Writing is a bit painful today. Why can’t I stop? Don’t want to teach tomorrow, but I will have a successful session. I’m determined. Stanford awaits. The city of New York, also invites. Feel like my words today are lazy, stale. Is it the nap, still crawling in my components? Grouchy now. Goddamnit. It’s only 7p, what does a figure of the pen do? Need time to ponder, and not compose prose. Sometimes thoughts need to be left alone as just that, in their home. One jingle I want to expel from this brain, a return to my master’s thesis, Apocalypse in Wonderland. This world, the Now, unraveling into such a landscape.
7:21p. Where did the day go? See? A Wonderland, this Now. Still need to get ahold of some muscular Bordeaux blends, some bottled bullies. Need a wallet for such. Generating revenue, that’s what the chapbooks will do. I don’t give a fuck what critics will say, do say, did say, about such an advancement. These words, keeping me alive. Need to keep poetry in mind, allow it not to be unsung, for it is what will keep you young. Some robotic salesman came to my door earlier today. Pushy, annoying, condescending. His kind, should be gassed. Do I have any red in house? Have that Opus One, but Alice would kill me if I touched it. Don’t want to, wouldn’t, anyway. It would better with her.
7:53p. Did I mention that I was only pulses away from starting, or enabling, a podcast? I selected a host, or whatever it’s called, input my credit card. But, then, soon after, aborted. It cost me about $10, my indecisiveness, for the creation of the space. I don’t know. I was lost. Again, I am a writer, not a phony sage, pompous personality with no personality, or character. I am a creator, a charismatic and tenacious character. Of that, certain. Watching a documentary on Leopards and Tigers, how man keeps hunting, poaching them. Angers me in ways that frighten me. People that hunt rare and beautiful animals for sport, as to gather trophies, are cowards, devils. They are the ones that deserve to be hunted, put to an unfair death, although I would see it as quite fair, warranted.
8:10p. Miss my Alice, as I sip what remains of her Mondavi Chard. Still can’t believe what I saw on that documentary, about the cats. Have to shift subjects, otherwise I’ll implode. St. Francis has this new Zin, in extremely limited quantity, the Sonoma Valley Montecillo Vineyard Kaarin’s Terrace, 2007, that is unbelievable. I don’t want to write an “official” review of it, as I feel any of my wording would only wrap it in disservice. Either way, it would receive an “A,” How do winemakers flex their alchemical mastery? My sister, need to interview. When I think further, my family is unbelievably intriguing. Mom, Dad, Sis, all novels, sagas.
8:41p. This day passed me, not past me, laughing. I’m more aged than I was at 5a, when I rose. Alice’s Chard, throwing notes of orange, or nectarine. Mystery, alluring genus. Should I attempt it, with my cop character? What makes me tango with this idea? “Basic Instinct,” I confess, no pun meant. Looking at the bowl that houses the Chard. The condensation reminds me of a fine fir. Feline? Certain areas have a direction, other portions contrast. What an image. Wish you could see, dear reader. These moist patterns are impressionist, imagist, abstract. Feeling odd. Definitely in the scribe’s stance.
9:05p. Over 1500, so why am I not calm? Why am I still quite frantic? This Craft, the life and death of me, I can promise. While here, I’ll keep scribing. Scribing what? Observations, reflections, moments. BOOK ONE, approaching. Running out of the integral impetus for my objective. You know, this existence is funny, to me. What can I do...I know what I went upstairs for now, the Pac doc(umentary). What would I do, if ever sent to cage? I want to say write, but that’s easier said. Now, irresponsible. I should be asleep. Fuck that. I’m on the watch mine. Would I be able to handle “fame?” What is fame, true fame?
10:22p. Ahead if sched, or behind? I’m writing, directionless. Chapbooks on my matter, in it. Van Gough, what would he say? Wish I was back in Paris, with the famiglia. Watching “The Departed” on cable. I hate anything censored. My quick-wittedness, stalled. Loving it. Have to be under covers at 11:30p, latest. The pain of this day’s session, still in the circuitry. Why am I so spiteful towards my words? Obsessively critical as I type. People say, “You’re your harshest of judges.” Yes, of this, abundantly aware. So why do I do this? Passion, its fucking price. Wonder what my brothers from the Room are doing right now?
10:39p. Last installment for the day’s shift. Hate censorship. So very much. Won’t ever censor Self again. Consequences, I hope they find me. I must be strong, for my family, wife. IF dignity is ever given up, what does the author truly hold? ANTI, 4ever. Me, a Leopard that can never be poached, hunted. Some of my pitches are fiction, but the umbrella, a total truth. I’m circling the Self with this session. Feel like it’s karaoke. At whoso, a fine quail dish. Would need to hire a militant, magical chef. Wish I could cook. Wish the time wasn’t so progressed. I’m older than I was when I woke this early a.m. Now what do I do, reader?
11p. When I leap, I get into trouble. Leaping, fun. Trouble, even more so. Living the role of the ANTI. Always in CAPS. The title deserves such. Over 2k. How did that happen? Truthfully, the propulsion Alice provides. Ten years behind, never would have foreseen this. A real rebel of the ink, married. Alice deserves better, something more stable, I infrequently think. Why do I say that? I’m decaying, with this day. So, should I clock out? Wish I could get your survey, reader. I need you.
Remembering San Ramon, that apartment. Nice, that water in the background, how I’d keep my window open, to aid in my descent into dreams.
11:18p. Actors, yes, possess “talent.” But what about us, writers? Actors are like paintings, something you observe. The level of interpretation is quick, reflexive. I sound like an envious viper. I’m not, just scribing a thought. The wine that I taste usually, needs to be recognized, what I sip from the winery at which I work. It’s amazing. Do I have a “house palate,” whatever the fuck that means? Maybe. But I resent that term, because it discredits my wherewithal, my ability to analyze, criticize. Everyone thinks the Self so sagacious. Back to the classroom tomorrow. A different room. A deplorable plume. Need to get Self a bottle of that Montecillo Zin. Did I spell that correctly? Don’t care. Miss Alice.
11:30p. Why can’t I clock out? Am I a workaholic? Sounds admirable, commendable, what have. But it’s sick. I should be leaning into these cushions, drinking my nightcap. But I can’t. Thinking of whoso, what it would look like, what it would be like to take little Alice on a date there. Just stumbled upon an episode of “Paranormal State” on A&E. What a fucking hoax. Am I supposed to be startled by this shit? Now, some girl is crying as she recalls an accounts. Unbelievable. Do people invest in these episodes? I’m sure there’s something out there we can’t explain with mortal deduction, but this depiction is quite comical. Fuck this show. Now, a “medium” is commenting on the “energy” in a room. Wow. Maybe my notes should convey more the energy in our Room, what the guests deliver to us behind the shinny marble.
The classroom, 2morrow. One day, I will speak of a classroom for the following day, at Stanford, I promise. Failure, not in this ANTI’s future. My log, hopefully helpful in some way. Fishing, with uncle Stevie, remember it vividly. He was a passionate character, I’ll give him that. Odd, but quite determined to find a fish. He always showed Katie and I a good time, be it on river or lake. One of the last times I saw him, he shared a short story about rock climbing. Wish I had that manuscript now. Surprised at 2/16/10’s progress. My oracle, Ms. Alice. Wish she sat in this seat with me.
Looking at the winery checks. My own income, from art, need to produce, now. BOOK ONE, soon, I promise. Why am I still typing. Clocking out, making Self.
2.5k. Mecca in my malaise.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
2 a Wine Review
Imagery, 2005 Petite Verdot, Sonoma Valley.
Excellent presence. Gorgeous girl in the glass. A fox. Elegance, in the rustic, dark fruit. Leather on the nose. After letting it open on its own, the tannins are playful, somewhat passive. Not at all obnoxious. The finish reveals more dark berry, and a bit of tar, or coal, damp dirt(?). This is 100% of the Bordeaux blending grape usually added for color and tannic support. Definitely stands on its own, reveals the level of complexity of one of the blends to which it often contributes. The character of this bottle is persistent and pleasurable. Definitely going back to the artistic Room to snag more.
GRADE: A-
Enkidu, 2006, Petite Sirah, Fazekas Vineyard, Napa Valley
What I expect from a PS, dark in the glass. Spreads itself onto the palate with pepper, earth, blackberry, and a smooch of vanilla on the back and finish, slight slice of cinnamon. A strong, pervasive character. This bottle does present unique threats of development, and I say that because I love Petite Sirah, and have sampled, what seems like, a lifeload. Eniku’s PS is like a new invention in a world of repetition and regurgitation. A relief, a remedy, for me. Splendid structure. Coherent, creative, and, as I stated, quite inventive. A temptress in the glass. Liquified night of amour, romantically rough. On a less dire octave, I love the label, and this winery’s name, its connection to literature and legend. Cheers, peers.
GRADE: A-
Excellent presence. Gorgeous girl in the glass. A fox. Elegance, in the rustic, dark fruit. Leather on the nose. After letting it open on its own, the tannins are playful, somewhat passive. Not at all obnoxious. The finish reveals more dark berry, and a bit of tar, or coal, damp dirt(?). This is 100% of the Bordeaux blending grape usually added for color and tannic support. Definitely stands on its own, reveals the level of complexity of one of the blends to which it often contributes. The character of this bottle is persistent and pleasurable. Definitely going back to the artistic Room to snag more.
GRADE: A-
Enkidu, 2006, Petite Sirah, Fazekas Vineyard, Napa Valley
What I expect from a PS, dark in the glass. Spreads itself onto the palate with pepper, earth, blackberry, and a smooch of vanilla on the back and finish, slight slice of cinnamon. A strong, pervasive character. This bottle does present unique threats of development, and I say that because I love Petite Sirah, and have sampled, what seems like, a lifeload. Eniku’s PS is like a new invention in a world of repetition and regurgitation. A relief, a remedy, for me. Splendid structure. Coherent, creative, and, as I stated, quite inventive. A temptress in the glass. Liquified night of amour, romantically rough. On a less dire octave, I love the label, and this winery’s name, its connection to literature and legend. Cheers, peers.
GRADE: A-
2 Installations and a Cold, or Flu, Can't Tell
W 10Feb2010 - Mad at my Self. I self-censored. I was going to insert an entry into this log, but decided that it may cause a ripple that would entail a certain fallout. Should have just posted the words. They didn’t go to waste, into my 100k project, which is no longer an 80k sprint. I hate censorship. That would have to be my ultimate opposite, even if and when it comes from Self. Enemies, puny. I will envelop your bravado, muffle your elevation. I am truly unstoppable in these pages, daring anyone to halt my assault, these creations from blooming into fruition.
Must set afore more metaphor. I’ll project, and the simpleton foe won’t even realize, know.
Th 11Feb2010 - Trying to write my way through and out of this cold, or flu. Alice, my little gem, asked me yesterday if I had a cold or a flu. I told her that I wasn’t sure, just feeling lousy. Right now, 7:41am. Why did I have to have this on my days off?
Going to take a break, a serious moment, moments, of motionlessness from this log. BOOK ONE needs hardy consciousness, real attention. A predator’s eye. Regret that I didn’t post that wine review from 4Feb. I will eventually. Today’s goal, 500-1000 words. Feel like a decaying elder. Must pace my Self today.
Readers, have a wonderful day. If I can leave you with anything, it would be a prompt:
Write your ideal house in 500 words. Address everything from the floors, to the windows, kitchen, master bedroom. Take us, the readers, there. Invite us into your home.
Must set afore more metaphor. I’ll project, and the simpleton foe won’t even realize, know.
Th 11Feb2010 - Trying to write my way through and out of this cold, or flu. Alice, my little gem, asked me yesterday if I had a cold or a flu. I told her that I wasn’t sure, just feeling lousy. Right now, 7:41am. Why did I have to have this on my days off?
Going to take a break, a serious moment, moments, of motionlessness from this log. BOOK ONE needs hardy consciousness, real attention. A predator’s eye. Regret that I didn’t post that wine review from 4Feb. I will eventually. Today’s goal, 500-1000 words. Feel like a decaying elder. Must pace my Self today.
Readers, have a wonderful day. If I can leave you with anything, it would be a prompt:
Write your ideal house in 500 words. Address everything from the floors, to the windows, kitchen, master bedroom. Take us, the readers, there. Invite us into your home.
Certain Character
The one who has a high opinion of himself, thinks he’s witty, astute, poignant in his position. He moves fast, talks more speedily, and often just makes things up. Con artistry incarnate. Establishes association, then turns if it him benefits. Snake, wolf. Crocodile. Devil.
Authority expands to self-endowment, entitlement. Clouded brain. What annoys me about this character, is that he doesn’t see any flaws about his person. None. No remedy needed. He’s flawless in his “authority.” The grin is death, if you believe it. Does this character deserve this entry, this much analysis, focus? No. But you, the innocent, should be informed. His vocalizations are rapid, don’t permit him to blind you.
I sit here, disgusted. Not just with this character, but with my Self. Why has it taken me this long for an enriching and therapeutic deconstruction of such a filthy fiend. He, or she, loves to hear their own words. Each syllable is a bucket of savory opiates. Put this character in my fiction just so I can kill him, her. Take out a certain Shakespearian vendetta. Delight in my commission of homicide.
They think they’re incredible, when they’re really quite innocuous. Here is where my irritation, pique, dissolves to laughter and entertainment. This character is a clown. A clumsy buffoon, which is glorious for me because s/he thinks the self (notice no capital, this pig doesn’t deserve it) rather adroit, graceful, skilled. They are one of my favorite shows.
The best way to kill this character? I’d have to think. It’d have to be marketable, for a manuscript. The reader will want them dead. Maybe even butchered. Poison, Shakespeare might approve that. But what do I want? Maybe I won’t commit literary lethality, because they are so comical. Maybe this haughty hog will burn out, and self-conclude. Brilliant.
(T. 2/9/10)
Authority expands to self-endowment, entitlement. Clouded brain. What annoys me about this character, is that he doesn’t see any flaws about his person. None. No remedy needed. He’s flawless in his “authority.” The grin is death, if you believe it. Does this character deserve this entry, this much analysis, focus? No. But you, the innocent, should be informed. His vocalizations are rapid, don’t permit him to blind you.
I sit here, disgusted. Not just with this character, but with my Self. Why has it taken me this long for an enriching and therapeutic deconstruction of such a filthy fiend. He, or she, loves to hear their own words. Each syllable is a bucket of savory opiates. Put this character in my fiction just so I can kill him, her. Take out a certain Shakespearian vendetta. Delight in my commission of homicide.
They think they’re incredible, when they’re really quite innocuous. Here is where my irritation, pique, dissolves to laughter and entertainment. This character is a clown. A clumsy buffoon, which is glorious for me because s/he thinks the self (notice no capital, this pig doesn’t deserve it) rather adroit, graceful, skilled. They are one of my favorite shows.
The best way to kill this character? I’d have to think. It’d have to be marketable, for a manuscript. The reader will want them dead. Maybe even butchered. Poison, Shakespeare might approve that. But what do I want? Maybe I won’t commit literary lethality, because they are so comical. Maybe this haughty hog will burn out, and self-conclude. Brilliant.
(T. 2/9/10)
Pushing, Even in the Typo Cyclone
Thursday February 4th, 2010. Tasted another wine tonight. Will post the review tomorrow, or the day next, if I can. Celebrated my sister’s 29th tonight. How is that possible? She’s 29? Time is a vindictive vulture, pecking at my patience. Tired. Wondering if BOOK ONE will please readers. Should I care?
The wine I’m tasting tonight...can’t tell you, although I want to. Hearing Katie, the sis, talk about her winemaking life injects visions of stories. Need to interview her. Not as brother, but as journalist, writer, a professional. She made a remark tonight about how critics critique wine, correlating to the phrase of ‘those who can’t do, teach’. Precisely why this is the last term for me as adjunct English goof. Now, finally, a being of the pen.
Should I put this blog/log into BOOK ONE somehow? No. At least that’s what I’m seeing now. Forgetting what I wanted to record in these concluding lines. Tomorrow, I do something out of character. 31. Time to be crazy, Hunter S. Thompson crazy. Can’t put this sensation into literary shade. I’m bold, belligerent. The Anti again protrudes. My calls ferment in these entries. Who will hear them? Hopefully you, the reader, the one of note. No transformation, I’m the same, just utterly unchained.
F 2/5/10. 1k, reached. This, icing. Met a character today. Full-time Math Professor, Dianna. Didn’t go to college till she was 31. Had first child, a daughter, when she was 26. She used to wait tables. She had an epiphany about life, where she was headed, how her daughter would see her. Wonderful story.
All the characters around, all of them, wonderful. My freewrites should focus more on these random beings. Need to be a spy, always. Monitor behavior, trap dialogue. They work for me, although they don’t know.
Sun. 2/7/10. Only in the mood to do nothing. Think I lost a $10 tip that I received in the Room today. I blame my affair with Viogner for that. Seriously don’t want to write tonight. Saints won the Superbowl. Wow. I care. Interesting how much emphasis we put on sports. Sports are wonderful, but do they have the substance we think they do? Just thinking, and I’m grumpy, so I’m thinking straight, definitely not. Don’t want to do tomorrow, the early rise, then after class back to the Room.
The 100k master project is now an 80k aim. More poetry. Had rimes in the head all day. On Tuesday, 1) add 3k to master project, old or new words, 2) record 1 spoken word song. Easy, as I have the entire day to Self. Self-publishing, also threading through thoughts. “Poems and Entries,” a sequence unique to me, could be my first release to the world. 35-40 pages, 100 copy run. That’s affordable. Waiting for these fucking elitist lit mags to get back to me is laughable. Need to take this year, this life by the throat, and if you know my personality that is exactly what I’m capable of.
The Room bugged me today, tremendously. One guest actually poured himself wine, twice. Are you serious? I should have been at home with Alice, watching the pre-game show, relaxing. Instead, I get home and the game is more that half-over. But Alice, the bewilderingly caring presence that she is, had a lovely little spread for us. I’ll be quite candid, she has settled for far less than she deserves, with me. Why me? Why did she choose me? I’m selfish, career-obsessed. Won’t complain about my immeasurable and invaluable fortune.
The poetry’s back. Need to jump over to another document on this little monster. Most healthy of eves to you, kind reader. A little aggressive, so permit me please to voice the following...DEATH TO CRITICS, PIGS, MANAGERS, AND DEPARTMENT HEADS! That’s 333 words, and I didn’t prognosticate scribing more than 50-100. ANTI!
The wine I’m tasting tonight...can’t tell you, although I want to. Hearing Katie, the sis, talk about her winemaking life injects visions of stories. Need to interview her. Not as brother, but as journalist, writer, a professional. She made a remark tonight about how critics critique wine, correlating to the phrase of ‘those who can’t do, teach’. Precisely why this is the last term for me as adjunct English goof. Now, finally, a being of the pen.
Should I put this blog/log into BOOK ONE somehow? No. At least that’s what I’m seeing now. Forgetting what I wanted to record in these concluding lines. Tomorrow, I do something out of character. 31. Time to be crazy, Hunter S. Thompson crazy. Can’t put this sensation into literary shade. I’m bold, belligerent. The Anti again protrudes. My calls ferment in these entries. Who will hear them? Hopefully you, the reader, the one of note. No transformation, I’m the same, just utterly unchained.
F 2/5/10. 1k, reached. This, icing. Met a character today. Full-time Math Professor, Dianna. Didn’t go to college till she was 31. Had first child, a daughter, when she was 26. She used to wait tables. She had an epiphany about life, where she was headed, how her daughter would see her. Wonderful story.
All the characters around, all of them, wonderful. My freewrites should focus more on these random beings. Need to be a spy, always. Monitor behavior, trap dialogue. They work for me, although they don’t know.
Sun. 2/7/10. Only in the mood to do nothing. Think I lost a $10 tip that I received in the Room today. I blame my affair with Viogner for that. Seriously don’t want to write tonight. Saints won the Superbowl. Wow. I care. Interesting how much emphasis we put on sports. Sports are wonderful, but do they have the substance we think they do? Just thinking, and I’m grumpy, so I’m thinking straight, definitely not. Don’t want to do tomorrow, the early rise, then after class back to the Room.
The 100k master project is now an 80k aim. More poetry. Had rimes in the head all day. On Tuesday, 1) add 3k to master project, old or new words, 2) record 1 spoken word song. Easy, as I have the entire day to Self. Self-publishing, also threading through thoughts. “Poems and Entries,” a sequence unique to me, could be my first release to the world. 35-40 pages, 100 copy run. That’s affordable. Waiting for these fucking elitist lit mags to get back to me is laughable. Need to take this year, this life by the throat, and if you know my personality that is exactly what I’m capable of.
The Room bugged me today, tremendously. One guest actually poured himself wine, twice. Are you serious? I should have been at home with Alice, watching the pre-game show, relaxing. Instead, I get home and the game is more that half-over. But Alice, the bewilderingly caring presence that she is, had a lovely little spread for us. I’ll be quite candid, she has settled for far less than she deserves, with me. Why me? Why did she choose me? I’m selfish, career-obsessed. Won’t complain about my immeasurable and invaluable fortune.
The poetry’s back. Need to jump over to another document on this little monster. Most healthy of eves to you, kind reader. A little aggressive, so permit me please to voice the following...DEATH TO CRITICS, PIGS, MANAGERS, AND DEPARTMENT HEADS! That’s 333 words, and I didn’t prognosticate scribing more than 50-100. ANTI!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Candor
Wednesday 2/3/2010. Still drained from yesterday’s 2k. So, forgive the brevity of this sitting. A student raised his voice and unjustifiably embittered his wittiness, accusing me of “putting him on the spot.” I did. Toughen up, coward. Not at all fearful of consequences that may unravel from my candor. This term, certainly the last. Another thing, the critics of my prose, poems. Lock your jaw, devil. I’m tired of being the kind, passive writer at times. I will unfasten my inhibitions, hurl barbs whenever tremors tumult. Feeling audacious, aggressive, antagonistic, belligerent with a certain barbarism, boldness, bravado.
Had a great dinner with Mom and Dad tonight. I still don’t get how she, Mom, works her culinary magic. She always says something to the tilt of ‘oh, it’s not that big a deal’, or ‘it’s really not that hard’. She’s amazing, beyond her cooking. Mom is an odd Muse. Her brilliance and gentle presence is unrivaled. Dad, so much experience, so many stories. Each of his stories could be a series of novels. He is a character that I should use. When I say “use,” it sounds negative, but please know it’s the most purified state of praise.
Clocking out. Readers, I apologize for slumbering so fortuitously. My spirits, descending like planes out of fuel. Looking through my Room notes in my little flip pad. Good material. These characters I’ve recorded, a career for me. I swear, the Room is a well of weltering wealth. Sipping what remains of the Anthem I opened last night. Almost better tonight. How do these winemakers weave continuous perfection? Maybe I should ask sis tomorrow night. It’ll be her 29th tomorrow. My baby sister is twenty-nine years old. How?
Ending utterances: 1) Death to critics, 2) fuck over-confident students, you don’t know shit, and 3) POETRY4EVER!
Had a great dinner with Mom and Dad tonight. I still don’t get how she, Mom, works her culinary magic. She always says something to the tilt of ‘oh, it’s not that big a deal’, or ‘it’s really not that hard’. She’s amazing, beyond her cooking. Mom is an odd Muse. Her brilliance and gentle presence is unrivaled. Dad, so much experience, so many stories. Each of his stories could be a series of novels. He is a character that I should use. When I say “use,” it sounds negative, but please know it’s the most purified state of praise.
Clocking out. Readers, I apologize for slumbering so fortuitously. My spirits, descending like planes out of fuel. Looking through my Room notes in my little flip pad. Good material. These characters I’ve recorded, a career for me. I swear, the Room is a well of weltering wealth. Sipping what remains of the Anthem I opened last night. Almost better tonight. How do these winemakers weave continuous perfection? Maybe I should ask sis tomorrow night. It’ll be her 29th tomorrow. My baby sister is twenty-nine years old. How?
Ending utterances: 1) Death to critics, 2) fuck over-confident students, you don’t know shit, and 3) POETRY4EVER!
Review of St. Francis 2005 Anthem, Meritage, Red Wine
Gorgeous bottle. This is a reverse blend, as I understand it, with Malbec and Petite Verdot as the dominant varietals, at the wheel. Next in line, Cabernet Franc, then Merlot and Cabernet. On the nose, I’m greeted by a light handshake of cherry, leather, a bit of earth. Chocolate too, but only because I think I’m looking for it, with the Merlot in the room. A nudge of rich soil. Tipping the glass, a dark cape, an ambient abyss advertising an agreeable aesthetic. Thank the PV for that.
The mouthfeel and mid-palate, delicious, extravagant, like a distant historical landmark. Gentle, not too tannic. The flavors and winks present in the nose embolden in this stage. Now, floral, licorice. On palate, and when I skip back to nose. I’m one in the seats at an opera house, listening to a symphony boast it collective prowess.
Back-pal’ and finish, truly ethereal, a phantasmagoric tapestry of wizardry. This Anthem is singing to me, prompting movement of soul. The opus, the Anthem, the music that I was expecting. A pervading hymn of praise. Perfect sync, harmony. I’m more than impressed, I’m propelled to express my pleasure on this page. So much to consider, but it intermingles absent of folly. The notes, flavors, still taunting, haunting, flaunting. Poetry, and not just from me. Smokey, but only a filmy spread.
Very coherent presentation, presence. The finish is relentless, a pleasurable dream that won’t let me wake, doesn’t want me to. I feel this bottle is celebratory, a dance. It works idealistically, it’s what a winemaker should shoot for in terms of a five-grape merger. This “Anthem” leaves me with an impression, one that I’m sure will follow me, tap my memory’s shoulder on unexpected occasions. It coerces my pen to parade and paddle, and I, the penman, am a buffoon with efforts to stop it. Influenced by its influence. Yes, this bottle is influential. Other Bordeaux blends attempt. But this one most piquant, exalting, and distinguished puzzle does what other can’t. Provide, inspire.
This character and its five sides, putting me on my own high tide.
GRADE: A-
Review Composed on T. 2/2/2010
The mouthfeel and mid-palate, delicious, extravagant, like a distant historical landmark. Gentle, not too tannic. The flavors and winks present in the nose embolden in this stage. Now, floral, licorice. On palate, and when I skip back to nose. I’m one in the seats at an opera house, listening to a symphony boast it collective prowess.
Back-pal’ and finish, truly ethereal, a phantasmagoric tapestry of wizardry. This Anthem is singing to me, prompting movement of soul. The opus, the Anthem, the music that I was expecting. A pervading hymn of praise. Perfect sync, harmony. I’m more than impressed, I’m propelled to express my pleasure on this page. So much to consider, but it intermingles absent of folly. The notes, flavors, still taunting, haunting, flaunting. Poetry, and not just from me. Smokey, but only a filmy spread.
Very coherent presentation, presence. The finish is relentless, a pleasurable dream that won’t let me wake, doesn’t want me to. I feel this bottle is celebratory, a dance. It works idealistically, it’s what a winemaker should shoot for in terms of a five-grape merger. This “Anthem” leaves me with an impression, one that I’m sure will follow me, tap my memory’s shoulder on unexpected occasions. It coerces my pen to parade and paddle, and I, the penman, am a buffoon with efforts to stop it. Influenced by its influence. Yes, this bottle is influential. Other Bordeaux blends attempt. But this one most piquant, exalting, and distinguished puzzle does what other can’t. Provide, inspire.
This character and its five sides, putting me on my own high tide.
GRADE: A-
Review Composed on T. 2/2/2010
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