0152: More Thoughts From the Insomniac.

Middle of the night and I’m awake and… hungry. Don’t get me wrong, I’m hungry a lot, midnight or midday, it’s all the same. This is more than just a mere twinge of peckish, though, this is actionable hunger. That left over enchilada is calling a clear tune, eat me, Jerry, eat me. And even though I’ve put on a couple of pounds since surgery, I am happy. It’s a hunger that’s coming in loud and clear, with no static, because, wait for it, there is no pain… It’s a feeling, or lack thereof, that I could really get used to. I’ll tell you a secret, anyone that has met me in the last two and a half years, doesn’t really know me, they know Jerry + Pain. I suppose I’m going to have to get reacquainted with “just Jerry” myself.

That extra chili in the enchilada might have been a mistake. At least with this Heart and Hands Pinot noir. Not a problem, there’s an inch or two of Ravines Pinot Rose in the fridge that will be perfect. And the Heart and Hands will last awhile yet, It’s been open for three days and keeps getting better, through the magic of artificial aging. Try it. But the wine must still be excellent, just merely young, or the experiment will fail.

We’ve got a piano now, compliments of the always gracious Bells. I used to, well, I suppose the only word is dabble. Yes, I dabbled at the piano. It’s always been on my list, get really good at the piano, maybe even just as good as I am at the guitar. (Waits for chuckles to die down, as I picture Gary Trudeau’s immortal words about Ronald Reagan in 1980: he’ll be just as good a president as he is an actor, just so…) I have at least one critic of the polyinstrumental idea, someone who should know. I’ve been playing occasionally with him for over thirty years, not back to Reagan, but damn close, and he assures me that, not only will I fail, but it will make me a worse guitar player. Harsh Bryan.

It kind of brings me back to that whole concept of being out of my comfort zone. The commitment, and expense (the piano was free, but the movers were certainly not), incurred by the acquisition of a new musical instrument, is considerable. And that instrument is staged squarely in the dining room, ground zero for my eventual symposium idea, at the very least where we’ll entertain now and then. There is strong motivation to learn to play the damn thing, not least because I’m feeling the need for a new major task. This would seem to qualify. I’m sorry Chov, but I’m all in.

And why the piano? Well, it’s a bipolar, mathematical, intuitively simple, map of the entirety of western music. It’s all there, brother, laid out in perfect infinite simplicity. Twelve tones, repeating. Just twelve. I’m, almost, sure that infinite is an exaggeration. Almost. And what approach to take to this? I learned guitar initially from a classical book. I would tend to take the same approach with piano, unless someone has a strong counter argument. It’s not always my favorite genre to listen to, I’m a lyric guy, as I’m sure will surprise no one, but it’s a helluva lot of fun to play a song that’s been around for centuries, even in the attempt there is honor, so long as the house is empty… at least until I start getting things in correct order.

A few more thoughts on pain. It doesn’t go away, even when it goes away. The trust is gone, and anyone past their first relationship probably knows that trust is a bitch to get back. You dig? The pain is gone, the mistrust remains. Every time I’ve called upon my new hip to perform, it has done so, with nary a complaint. I’m not talking about the incisional and surgical pain, that whimpy ass pain that goes away, I’m talking about that grating pain in a major joint that promises, endlessly promises, to put you on the floor with one wrong twist. This pain is gone. The hip is sound. The muscles are a little out of tone but completely fixable. And yet, I still cringe like the proverbial beat dog every time I put my weight down on this new, state of the art, titanium hip. Just for a split second, but it’s a split second that might take a long while to get back.

And by this meandering road, I come to the issue at hand, the question of trust. Do I trust this new hip? Do I trust enough in myself to commit to a new instrument? And will I ever trust my taste again? That last one is the rub, have the earthquake and aftershocks of Covid ceased, and will I ever recover something that resembles my previous abilities at taste and smell. This has been an elephant in the room that, although I have mentioned on occasion, has me trembling in fear and uncertainty. I’ve worked around it with every clue and kernel of knowledge I possess, yet the fact still remains. I may have lost my wine mojo. Not completely, yet in a way that, believe it or not, feels worse. I can taste and I can smell, most days, but I no longer remember if this is the way it use to be.

I’ve described it thus; imagine you’ve been listening to music at a volume of 6/10. This is your comfort level, the Goldilocks zone, where everything is audible and understandable. Now, suddenly dial that down to 2/10, if it’s the same music you’re used to, you can probably still catch the tune, possibly even the lyrics, but you have to listen hard. Pay attention. And if the tune is unfamiliar? Good luck. You might have to up the ante on all your other senses, sort of an “all hands” call for help. Did you see the album cover, or a picture of the band? It’s the same when your wine senses have been turned down to almost inaudible, hey eyes, did you pick up any clue from the bottle? Shape, size, screw cap, cork? Anyone catch a glimpse of the label? Whatever it takes. Because, and this is true, most days I’m back to the beginner level when tasting wine. I have quite a bit of technical knowledge to fall back on, but my taste and smell are, in some respects, newly born. And that means you might want to be careful about any recommendations I make while figuring this out. I might be as ignorant as anyone off the street about how this wine tastes, or what to pair it with. I may know how it should taste, but until I figure out how to recalibrate my senses, I’m probably a poor judge for anyone other than myself.

So, who do you trust to tell you about wine? If you’re first answer isn’t yourself, you may want to reassess. At least about how it tastes. If you want to know a history lesson on the grape, or the specific technique used to produce a wine, perhaps even what it might pair with at a dinner party, by all means, call on someone with experience. But if it’s a matter of how a wine tastes and smells, be aware, we all differ tremendously in our abilities to discern the tens of thousands of aromas that exist in nature. You know best if the wine pleases you, if you want to let someone else point out things you might be missing, have at it. But ultimately how it tastes to you is unique to your brain chemistry. And please, please, please, never let anyone tell you how a wine makes you feel. It’s something so deeply personal that it will probably be incredibly difficult to explain, even to a willing listener. But try. There’s magic in the attempt. Not flowery words. Gut feelings.

I suppose this has just been a long introduction into what I’ll refer to as Coming Events. I’ve got three interviews I’m in various states of editing and I’m hoping this will make the name of the blog more accurate. FLX Voices. As in more of you and less of me. I’ve also got a few ideas that might work better as round table discussions. This is somewhat fortuitous, since we now have a beautiful round table, also compliments of the Bells. I plan on branching out into some areas that are unrelated, or only peripherally related to wine, but the glorious nectar will continue to occupy most of this virtual space. Keep poking around in the nooks, crannies, and cellars of the region, looking for those buried treasures. We’ll see you out there I’m sure, and we look forward to sharing a bottle with all of you.

Peace, love, and kindness from an old hippie.