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You're such a cheater. The best wood in your golf bag is your pencil!
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Rex Pickett |
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Pinot Noir country. My grape. The one varietal that truly enchants me, both stills and steals my heart with its elusive loveliness and false promises of transcendence. I loved her, and I would continue to follow her siren call until my wallet--or liver, whichever came first--gave out.
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Rex Pickett |
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Wine is so complex, I mused. Thousands of experts and hundreds of thousands of amateur experts would rhapsodize or vilify the vinification of these seemingly simple bunches of grapes. But in the end, it was just these innocuous clusters, photosynthesis, rain or no rain, cool ocean breezes, alluvial soils, that produced these epiphanies in the bottle hundreds and thousands of miles away.
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Rex Pickett |
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I can't kill myself, I thought. I'm too insignificant. I'm nothing. I'm a thumbprint on the first-floor window of a skyscraper, a smudge of excrement on a tissue surging out to sea along with millions of tons of raw sewage, a squirrel eating a nut as a car bore down on him.
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Rex Pickett |
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I forced a swift smile, then turned back to my glass, salvation and sanctuary viniferously bundled into one.
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Rex Pickett |
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I tapped a forefinger to my temple and raised my glass of single-vineyard Foxen Pinot. "Between here and here lies the Rubicon of the imagination."
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Rex Pickett |
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Miles, it's only morning and you're already drunk." "No, I'm not," I weakly protested. "I'm just thirsty."
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Rex Pickett |
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In tasting rooms I can never tell how tipsy I am. But once I'm outside, the awareness factor of my inebriation is greatly magnified. Everything looks and feels different. The surrounding flora seems to quiver. Colors are riotously iridescent. Sounds are louder; birds in the trees seem to mock you. All sense of reality is swamped. Anything out of the norm might happen!
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Rex Pickett |
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Polypharmacology and curmudgeonliness were keeping her alive.
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Rex Pickett |
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I snapped to consciousness with the incandescent realization that somewhere, deep in our dreams, or deep in unconsciousness, or deep in the afterlife, all conflicts and acrimonies are resolved. That it was consciousness that so unrelentingly afflicted us with suffering.
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Rex Pickett |
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We were drinking a memory, one that would be forever associated with the memory of this trip.
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Rex Pickett |
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Maya, Indian goddess of illusions. Siren of shipwrecked sailors. If only you lactated Pinot Noir, you'd be perfect.
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Rex Pickett |
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Palate properly whetted, I spelunked for her clitoris, tasting Bourgogne Rouge and Maya's body.
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Rex Pickett |