Wine trip: Kadarka by Mucsi Zalan
I oftentimes roam. Where, depends on the moment and what whims become my intent to gather my hopes and to leave my spontaneity to the eye and attractions thereof. Tonight, it’s the alleyways of the lesser traveled. They’re clean. I’m reminded of my hometown, but these areas border million-dollar homes, though they are small and simple, this area is of the highest prices of the world. Despite this American west coast hamlet, can I actually call Palo Alto a hamlet? Maybe I can, and tonight I will. This hamlet sports this crazy foreign combination as in my belly rests an entire bottle of Kadarka, an important grape from Hungary. Most know this country’s fermentations of a sweeter concoction called Tokai, but this is a dry expression of an old varietal that made its way into Romania and Bulgaria. Strange that Kadarka be here in Palo Alto roaming the behinds of Stanford. Bizarre that here it’s Gods are being called to view this, under the full moon, on this powerful night. My heart is not fearful, but still wary of being suspected to wander and peer into these backyards. Misty wafts of fog-clouds float by, obscuring the moonlight, a fantastic vision that belongs to the Peninsula. The hills here, called the Santa Cruz Mountains create a unique and rather perfect weather where the heated valleys of Southern California draw down cool air across the Pacific Ocean into the Bay Area.
The Hungarian varietal opens my creativity, connects blood to ancient ancestral communications. Thoughts beget deeper imaginations, and I know that it’s my fathers or rather my mothers of ancestry who speak. Most don’t know the power of the vitus vinifera blood to connect to the human blood: The two intertwined forever to dance and to reveal. To me, the unveiling is becoming a fantastic display of fantasy, yet it only speaks truth. What does this truth speak on this evening?
He falls and dreams.
The dream is the story.
What the!
I trip and my face is before a puddle of recent rainwater. The water houses memories.
The Leolon flutter about my face. I don’t swat but allow. They are sacred to me. I wonder what Wernold will play tonight. What will manifest from those sounds. My parents have told me about the wonders of the music that emanates from that instrument, and I have always yearned to connect to it. They have prepared me well, or so I thought. As we leave our home, others too are walking by. Like a stream joining a river we connect to the grand hall. Each family has a place, seats there to join. It is a grand bowel. Suspended in the middle the intricate workings of Wernold’s creation displays shiny rainbows of refraction of myriad crystals designed to resonate with the performance. Our family sits along with the rest of the citizens. As we wait, we are employed, in our minds by psychic connections to intonate together to create a fantastic tone of our own: Almost two million voice boxes connecting, summoning an opening to breach the heavens. The Leolon fly above to witness. Even trees gather on the outskirts to partake. They join in as well, with their unheard vibrations, which obviously augment the event.
Then, Wernold appears. The crowd silences, then cheers. He is elevated into his creation. He climbs upon and sits in the center of the massive amalgam of crystals and pipes. Each can see his hands hover over the controls. There are smalls clinks that echo out. He casts a note from his mouth. It blasts out one hundred-fold to the crowd. That tone dwarfs what the people made. Everyone smiles.
Then it begins.
The sounds from his mouth, the playing of his fingers are simple at first, then augment in crescendo to complexity that boggles my mind. Everyone looks elated. The performance lasts and colors build. The colors, yes, the colors, there are images in the colors. I cannot say if they were on purpose or if they were placed there by my mind: A sort of pareidolia based on my own consciousness. Maybe others were seeing this too, or maybe it was just I. I will never know. But it felt profound. It felt sacred.
Obviously, it opened windows. Obviously, it called energy from beyond. I could see glorious faces. It were as if the Gods peered in to feel this, to see this. Wernold was the genius of the ages. He was the penultimate of expression of our genes. He came to release this unity to call upon this unity to bring universes to this oneness to express this love of what humans were destined to created: What humans were designed to create.
I left that concert changed.
No one, afterward, spoke of it.
There was an aura about everyone that was of so much peace. Everyone smiled more broadly for weeks after. It was a fantastic event.
My knees were bloodied by the trip to the asphalt and dirt. My jeans were torn. I looked up to the moon, which was almost setting behind the fog. I needed to get home. The scent of the fresh air woke me. The details of the dark were plain to my eyes and this evening was most ethereal and dream like. Will I forget this?
Derek K. Nielsen
17 September 2022
Wine Trip