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...”