously for a submission, all day.  What’ll be in my glass tonight?  Not sure.  My mind’s not even in wine’s world, at present.  Easily over 1,000 words for the day.  Two minutes before 5p.  Should get back to the manuscript, my Literary blend.  This book, like a blend of varietals, appellations, clones, vintages, winemaking styles, and irregular barrel placements.  No book written like this before, certainly not with a pervading wine motif.  I might sound arrogant, but I’m just confident in this project.  Wine does this to me, my writing.  It makes me think of possibilities, my penned wine efforts on a shelf.

[5/22/11, Sunday]

Oenofinale

In this last entry for the day, I react to the catches.  Vineyard images.  Now, 10:42p.  My Saturday night.  An actual Saturday night.  But still, I can’t get careless, lost in these stills.  No wasting time with social media accounts.  In fact, as I sip this Meritage, I seriously self-counsel over closing such engagements.  Speaking of the current pour, glass occupier, it takes shape to which I can’t help but skate agape.  Think I may be tired of writing about wine, alongside wine.  So maybe I’ll for once sip more than I scribble.  Still aching from my run earlier.  Can’t decide if it’s euphoria, what I feel, or genuine affliction.

Either way, it’s self-induced.  Topic next, flavor profile.  Actually, no.  The vines.  That’s what I want to talk about.  How green they jump and sensitive lenses.  Was hard for me to halt in my pushing of the “take” button.  Is that what it’s called, that silver circle?  Anyway, couldn’t have cared less about the cars honking at my XA on the road’s removed bank, emergency lights jabbing.  I could just stare at these scenes like I did then, earlier today.  How do I reflect on this diagrammatic delivery, accurately, sufficiently?  What varietals grow on what I record?  Who’ll sip it, them?  What occasion’ll surround it? 

Here’s where the problem lies, when the Literary world meets wine’s time.  Excess analysis.  “It’s a vine collection, it’s wine,” one could punch.  But, to me, one from the Literary quarter, it’s a level collection elevated.  Different altitude.  I understand why people from removed parts of the country, world, sprint to our counties.  Napa, Sonoma.  Feel like I’m a figure on a game board, with this wine, the curiosity it encourages.  New notes: smoke, leathery blueberry, damp twig.  Does that make sense?  How do you voice descriptors “professionally,” universally?  Just deciding to sip a couple more, before descent.  But as I fall, on the mind, always wine, writing, wine writing, wine writing while drinking wine.  Notice I didn’t say “sipping...”

[5/21/11, Saturday]

Back from the first run in months.  Slightly depleted, but not exceedingly.  Tonight, in studio till emptiness be this scribe.  The vineyards today, had me re-thinking all I was thinking.  Tonight’s Cab, the bottle I bring to Mom and Dad’s, sure to push afflatus.  Who knows how much wine-intwined lines I’ll scribble.  This weather also encourages.  No end, today.  Not for me.

Feel like checking out M.F.A. programs.  But how would I ever fit that in?  One day, I will again matriculate, add additional degree, degrees.  Need to continue with the studies.  Maybe I’ll enroll in a wine appreciation class, something wine-connected.  The vines me remind.  So I rewind in kind, another varietal find.

Progress Report Before Vineyard Vortex

Over one thousand words for day, already.  Off to take some pics of the vineyards in the Valley, Glen Ellen.  Need a break from the studio’s encapsulation.  Not even noon.  Precisely, 11:47a.  Also on the day’s lineup: SPOKEN WORD, wine lined, from my spine.  See?  Already there.

A bit chilly, in this creative cave.  Need sun, like what goes into these bottles.  Should I go into the Room tomorrow?  Questioning Self.  Need wine’s elements around the pen, always.  Re-thinking.  Maybe the pictures’ll provide poise, peace ...

[5/21/11, Saturday]

wine range

Have come to the decision.  Not going into the tasting Room on Sunday.  This author needs two straight days of lab, connection with paper.  Deadline, Sunday night, for a submission quite significant.  Details prolonged.  Will miss the specifics of that stage, though.  Everything from empty glasses, to glasses with lipstick stamps, to the elbow puddles, to newly removed corks.  I’ll be fine with the pages, the saved images.

The beats put me, my stabilized instability, into a Wine Lounge’s cushion.  Comfortable.  Precisely what’s required, desired, after a week like the one past.  Tomorrow night’s pour, a blend.  Appropriate, as this book is such, with its hazardous turns and turbulent melodies mold me.  And readers, hopefully.

Tranquility about me.  Malbec, poetry.  The vineyards, layering in lusciousness.  Lovely.  This morning, so tempted to pull over, push the camera’s button.  Could wake early in the morrow’s blossom, charge the camera tonight.  You know what, I should, the Mendoza pour urges with its rarefied surges.  Oenological onomatopoeia, true grape fluidity.  The bottles on my desk: an ’07 Meritage, a ’93 SoCo Cab, which I think I’ve written on prior.  One to be deployed this weekend.  Saturday, a wine writing mission, but to where?  Wine, meant 2B mystery.  Have to get ready for rest, in clock’s near, even if I want to just type into distant evolves.  Will just enjoy what the glass gifts.

[5/19/11, Thursday]

vinoLit, 5/16/11

Lot of discovery in the wine world for me, of late.  New wines, incredible people.  Possibilities.  As I’ve always stated for my record, in these writings, wine is occasion.  It’s travel, it’s transcendence.  It’s growth.  Curiosity, uncaged.  More reflective tonight than I usually am after a podcast.  Maybe it’s the rain.  Or maybe I’m just glad the awkwardness of being in front of the lens is finally over.  Either way, I’m thinking, about all facets wine, sipping and scribbling.  Ceja, still in the glass.  Tastes so much more ghostly after having time to decide its approach to palate.  Multi-layered mystery.  Easily one of the best representations I’ve tasted of the classic Rhône in months, if not over a year.  Sip, sip ...

Rain Post, In-Wait

Love rain and wine.  Waiting for the podcast to upload.  And I don’t mind, the obnoxious technological stall.  Just enjoying my pours.  Surprised at how forcefully these drops descend.  Great day at NWG today, even though last night’s ’07 Mayo Cabernet followed me into the car, to Highway 12, to the office.  So, I now sip slow.  Pouring for mySelf like I do guests in the tasting Room.  One obnoxious character from yesterday still on the inner chalkboard.  Should I write about her, her entitlement?  Is she worth it?  Would she sell?  Of course she would.  It would, I hope, prompt readers to ask, “How could you be so crabby, ill-mannered, when out tasting wine?  Especially with a view like that?” The tasting Room, even the “VIP” Room, invaluably inexhaustible for these pages.

Petite Syrah Reflection

Syrah, Now Petite ... And in My Mind, Complete

Love this new arranged rearrangement.  Cozy, even more comfortably elegant than before.  And I didn’t think such was plausible, as I was already in love with place.  So was Meliss.  We decided to do a little surveillance, see the new sequence, have a glass of wine, order an app.  She started with a glass of the ever-encircling ’09 Sonoma-Loeb Chardonnay.  I went with the Alexander Valley Cab Franc blend from Farrier, 2007, as per the she jotting our orders.  Unbelievably layered, luscious, my selection, the wine mine.  Had never heard of this label before, so I asked our beatifically convivial hostess Marlaina, who I learned is also the wine navigator at Petite Syrah, about this AV faction.  She informed me of levels all, even bringing the bottle out for me to appreciate.  Had never had a host, hostess, provide such, accommodate quirks like this wine writer’s.

Terrifically taken aback by the decor, acoustics, menu arrangement, and of course the wine, we just conversed on the change.  We both like the shift, thought it Lounge-y, more inviting, with a pervasively tranquil angle.  For our starter, we elected the Fingerling POTATOES: Crisped / Parsley / Cara Cara Aioli.  “How unique, or riveting, could this be?” I asked mySelf.  I thought of this as a bit of a test, for this new concept.  What could they do with Fingerling Potatoes that would rattle a critical palate like mine?  Well, I was jolted jubilantly.  No, I was humbled.  I was silenced.  Put in my place.  Incredible texture, flavor coherence, plate presentation.  And the aioli, a dipping narcotic, believe me.  A bonus, it paired quite well with my ’07.

Still in love with this spot on Santa Rosa’s 5th Avenue.  Further infatuated.  Next time we’re back, I’ll be getting another deluge of that Farrier, and the Hanger Steak that I saw the couple to the right of us enjoying.  Encompassingly, expectations trumped.  Glad Syrah went Petite.  As my adoration of this delicious structure, now on imagination repeat.  Another wine location for Mellis, mySelf.  Sipping, thinking about sipping there.

So what’s the tasting Room delivering for this wine scribe, today?  Need new characters, even though sometimes I think I’ve seen everything.  Need to make a list of visitors’ origins, to start.  This rain should provide some valuable camera snaps.  Can hear it now, taunting me through an exhausted ceiling.  Now, 9:26a.  Wine Lounge beats paired with early rain.  Perfect for Literary ignition, creative wine visionary cognition.

Part of me wants to stay home.  The other knows it’s better if I’m in the tasting Room.  For the work.  For the work, that being the BOOK.  The rain, escalating in passion.  Why does rain couple so optimally with WINE thoughts, the succeeding writing?

[5/15/11, Sunday]

Wine Stills, Rediscovered

Love finding wine photos about which I forgot.  I stare, remember the surroundings.  The shift that day in the tasting Room.  In my glass, some sparkling, listening to random rain.  Wings of ideas frenzying like the bubbles I’m sipping.  15 days more, till I pass through another door.  Tomorrow, with cameras, the little notepad, which I finally got around to buying.  Went to a new restaurant tonight.  Don’t have the energy to write about it here, in this session.  It deserves a ready wine writer.  Not me, right now.  I stumble with sluggish sentence, spacing in stills.  Hope this rain’ll follow me tomorrow, to the vine views ...

[5/14/11, Saturday]

Wine Riming, Me, Randomly

Pour to doors.  No score, anymore.

Scared of this chair’s stare.  My poor 

sessions, tear anywhere.  Different 

bottle type, for Mike.  Hold pen and lined

sheet tight.  No reason to fight.  Resort to

insight.  Others manuscripts.  Others’ lectures

hand you slips.  All lies, I’m supposed to be the 

fall guy, the one writing about wine.  Define my time

in fined rime.

No picture for this post.  Just expression.  Relief, rejuvenation, replenishment.  Two days off, after the 12 day stretch.  Tomorrow, I promise a more textured, complex, entry from me.  That ’93 Sonoma Valley Cab, on my desk.  Staring at her right now.  And she returns lenses, not even for eyelash lap.  What do I sip in front of her?  That same Malbec I always do when at keys.  She, my gracing Cab, isn’t the least bit intimidated by this brief episodic interaction with the less-gravitated Malbec.  This ’93, knows what she’ll deliver to me.  Her magic appreciates; Her story compiles.  She’s confident, night, storm and serenading symphony.  Her voice slides in sequence from the bottle, without it opening.  How does she do that?  Can wait till she’s poured, and we truly connect.

Varietal of night, Merlot.  ’07, Santa Cruz Mountains, for dinner with Mom and Dad.  They told me the tasting Room isn’t far from the hospital at which I was introduced to stage.  Made me think.  About everything.  Time.  How this month I’ll be another more aged.  Have to be a Literary Wine Warrior.  Only way to appreciate, delight in, this day.  This 07’s profile: Melodically deep, raspberry, harmony tannins with exhibitive mint and cocoa chords.  Incredible resonance after sip.  I, as a pen mover, envy this wine’s stature, swagger. 

I think about a Chardonnay I had the other night.  Not sure why.  Wait, now I do.  It surprised me, with its tenacious tenor; its lees-laced play.  I remember thinking, “Why did I order this?” Glad I was surprised, unintentionally jolting Self.  Tired, after the day.  Still haven’t taken pictures of the vines, neither to nor from NWG.  And, as it happens, it is sure to rain, so sayeth the weather basket-cockle.  So I may have to wait for that morning forward of cosmic beams to deliver vineyard splendor.  I’ll have to wait.  Sipping more Merlot till then.

Script Grape Drip

Don’t want to wait for this camera to “sync,” for the photos.  Why does this “wine blog” have to have pictures?  Why can’t it be a book, with a URL?  Can’t believe I even addressed that in this entry.  Tomorrow night, opening a ’94.  Is it a ’94?  Can’t remember.  Could go into the kitchen and remove that tissue paper.  But I feel like that would be violation.  Want to be true to this writing of wine like makers of wine would be loyal to their samples.  Feel like I represent the world of wine like those in “the industry” for years aren’t able to.  Merging the Literary, the Oenological.  That’s how I’ll 4ever continue.  Just like the Exchange of Ideas with Dad, 2nite, all cerebral flashes slide through thrown corridors.  And the varietals, multitudinous, shield Self.  This moment, here, in the day’s last hour, why I desire a wine’s time, as it does mine.  Clocking out.  

7:19p, punching in, this tired writer.  This morning, on the way to NewWineGig, felt the urge to pull over, take pictures of brightened already-cinematic vines.  But couldn’t.  In return to this wine inkman’s hole, saw similar brilliance.  But no reaction, even with camera holstered.  Had to get home.  To the page.  Not fair.  No fun, responsibility.  Want to write, create, freely.  I remember a winemaker one time telling me he hated how he couldn’t make the wines he wanted, he had to follow a piggish self-anointing marketing department’s commands.  Correlations pulsating, to me.

Haven’t eaten yet.  Dinner, kitchened.  Pairing last night’s 2006 Malbec with a couple enchiladas.  Not trying to be a sommelier with this meal.  Just fed, content.  Not sure if this part of the night’s flight will make it to the blog.  But most permanently, the book.  The words, still fermenting, being added, to the despicable online barrel.  Shouldn’t say that.  I’m just impatient, and can’t wait for my bottle-bothered blurbs to be on collated pages.  Now, feeling free, finally.  With the exception of time’s constriction.  It won’t stop.  Need another Malbec malaise.  Tomorrow, need to force the Self to jump from mattress early.  What time suites?  5:50a, 6, 6:05?  Maybe I could keep the 6:15a set, but prepare things tonight.  But that will carve into my scribe time.  Time, taunting.  Malbec ...

Decided I do want to make my own wine.  With Katie, the ever-oenowizard little sis.  Cabernet, Alexander Valley.  Someone at the Pinot summit a few months ago told me that all I need to start my own label is $5.  Can’t remember the specific context, but I splashed in such optimism.  Still hungry.  Will think about this over some more munchies, muddled with Malbec.  Maybe I should produce a blend of Cab and Mb.  Not sure how that would turn out.  Maybe I’ll never know.  I’d be fine with a cult Cab.  A Sonoma County cult Cabernet.  First of its phylum.  Tremendous.

The Malbec. becoming timid, elusive, ghostly.  But still libidinous.  Love this character in the glass.  She swoons, swerves, switches mode to push my intrigue.  Now, all more liberated.  I’m colorfully chaotic, a reader might note in their response journal, or in the margin.  What is your pen putting to the paragraph’s side?  High grape tide.  This wine, begging help, from rain, of all movements.  That’d be good for the vines, in their staged stage.  I think.  I hope.  The weather idiot said, last night, that rain approached.  Soon, actuality told.  Just envisioning these Wine Lounge beats, a glass of AV Cab, or Napa’s, orchestras of pleasant precipitation.  Writing.  Seeing it, now.  I’m there.  But here, thinking about writing about being there.  Malbec ...

Time galloping by like angry drunk horses.  Write through it, Professor Coleman would order.  And I’d follow.  Wholeheartedly.  Earlier today, tasted some Syrahs and Pinots, and one SauvB, from Chile.  Average, collectively.  Nothing about the bottles’ characters taunted me, or even suggested a hint of discovery.  Well, there was one Syrah that had such a fiery black pepper nose that you had to sip, to meet what followed.  But, a lack of Equilibrium encountered.

(5/10/11, Tuesday)

Ideal Tasting Room: John Anthony, Downtown Napa

Another delicious dwelling in Napa’s downtown.  As soon I entered the sleekly chic structure, the eyes swim in the simplistically elegant aura.  Colors, shapes, acoustics.  And the hostess with a spell about her every syllable, Tessa.  She started me off with a Sauvignon Blanc, 2009, Napa Valley.  Luminous, luscious.  One of the most assertively resounding SB’s I’ve in some time sipped.  Tessa next set before the writer a cunning cosmological constant of an amuse bouche plate.  Cheeses, salami slices, crackers.  Next, to the reds.  Felt like I didn’t need anything else, as I was already catatonically afflicted with all surrounding ingredients.

I love wine lounges, as readers know.  And this is what I envision whenever I mentally escape to such a soothing Room.  Can’t believe it actually exists, I remember thinking.  And with such lasciviously layered wines.  I sipped.  Didn’t want to stop.  Reds, vixens, all. The Syrahs, the Cabs, the ’05 Reserve, with that incredibly entrapping label done by Tessa’s tasting Room-mate Rozi, whom I also had the delight of meeting that day.  Had another sip of the Coombsville ’06 Cabernet.  Dark with waves of chocolate berry supernovas, with a somehow subtle, yet lingering, summation.  Tessa told me more about the producer, Mr. Anthony, showed me around the Room.  Loved the aft quarters, intentionally removed for private tastings.  Again, this is what I’ve before fantastically constructed as a tasting Room of mine own.

Definitely returning soon.  Not just for the alchemically incomparable wines, my new friend Tessa, but the integrality of the experience, the tasting Room.  John Anthony’s base, deserving the capital in “tasting Room.” Downtown Napa, another escape, for the writer.  Thinking of that phantasmic Sauv Blanc right now.  Could use a sip.  This is a perfect after-work spot, mind you.  A treat for all of us loving Napa, fortunate to work in its aorta.  Places like this make me fall even deeper into this troublesome treat of tryst with wine.  A space, its symphony of nuances and notes, suggestions, provocations, the pragmatic panaceas in the bottles.  I don’t need anything else.  John Anthony, one of the producers that’s sure to keep your oenological infatuation, adoration, afloat. 

(5/9/11, Monday)