Sauvignon Blanc, the rest in my glass. On my mind, how the same brain was narrating when I woke at 4:30-something this morning. Odd, as I listened to mySelf narrate random observations, sentiments. I guess that’s a symptom of being a writer. Today, at NWG, I remember writing about it in the Comp book. The pineapple in this glass, further poignancy. In my SB, I’d tone down the overt tropicality, and hope to convey a fluid, slightly oaked, flirtatiousness. Hate when I come to a stall. Could be from the long day, last night’s run. Not sure what to target with these key punches.
Found something, from memory... All the questionably competent characters I’ve met, owning their own business. If they can follow-through, why can’t I? Too hard on Self, I reason. As my sister said, “Don’t second guess yourSelf.” And I won’t, with this first publication, or anything, ever. Messaged the sister professor about our wine, she responded it’s still a waiting game at this point, for malo to finish. Can’t wait to take a taste in April, or sooner. Don’t think winemaking’s off the radar. It most certainly isn’t. Another sip of this Sauv reassures me the barrel’s evolving with sweet swagger. Comically coherent, complementarily.
Ready for bed. Dreams of my books on shelves, Sunriver, my Cab, Kelly. Friday, tomorrow, awaited more than the last. IS that possible? Oh yes. The next sip, more green apple than I remember. The acidity laments the dialogue between pour and palate. 9:54p, how did it get so late? Feel like time will be my ever-scenic malady, foe. The last sips, remaining, waiting. Do they fear my scrutiny? Probably...not. New developments in the wine world for me, but I’m not interested in typing them. And, believe, please, you shouldn't want to read them, if you’re still reading. Sip, slight...bright delight, artistic juggle. Interesting. That’s settled then, my next wine. A Sauv B, Katie and I.