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on a wine recent

She yelled but didn’t, just hovered above me with questions and metaphysicals, jots in all suggestions and dimensions. Beatific from berries and their rile to chocolate order and thesis. Her paragraphs were unusually luminous and unfettered, but with no diminish in grace. The structure is an anti-structure, like newly proposed phantom or phantasm. Each step and clef in her song set … bewildering, bewitching. Thoughts and imaginings of other spheres and plains for me, to further study her varietal and type, stylistic stance but just study wine, wine and its definition, haunting sensory arrangement.

Wine, juxtaposing and contrasting harshly anything nay-saying. And last night’s glasses were the nucleus of that voice, the prime and elevating narrative, sentimentality covert and overt — cross-cancellation of normality and anything with wine that’s expected, or makes sense, or is safe, some comfy crowd-pleaser. She spoke what she wished, unconcerned with perceived coherence of balance, how certain scents aligned with palate presence. She merely told her telling, story and composition, theorized and actual, in the moment to me and I couldn’t take myself from her, not to write notes or do anything of use, be productive. She re-wrote my scope, on wine and life, on my immediacy, me last night in that moment see me traveling with her, sipping in castles and in valleys outside the country, on a train from one destination to next. Then, notes… what syllables and characters form in sight. Last night wrapped and kept, rapt in amour aver elle. Still collecting and reflecting, my musings bring me her, without her and with, and in flight. Allégé.

When some wine writers or critics or whatever they want be labeled, how they wish be seen, and yes I infer they make it all about them, file wines like this down to a 30-words marching band of over-echoed descriptions and fruits, and talk on and on about the “nose”, and the “finish”, I frustrate, sadden, am further shoved and encouraged to speak her language another way. Sing with her, let her know and anyone experiencing wine like this or one that connects to their soul to some degree that it’s more than a color in the glass — it’s more than some score number and bastardization of writing in a limp dwarf of a paragraph at the end of some glossy publication. Wine — her own cognitive and expressive, vocal and interactive, communicative entity. More than an presence but a thought-sowing idea, enveloping and enriching. Me here, a little under 12 hours later, writing her, seeing the color in that stemless plastic goblet and all notes again speaking their chords.

I nod and bob head as I usually do when I write to this jazz, remembering her, like a tryst I want to again transpire, more fire, higher in my meditation and mediation of keno-direction. This morning’s introspection, all hers, all words, my consciousness curves — my, hearing her, swerving in and out of new nerves…. Breaking from lull, new understandings of her character, mine, from her lecture, gently amorous and entrapping offering. Re-written in wine and her fold, forum, scape and sound.


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