Tonight, family gathered. Wine paired with a meal, two bottles, actually. An ’05 Syrah, and an ’06 Merlot from Santa Cruz. Never had these bottles before. This is what I was writing about yester: EXPLORATION, whimsicality. Both bottles puppeteering in their prominence. Marvelous monsters, both. True palate ballads. The Syrah, provided a wise character; one providing guidance, education in presentation and verisimilitude, voracity. Not what I would expect from an ’05 Sonoma Coaster. The ’06 Merlot, illustrative, imaginary. NO, illusionary. A ghost. Happily haunting my reality. Wish I had more to sip. No more, thanks to the table’s characters. Including Self. Now that I’m home, in the office, I’m trying to revisit the contact. Unable. Only removedly reflective. So I’ll sip this Carignane, to rehash.
What surprises me about wine’s ability to co-mingle characters, its consistency in doing so. That Merlot, its match with the Syrah, how all at the table stated their favoritism. One over other. Not with vexing vein. Just in fun. Conversation. Shouldn’t gatherings entail such? Just thinking about both bottles, forces me to scribble barreled fanaticism. And I swirl in such. For bottles like this night’s. In the chair, sipping Kaz’s effort, I’m tempted to turn my turn. Could I do it, make wine? Like my sis? Surely my bottles couldn’t stand with hers, but I should try, before close, to produce vinified curiosity, carelessness. What if I execute a certain cultish caress?
I want to explore more. Not just numbers of wineries. But, more so, what I entertain when sipping. Right now, with this Carignane, I see shores, cliffs. I see not here. The distant, the fantastic. The ravishingly removed. So I’ll sip again. Private tasting. Here. In this Room. Only one pour. Probably more than four ounces. In fact, I can more than assure it’s about six. IS that bad? No. It’s my night. Carrying the synergistic swells from dinner back to these stacks. The authors around this chair--Pickett, Poe, Pac, Shakespeare, Melville--order me to sip again. Again. vinoLit, at this desk. All I know. Carrying on with Kaz’s Carignane.