Monday, June 20, 2011

Journal, 6/20/11, Monday [from Composition Book]

Another night, hot.  Just me, this 2010 stainless Chard, Sonoma County.  No Kelly.  Wondering how this weather pushes her art, those sketches she always discloses to me.  This blog, soon shut.  What from there?  Only books, hopefully.  I’ll have another blog, probably.  I just won’t allow it to eat as much time--as many words, pages, syllables, rimes, thoughts ... PAGES!--as mikeslognoblog.  This Chardonnay, all I need with this invading summer.  Learned that tomorrow’s frame begins the first day of Summer.  Before my camera knows it, it’ll house stills of tiny green grapes.  Veraison.  Then swollen purple puppies.  Was going to pop one of the ’08 Syrahs I have downstairs, but the crisp Burgundy begged.  Glad it did, that I gave in.
Gathering characters, this past weekend, in the tasting Room.  Especially at the event on Saturday’s eve.  How does wine make the occasion, give it a truly unrivaled set of strands?  Saturday’s events demonstrated, showed me, that my years-old stubbornness with wine’s significance, it, the bottles themselves, making an event a time bundle to cherish, never to release from memory, may be quite founded.  Too many commas in that sentence, but you see what I’m saying.  Wine, what makes me tumble with these words.  The characters sipping.  One guy, a wine club member, one of the nicest guests with whom I’ve interacted in years, coming out from Florida to visit his favorite winery, made me see much with characters, their connection to the counter.  To us behind its oddly green surface, pouring the pours.
Time for another pour of this Chardonnay, speaking of.  Lovely, still.  Crisp, clean, consistent.  Surprisingly flavorful, staunchly savory, for a stainless steel Chardonnay.  Not sure how my sister pulled this off, but nonetheless thankful.  Only missing element, scenery change.  With her.  Kelly.  Need to be on a cruise, or at some Napa resort.  With her.  Her.  OR, in Sunriver, at the lodge, looking out at a night soaked Mt. Bachelor.  This last pour, the night’s cap, telling me to escape, not to care if it’s the responsible or “professional” thing to do.  Sipping, listening to what else it casts.  What would she say?  Would would be Her words?

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