Once the vines were new and fresh. It wasn’t hard to make wine, not back then. You planted a vine, and you had grapes and then there was wine.
The first thing Noah planted, after the Flood: vines. For the Greeks, it was still fresh. Philosophy was full of wonder, then.
But then? The terroir was curdled. The earth darkened. The earth drank blood. And the vines became the vines of evil.
Once, you could drink directly from the wine-fount. From the spring of Bacchus.
But now?
The old vines of Europe: that’s what Cicero wanted us to taste. The ancient vines! Grown since Greece! Grown since Noah!
But what’s happened to them, the ancient vines? They’ve become corrupted. The terroir is soaked in European blood.
We can taste the death. Not everyone can taste it. We know the putrefaction.
I piss better wine than this.
If an analytic philosopher drank this wine, what then?
They’d taste nothing.
The truth of European wine. It’s the truth of Europe.
Poisoned Europe. Festering Europe. The Europe that’s died. The Old Europe we worship. That even we revere, in our stupidity.
The new European wine will taste of nothing. It’ll be zero wine. The new European terroir will have no depth. No complications.
The conditions for European thought no longer exist.
It’s spreading from the West. From the Anglophone world. Positivity. Can do.
Anglophone mildness has replaced European truculence. Anglophone positivity has supplanted European gloom. The European forecast is good.
The managers are in charge of old Europe now. EU commissioners! The EU in general!
There’ll be no more Old European ache. No Old European truculence. No Old European no-can-do. No Old European attitude. No Old Europe refusal. Not anymore.
Can you get drunk on this wine? What kind of drunk?
She wanted us not just to drink her wine, but to actually become drunk on her wine – don’t forget that. It’s not about sipping. Fuck temperance.
Intemperance for an intemperate time, she’d say. A time of excess needs drinking to excess …
Wine from Mother’s terroir. The virtual Terroir. Some biotic mix. A terroir without the earth. Without the self-seclusion of the earth. Without anything hidden. Virtual wine. A terroir of light. Of transparency. Which is to say, no terroir.
Wine doesn’t grow from the air. Vines aren’t air plants.
The wine of wretchedness, the wine of sorrow. Is this wine mourning? Is it weeping wine-tears?
Wine is Cicero’s medium. And the medium is –
Her message?
Kitten was the one who had the keys to her flat. It was entirely empty, except for the wine.
How did she order her wine?
There were just there in her wine racks.
But she had several racks.
True. These are from the racks at the back. They were kind of dusty.
Work in Progress 