singularly multiplied chords.
I’ve always seen wine as a literary being, not so much a chemical or agricultural product. The relationships we realize and develop with whatever wines we prefer and chase down are OURS. Don’t just blindly follow some sommelier or critic. Don’t let them tell you to like or dislike the character in the bottle. Approach the story with an open mind, I suggest. Last night’s Chardonnay still on my thoughts with its slow rolls over my senses, punctuating its prime shapeliness and subtleties. For a while, right after opening the bottle, I just sipped— Didn’t look at my phone, didn’t take a single note in the Composition Book, just listened to what it had to say. I listened to it like my mother was talking, or sister, close friend or one of my children in their own unique tongue. The communication was elevated, and yes because I enjoyed the wine. But, even if I don’t like what I sip, I still listen. I learn from the flavor construction and the tactile composition of the wine’s momentum. In wine being literary, it’s alive, cognitive, evolutionary, complicated and self-contradicting, musical and unpredictable. If I’ve ever followed a wine, and let it deliver its thesis before I react, it was last night. Tellement amoureux.
We as lovers would first educate ourselves. If you want to take a class here and there, or get some certification, or whatever, that’s fine. But first, we should educate ourselves. Go get books, read them with measured embrace, take notes.. always be a student, and your own professor. Dive into it not even head-first, but all-you-first. Wine has always spoken to me with humility and curiosity, urging me to be more like It. If you love something, someone, and wine is more a ‘someone’ than a ‘something’, then you learn. But it’s not class. It’s life. IT’s words and feelings, reactions realities. Tonight’s wine again made me a lover.. interpreter or so I hope— lost in my dazzle, rouse, rabble— conflict but not so much afflicted. I’m writing when all I want to do is sleep, and I have tonight’s yours to thank or that. Heater coming on, rain maybe outside, but the bottle continues to me speak in verse I’ve never before heard. Teaching me in a full-time sense, nothing adjunct’d. Keep writing, I tell myself. I’ve been most purposefully taught something tonight— how wine can yell a different verse, show a different scene and cry with loving absorption.
Instructing multiple realms and realities of vintage, varietal, place, atmosphere, winemaker intention. As the consummate consumer I boast to be I can only continue in my noting, reflecting proverbially in the flavor arrangements and liquified manuscripts about and within each bottle. Impassioned, and perplexed. Just the way this writer wishes be.