For better part of this morning, I had the tasting Room to me, my Self. A note I scribbled:
-Something so distinguishably artistic and peaceful about an unoccupied tasting Room. Granted, yes, it’s more lively and of more Literary activity, theatrical, with characters about, on its stage. But the soothing notes spilling through the speakers, the fire, the low clouds encircling trees on the other sides of these walls, those I see through the patio windows, antagonizing, when alone. I’m taunted to dream, savor this incomparable industry and wine life. Wine moments are incredibly delicious with loved ones, and of course wine on palate. But, they are also savorily standing by one’s Self, merely in a pleasantly jolting still. Like now. Not preoccupied with sales, following procedures. Just now, this Now, my Now.
It’s difficult for me to rehash the scene, recapture it. But I don’t think I need to. This one note reminds me what happened. I know what it means, to be alone, in a gorgeous existential capsule, that tasting Room. Now, here in the home study, sipping the ’07 Claret, I listen to rain, its audible traces, both on ceiling and street. Need more moments, time slivers and shakes, from different portions of the world’s collective plain. Need money for that. Having another reflective stretch now. Unexpected, refreshing. Hoping the drops continue.
Another pour of this blend, prolonging the meditation’s demise. Again, thinking of the rains I embraced in Paris, how the French pavements boasted their newness to me through lunar concert. Need to get back to the capital, to those breads, wines, cheeses. The characters, the time difference, the compounding novelty delivered in minute clusters. The art presence, how could I forget that? Even the flight over, as drainingly sluggish as it seemed, remarkable. I want it again, again. That’s what this moment, now, in this Room, my study, a moment involving sips, orders of this aging poet.
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