Haven’t spoke with the ES family in awhile. Haven’t tried a single bottle from their cannon, for no other reason than no reason. Saw this bottle at Oliver’s on Stony Point, was there getting lunch, a salad, some other hues in this stay-at-home hone. Fruit geometry and ideological curve greet me with an animated and bright… something. Stop, I say to myself again, thinking I pose write this wine like all the other wine “writers” write about wine, what their sipping. And so many, thinking the wine is beneath them… like one “master” class I saw, the reaction.. not me, not to this, or ever… but this bottle causing me to write. With this, see myself right where I am, writing to a Coltrane track, and writing to the room, this finally-quiet kitchen and house. Grenache is not some additive, not some supplement that just supplements some more vocal and colossal cause of a blend, or anything. No… this is this, and me here with her, she sings and dances with me to Coltrane. Slow, light barely on.. a tranquil rhythm and redolence not too enveloping or punctuated. Shyness in her shine, but you notice, you’re taken , you’re struck in the one plush hush of her chords.
I’ll be calling the winery, soon… ordering something. Some say I spend too much on wine. Falsehood, as a writer of wine before anything, even a blogger or business owner, Account Executive for the tech company… anything. This is love, me in her room, she just looking back at me and expecting recital. I’d rather only listen. Sip again… field and ocean, berries and cliff mist. Death and life in the ovular hold, reminding to writ everything, the fruit and spices and walls, doors, walking May, all of it… ME. Dream in her deified immensity. Scribble more.. lost, seated, scribbling, on a new Road… no fear, no loathe, only a newly noted and know vino cove, only I can note I drove.