A THOUSAND WINES PROJECT

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Wine, but more than wine.. a voice, a personification that wine itself never anticipated would come to materialization— song with varying chords, not subtle and not overboard, but more a loving core, a sense, a sensibility that Jane Austen would wish she’d penned, new letter from the travelled Bordeaux beauty… she teaches and reassures with her gothic romanticism and dark, atmospherically Victorian tonality.  Defying everything while loving what’s defied at the same time.. daring duality, from the fruit ease to the leathered and textural swagger.  Conviction, invitation, lit amour from sip first—

She pauses but then persists with her turn, smile, elevation, oration.  I’m smitten and bewitched and want to stay up for other sips but return cork for next night’s visit.

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A Thousand Wines Project

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Slow.  Seductive progression, but meaningful and full session— intricate flavor and character lesson, compounded narrative, chasing chocolate and leather, set to get better with time’s guide and intrinsic eye.  One of those bottles that has me thrown to paradigmatic throne.  Impossible there could be a clone, Bordeaux-loving mind altogether blown.

More reaction in-tow… This bottle like a musical and bottled Poe.  Profuse, obtuse, neither false nor excessively true with its palate-feel and sense, assembly of notes and covert winks.  Only drops into you and nothing to sink.

As air uptakes into wine’s body more loudly the story cartwheels at your vessel.  Something for all something’s, someone’s, sometime’s…. Veritable with playful tussle and composition, jazzy body and structure, atmospheric architecture and octave.

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IMG_E7443Floral skip into the wine’s most known of intentions— delivering atmosphere and a free-spirited note storm that captures and captives you with acrobatic apricot chimes and direct peachy and pair settings.  This bottle doesn’t have any reason to hide her bewitching orations— segueing into turns of white roses and Hawaiian flower bed modality in olfactory and tactile, taste, more than merely what so many dumb down to the word “palate”.  She pulls you further along her histoire.

Contrasting and seemingly contradicting dimensions to her ardor, mightiness in mouth, but there is the statement, the thesis, the delicious defiance of this Dry Creek Viognier from one of my favorite houses on ‘The Road’.  To the sip, there is no finish.  She refuses to slow her speech— she only repeats, ravishingly and with beatific bounce.

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img_7363Friendly and frenzied.  Lovely and loving in everything she does.  Brings you into her climate with gentle, tropical, slightly rich rhetoric.  She’s passionate, passing with her sped and then slow pulses— animated apple, intent citrus, and only a wink of oak suggestion, and just a suggestion.  Like an engaging painting, showing something new each time you visit the work’s exhibit.

This is a bottle that helps with Chardonnay standoffs, people as I used to be telling themselves they’re opposed to American interpretations of white Burgundy.  There’s jazz in this bottle— tactile and auditory, otherworldly touches that have you with eyes closed, in deep appreciation of all notes.  She rises only to fall into you… fierce connection on levels all.

Been too long…

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Light flying persona that reminds me of my interaction with it… meta but not.  An effulgent dialectic meant to sway me with its fruit frolic.  Light but insistent on attention, bright and diligent with its palate organization and orchestra.  A wine quite easy to be lost in, especially if you’ve never had a Vermentino.  Mad in its delicious diction and syncopated flavor suggestions— more narrations and cosmic skips than one-dimensional descriptors or “suggestions”.  Nothing is suggested with this wine, but artful— stated and sewn.

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Glass empty, the aromas and empirical olfactory zooms tell me to take a minute, notice how present they still are.  I wasn’t caught or convinced by her, but further taught, about the varietal, wine, my aesthetic harness to it, her.  Love wth exponents, beyond mortal integers and equations— multi-webbed web of attraction and distinctive place senses.

 

This Pinot…

Just pulled it off the shelf in Whole Foods, Yulupa, at random.  ‘Cause I was curious about img_2427the wine from the label and the way the color scheme was situated on the label, all of it.  Finally when I was able to taste it, 3 hours after opening it—which served as a boon for sakes of natural oxygenation, no decanting, just the room’s atmospheric delivery naturally assimilating down into neck—she decided to recite, and loudly, vividly and with an unusual creative intonation.  Wild berries and spices, certain dried floral petals colluded with vanilla and something like olives, or sweetened river rock, I don’t know.  You know me, I don’t talk about wines like that.  And this Pinot is most assuredly above such a wikipedia approach and deconstruction.  This bottle makes me think of poetry readings I used to frequent in Berkeley when in graduate school.  And how I need to now write more verse, read more like I did this morning with that student in my 1B class.  This Pinot fiddles in philosophy and curiosity, epistemology and a query of its own mythology— people always talk, “Pinot…Pinot…” but don’t know why.  The being of this bottle and its contents so symmetrical and sensuous zooms its offering past your senses and then back again for another hue.

Have a little bit left in glass, just before I call the day.  Pinot Noir and I have never had any kind of altercation or momentary skirmish.  What I found today on the shelf and randomly pulled served to only embolden my affinity for the Burgundian visual—  I remember looking at the bottle in hour 1, 2, 3, while it just sat there open on the counter and wondered what I would meet.  What I felt was fantasy and form, a certain vocalization of wine’s nucleus, why we writers do what we do and why wild wine writers like me pepper the Comp Book’s sheets in such erratic spats.  First sip of last glass and I dive further into my thoughts, ignoring technology and anything too modernized.  Pinot I’ve always thought is about rawness and an impulsive expressiveness.  Unfettered, unfiltered, more understood.  Most wine “writers” would rate the bottle they’re talking about, but I just want to let you know what I’m sipping and what it’s making me think about— where it takes the writer’s scope and senses.  Where I am, on some journey or knee-jerk jaunt.  Don’t care.  I’m free.  Nothing planned, I realize, a strange note of rosemary tied to something like soy or black licorice…. Again, I don’t talk about wine like that.  Bottle’s been open now about 5 hours, and I’m sure it’d like a break from oxygen.  Cork in, and me back on couch, last glass gone.  But I’m still surveying and noting without noting physical where my understanding is with Pinot Noir.  I don’t understand it.  That’s why I keep exploring, to not so much explore as wander.  Manuscript maze, phenolic haze, structural trance… lightly disturbed by accidental enlightenment.  Sip again.  I can’t.  But I’ll dream about doing just that, staring out into Bodega Bay, or at Russian River, or at some vineyard on River Road.  This poetry is in no way bottled, contained, restrained or trained.  Cosmic autonomy, what touched my lips.  She had, has, will forever have, me.

(5/17/17)