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December 1, 2011

A wine is an island, a fractal. You can contain it in in an area, a volume, a 187, 375, 750, a Rehoboam, but does a wine have a perimeter? What are the limits of the wine itself, go mad in that infinity, or not, most won’t I’m sure, but any outline, scant or ample can only purport description. One may start but just where to finish? Whether it’s offensive, simply gouleyant or somehow eminently cathartic, well made alcohol has an uncanny ability to evoke the littoral. Obviously it is somewhere between the shore and unfortunate depths but where might one apprehend comprehension?  When you’re out for a dip it’s usually pretty obvious if the water is any good, the tippler knows the same immediacy in drink. So many just swim along, as they should, a routine affair, to swim as to swill. Some swim out and back, drawn by nothing but the full emptiness ahead, heeding the wisdom of safe distances, maybe just looking for a sandbar; a tottering spectacle not misunderstood in general. When the water is good who wants to get out?

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