Wine I tasted last night at Mom and Dad’s, from Walla Walla, a Cab. A bit closed when open but that happens, and to me more and more as I get older, not sure why. Loved everything about it, and without just cataloguing descriptors like some lazy judge-y twit, it was the Newness in her voice, how she touched senses and the rhythm of the approach and residency. The music to her shape and color, form and dimension. She told me to write more about wine – don’t leave, there’s a story here. Like I was recommended do years ago, but enough with that. Now I want to chase Cabernet, wherever I can find her, in whatever form and dactyl, syllable, note.
More and more I write about happiness and the composition of happiness, and I’m always returning to wine. This past weekend with my friend Chris tasting at a couple Russian River spots and encountering new stories and experiences, then coming home to see Mom and Dad and some old friend tasting some wine they brought back from an event in West Dry Creek. Wine is much of my happiness composition, architecture.
I’m reevaluating my approach to wine, my wined pages, wined travel that approaches with this new life. The composition and structure, manuscript of happiness. This morning and the picture of the bottle from last night order new oscillation in my wined station and rotation, my penned obligation. I keep thinking more and more why wine and I lately have been back and forth and in and out with connectivity. My fault, the Cabernet said last night. Stop thinking about it so much and just connect, WRITE.
I’m understanding this wine story of mine to be a shape-shifting road, to a shaded LoFi beat. I just follow, not writing but living and intoxicated with the anticipation of setting ink to lines, finally finishing one of many books for her.