Was going to shoot a podcast, but that wouldn’t suit. Not at all. Behind the counter, St. Francis, can even remember all the incredible characters that through the doors strolled. Iowa, Texas, Southern California, the electrically eager students from my alma mater, Sonoma State. Happy birthday, Emily, and peace to your crew. Come again, soon. The varietal/bottle of the day, had to be the ’06 Malbec. What a palate presence, food pairing potential.
Alongside the crew today; Wes, Karen, Robert, Rony (The Essence). More than luminous. Each day in this vinoLit Life, something gained. Heard so many interpretations of the Merlots, Malbec, the Cab I have breathing on the kitchen counter over there.
The vineyards, rising in the their prominence, the postcard posture. Hard to capture such in sentence. But, one word: GREEN. Gorgeous. Made me think of all that winemakers truly do. What they provide for us, consumers. Those wines, behind the counter at St. Francis, the product of actual genius. How much longer do I have to wait to sip that ’08 Cab on the counter?
Another existential landscape this shift made me appreciate: actuality’s brevity. That’s why I chose to write reaction to the day, not film some trite technologically-dependent episode. While filming, I could be writing. And guess what, reader, I am. First glass of Cab, at side. Dark, erotic quandary, enigmatically intrusive, flavorably invasive.
At home, thinking about tomorrow’s shift, its offerings. But you know, honestly, I’d rather it be a surprise. I’d rather be gifted writing material, rather than expect a certain gravity. Was invited to go out tonight. Socialize, have a couple drinks at some shanty Santa Rosa spot. But what would that do for me, the wine writing; The Work? Would that get my book on the shelf faster? The consciousness stream, collecting momentum. In the glass: dark earthy berries, briery boldness, smoky style, tamed tannin. Sexy Cabernet. Why do I keep returning to her? She’s solved me, this poet’s undercurrent.
Glad I decided against the camera, elected composition. Allergies, attacking me. But the Cab’s pour me protects. This studio session reflects the day’s flavor flutter. All affirming. Now in this glass, a galloping spice armada. Why do I always have to talk about wine, or speak in winespeak? ‘Cause I’m a “wine blogger?” What if I just want to cruise through a glass of Cab while I pummel a page? Won’t entertain debate, possible retort. I’m forwarding as I see fit.
Tired. Unable to do anything, but enjoy the stills of the vines, the mountains behind winery. One last glass of Cab. Then, finally, dormancy. A bit of rain expected, but not enough to spawn a special scribe session. But in this one, I again lean on the topic of my own wine. Should be it a Cab, or Pinot? Or maybe Malbec? Which grape type is most like Mike?
Mike couldn’t wait for the immersion under those sheets, just inches to his left. He wished she were with. But there were just wishes. Now. He knew, later, he’d write more ideal reality. Ideality. He sipped the last. Wished he could kiss her like he’d been lost weeks, after crash. Ideally, he’d swarm with her after lowered lids.
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