Non-Neurotic Red

A hit, a palpable hit. Two exceptional grapes for one extraordinary wine! A wide sweep of sky trimmed to fit inside a manicured aperture of an open. Nose to tongue and back, the rows of daffodils and queen ann's lace lay open the long low paths and channels. The sun is well ordered on their stones. Squares of wildgrowth grows unwild. Crumpled up newspaper blows through on a wind from over the bay. The garden is walled and covered in ivy, but the wind, paper, dampness blow right on through. Trash in and on the silty gale. The two grapes mix without blending, kindling parallel developments and inconstancy. Nor bicker nor support nor insist nor yield.

Through the kimber the pallid day passes in mirthiness and laze. Triumph is ad hoc and that's the way, uh-huh, I like it. Uh-huh, uh-huh. The world here is built very slowly, brick by perfect brick. Brick by brick. Brick by brick.

One brick, two brick.
One brick, two brick

The kimber is the taming of nature, the ordering of mutation. The care of laying it out one brick at a time and measuring each one just in case, and checking the mortar, and using a level, and using union workers, and using a sextant, and using genuine secondary fermentation, and wrapping each cheese in burlap and laying her in with her sisters to age in the cave, and crystallized pineapple and wild sugarcane and long yellow light in the hollow of the shore and a little bit of noise and things which are well-tempered as in the following exchange"

"I say, that Mr. Bach's clavier is certainly well tempered."
"Quiet, you!"

The kamber is the world of wind and ghosts. Newspages blow on that ocean wind with impossible black outline. It swirls and spirals and there is a cloud with a big puffed-out-cheek face.
To measure is to not measure. Yellow is blue. A stillness of motion that does not quiver. At the kamber dewpoint a ringed sphere of ochre and iridescent bluered grasp at each other's mistiness. Particles all over the place and no two a match. At least growths of weeds help find the corner pieces.

Knots tie themselves together out of air, out of smoke, out of nettles, out of cigar box, out of paint, out of cold front, out of coconuts and raisins, but not grapes, and figs, but not fresh figs, and dates, but not fresh dates, and olives, but not raw olives with salted almonds and raisins that twist itself and ties tight around an empty collar, as in the following exchange:

"I say, that Mr. Bullshit's bullshit is certainly fresh."
"This is the land of wind and ghosts."

The last day of one is the other. It can be overwhelming, even ambivalized. Two objects can't take up the same etc. etc. etc. The last day of spring is summer. The last day of one is the other. The last day of failure is success. The last day of life is death. The last day of earth is earth. The last day of kamber is kimber. The last day of kimber is kamber. The last day of one is the other. etc. etc. etc.

The multi-finish benefits from sympathetic vibration and amplitude shift. The kimber fades first in an Euler's ring of sound and physic. It gets quieter and faster until it is silent and infinite. The kamber is nude descending a staircase, isn't impressed with small town manners or cooking, deepens itself out and up. Always out and up. A quiet but penetrating note, as from a bell or a gong or a really special bell. The finish rings impossibly true with the sound of gold.

Varietals: Kimber, Kamber
Food Pairing: Zen