Watching the storm come up the hill from the sea, we’re on the deck, after Scrabble and walking in the wildflower twilight. Sometimes an idea invades like that.
Sipping Vermouth rouge with a lemon twist, we see the thin curtains of rainfall at the coast. A few sprinkles pass over, and we keep talking until thunder and sideways lightning starts. Normal life goes on, but something imperative takes over. Surrender.
The blue gray clouds advance, real raindrops pitter on bushes, so we move the furniture inside. There is a mood not to be ignored, and I break my journal. The rain sweeps up and the coastal hills and rocks turn into slate silhouettes.
The pine branches that arc over the patio and the rock below brush the landscape Japanese. That is how prose poetry happens.
At OChateaux, the first wine translates, “far from the eye” — grapes grown in the shade. Its fragrance is lemony like magnolias, its taste tangy. I liken this delicacy to the phrases and lines that arise from recent memories, from the writer’s private, poetic joy in nature, flowers and solitude.
The Chablis is clean, a clear accent over goat cheese, very smooth, no bite. The taste of directly rendered, simple experience without qualifying, without impressing an audience. My moments are valuable, some more so than others, and what I have to say is worth the while of writing.
The Clos Hermitage smells like fresh spring rain in the morning, complex. It pairs nicely with sheep cheese. Some writing times are filled with creativity, unbidden, to be enjoyed momentarily. Some rich overlap of ideas and experience get into words on a page and revised with craft and care. Because these lovely tastes are not daily fare does not mean I should not write.
Le Prieuré 2009 smells smoky offering a rich woodsy flavor of raspberry. It has a filmic quality like Florence; pairs with brie with truffles. A mysterious ferment to write, some appellation that I cannot remember, brings me back to blog, to send notes to loved ones, but mainly to meet myself. One way that I taste life is by swirling it in a glass, noting its color and composing.