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Dante Remy Bloodlust, Your Blood Is My Sex is a forthcoming publication by Dante Remy, with illustrations by Apollonia Saintclair, and published by Erosetti Press. In the eerie embrace of night, where shadows dance to an ancient rhythm and the moonlight reveals secrets hidden by day, there exists a tale—a story that transcends the boundaries of life and death. It is a narrative woven with threads of nature and nurture, a delicate dance between the primal instincts of survival and the intricate web of desires that entwine two entities, forever bound in a macabre symphony. This is the story of Bloodlust, a vampire whose existence is defined by a delicate balance between the instinctual need to feed and a newfound passion for the complex symphony of human experience. The narrative unfurls like the velvety wings of a bat in flight, circling the depths of the supernatural realm where pleasure and pain intertwine, leaving echoes of ecstasy and the scent of forbidden allure lingering in the air. At the heart of this tale lies the exploration of nature versus nurture, a dichotomy that weaves through the centuries of the vampire’s existence. Nasfuratu, zombie-like in his existence, rises only to kill, to end life, and then to rest. Is it simply nature that propels these creatures forward, or do they, like humans, develop interests, hobbies, and even needs beyond the basic instinct of survival? Bloodlust, as our enigmatic narrator reveals, is a profound revelation—the discovery that blood is not merely a sustenance for survival but a vessel carrying neurochemicals that encapsulate the essence of human experience. The vampire, with an acute sense of taste and smell, becomes a connoisseur of these blood-borne emotions, indulging in the exquisite dance of dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and endorphins that course through the veins of the seduced. The narrative unfolds with a seductive allure, embracing the themes of power, control, and a hedonistic pursuit of excess. The vampire, an immortal hedonist, manipulates and exploits the desires of seducers, turning them into willing servants who feed the insatiable thirst for pleasure. It’s a carefully orchestrated symphony of arousal, climax, and eternal bliss—a twisted tale of dominance and submission, where the vampire reigns supreme in the realm of desire. Immortality becomes a fusion of perpetual pleasure and eternal bliss, as the vampire promises the ultimate culmination of ecstasy to its victims. The victims, driven by a hedonistic desire for release from the mundane, willingly surrender to the vampire’s seduction, plunging into a spiral of pleasure and discovery that culminates in the small death—the pinnacle of their existence. The theme of obsession, akin to a collector’s passion for the finest wines, resonates throughout the narrative. The vampire becomes a curator of life stories, a seeker of nuanced experiences, carefully selecting victims based on their unique tastes, desires, and even geographical origins. Each victim, like a rare vintage, contributes to the symphony of sensations that the vampire craves. Desire and fulfillment intertwine, creating a complex tapestry of human sexuality. The narrative unfolds slowly, building a crescendo that mirrors the rise of pleasure, ultimately reaching a climax of release—the release of neurochemicals that sustain the vampire in a perpetual state of bliss. As the story comes to a close, the reader is drawn into the narrative, becoming the victim, the one seduced by the vampire’s words. The tale leaves lingering questions in its wake—what role would you play in this dark exploration of desire? Are you the victim, the vampire, or something else entirely? In the autumnal embrace of this tale, accompanied by haunting melodies and chilling sound effects, the narrative takes on a life of its own. It invites introspection into the shadows of our own desires, prompting us to question the boundaries of pleasure and pain, life and death. The vampire’s story becomes a mirror, reflecting the deepest recesses of our own forbidden fantasies and the eternal dance between nature and nurture. For updates on this story and other published works by Dante Remy, subsribe! ©️ 2024 Dante Remy

Dante Remy I corresponded with several creators recently who had heard my reading of this poem and asked some good questions. Was this poem autobiographical? Is Annabelle Lee really Poe’s deceased wife? What are some of the circumstances around her death and his death depicted in this poem? I always encourage you to write and reflect, responding to this article in the reply option below. Let’s read Poe’s words, Annabel Lee, and then discuss it. Annabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. I was a child and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love— I and my Annabel Lee— With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me— Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the angels in Heaven above Nor the demons down under the sea Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea. Annabelle Lee, one of Poe’s most popular poems, which follows so many of the common themes of his poetry and his writing, often the death of a beautiful woman. But, is it about the actual death of a woman, or is it about the death of love? Is it about him and his life? Perhaps his young wife we lost in her youth? We really don’t know the answers. What we do know about Poe and about his writing is that he was fantastical and that we cannot always assign a true meaning to anything that is written. Yes, we can surmise, we can think, we can reflect, and I will do some of that here. But in the end it is up to interpretation, and so, of course, I always wonder what do you think? What are your answers to some of the questions I will pose about this lovely poem? About Poe’s life, perhaps, and about yours? Where you see this poem, this ode, Annabel Lee, reflecting your life? Does it reflect, perhaps, events of your life, or formative death, or love or other life events? Think about these questions as we explore Annabel Lee from several angles. Let us consider Poe and his life as it relates to this poem. The poem was actually written in 1849. It was published after his death, and he went to great lengths to ensure that it would be published after his death, speaking with his publisher, leaving a copy with a friend. He made sure it would appear in print and in many ways is one of his final acts as a writer. Now, where does life and love come into this? Well, we know that he married his wife, Virginia, when she was age 13, and he was 27. She died about 11 years later, in her early 20s, and so I think it’s fair to say he was engaged and loved her in her youth, and that she actually died in her youth, as well. Poe himself met her and married her at age 27, and he died at age 40. So he’s somewhat of the outsider, the observer, perhaps as the writer of this poem, but also perhaps as the lover, as the husband, as the observer or outsider speaking about someone else writing about someone else as well. It’s also fair to say that Poe, who was prolifically writing up until this time, was quite distraught at his wife’s death, and its been suggested it was his demise. He began drinking even more heavily. It’s widely recognized that he was a heavy drinker, if not an alcoholic. He was found incoherent in someone else’s clothing on the streets and brought to a hospital. They suspected of alcohol poisoning. There is evidence that he may have been used in a voting scheme that took people off the streets or who were inebriated and cast them aside once they had cast many votes. There was a phenomenon happening at the time. What we do know is that he had been increasingly distraught and he had actually developed a relationship with a former love and had promised to marry this widow. You don’t know how all that played out in conflict, but what we do know is that love is a phenomenon of conflict. It’s a phenomenon of discovery, it’s deeply intimate, it’s something that’s shared with someone that perhaps those on the outside don’t always understand. It’s a story that we tell, and sometimes we have to untell that story. Here we see a poem written that is fantastical and in a far-off land, so to speak, that draws parallels to Poe’s life, but also draws parallels to love in general. This poem asks many questions. How do we fall in and out of love, navigating the conflicts within? How do we navigate those around us who may perceive it in a different way? How do we survive the loss of love? Now, it is interesting to note that this poem was published just two days after his death. Poe ensured that the poem would be published upon his death. However, there is some speculation that the timing of its publication was simply coincidental and, thus, perceived as an ode to his wife. Finally, I’ll add, as a literary side note, that Annabel Lee was the inspiration for Vladimir Nabokov’s novel Lolita with the theme of forbidden love about age difference. As we know in the novel Lolita, there is a young love Annabelle Lee spelled differently who is terminally ill and is considered living by the sea. In fact Lolita’s original title was the Kingdom by the Sea. So you can see some great parallels and what an amazing influence Poe was on literary life, certainly literary life in the United States at the time (although Nabokov was Russian a more contemporary writer). Poe is considered one of the birthers, so to speak, of the United States’ literary tradition, raising the standard both as an editor and also as an author. Have you ever wondered what the words of others would look like in writing, being able to touch and hold those words of a famous work? You can venture to Columbia University’s book collection, where an original written manuscript of Annabel Lee is kept, handwritten by Poe, as a final draft. Perhaps, if you’re lucky enough, you might even be able to read it to yourself and enjoy it just for a moment. One thing that I noticed right away when I looked at the written script was how he underlined she and I. He wanted extra emphasis on those words. She was a child and I was a child. And you have to wonder again was he justifying something there? Was he justifying the love? Was it the case they were both children? Is it a child’s reaction to lay at the grave of someone that you miss? Is the love about a platonic love? Is this about the love of children, or is it something that’s more deeply? Is it about loss of childhood first love or a childhood friend, given they were both children? Or is it more an explanation of a love that’s forbidden, that is taken away, that is criticized? One cannot evade Poe's personal history when interpreting this poem. We see a kind of defense of this love. We see the potential for the love to be taken away certainly by illness, but also by society, by another family, by those who are looking down into the love and perhaps not approving of it from the heavens or from this majestic family as portrayed in the poem. So let’s dive more deeply into the poem and ask some questions and reflect on these questions. The poem starts as if it’s a fairy tale, many years ago, in a kingdom by the sea. In some languages, in Russian for example, you might start off Zhili Byili: There once lived in a time or land long, long ago. So we already have this sense of a fantastical and unearthly context for this poem, for this love. Can we agree that that sometimes this is the context for love? It can feel like it’s unworldly, that it’s new, that it’s different. How do you describe love? The experience of love, the experience of falling in love, the experience of knowing you’re in love? Is it of this earth? It’s beyond the everyday. The first stanza ends with the line Then to love and be loved. In other words, she lived with no other thought than to love and be love. This strong reciprocity, the dual nature of love. It wasn’t just his love, it was her love. Again we establish the explanation, we establish a defense of this love. It’s not one loving the other, it’s both, both loving each other. So this is fantastical. This is at another level and it’s mutual. Who could criticize this, right? But it’s much more. This love transcends age. It’s innocent. I was a child and she was a child. It’s an innocent, almost natural love that the angels of heaven, they coveted and envied us. They coveted what we had, this unearthly, this great force, this power, even from the highest angels from above. They saw it as love. This ode is even greater than love, maybe the greatest love, and it’s pure and it’s innocent and it’s real and it’s natural. It’s how things should be. I Was a child and she was a child. Can you be children in love? Can love make you feel Like your life is beginning? Can love be perennially youthful? Can you feel the renewing power of love even in old age? Can a touch, can a kiss, can the feelings of love be as new as when you first felt them? Well, we find in the next stanza that this love is taken away twice, not just once, and physically taken away. Physically taken away. And again, you have to wonder about both this surreal and the real levels of this. A wind blew, chilled Annabel and she succumbed to death, taken away by death. The natural or unnatural nature of it, we don’t know. Was it natural or unnatural, what do you think? And we know that a family, this Highborn Kingsman, then physically took her away and I would suggest even a third time. She was placed in the sepulcher and enshrined so that he could only lay next to it or or touch it, this tomb. So we have a kind of natural, unnatural taking away, we have a kind of societal or social taking away, and then we have a physical taking away. These are levels of grief, these are levels of loss that are profound. And, again, I would ask, where does this come from, this kind of writing, these multiple levels of loss? Is it simply fantastical for Poe to write this? Or is he portraying events in his life: the loss of his mother at age three to illness, tuberculosis, just like his wife died of tuberculosis and was taken away in youth. He lost his mother in childhood and he lost his very young bride and her youth. The parallels are really interesting here, and what we do know is there seems to be multiple levels of loss here. It’s very powerful. It’s hard not to apply these events of his life. It’s also challenging to think of this as something that would just come out of his imagination. But what we do know is we all can experience loss of this depth, loss of love, whether it’s platonic, familial or romantic and loving. He talks more about her death, giving more details the chilling and the killing, the exposure to elements, the hardship perhaps. And he relates this to perhaps something coming down from heaven, almost as if it’s a judgment. He speaks of it as envy. Heaven envied what they had. Envied their love, and so took her from him to end that love, what it envied, through the elements, under the dark of night. He couldn’t defend her, he could only witness this. And again, this kind of vulnerability, out of control, whether it’s love or death or loss, is so painfully written in these stanzas. Yet, in the second to last stanza, there remains a kind of morbid hope that this this love cannot end. It’s unending, a kind of metaphysical unending. It contrasts with the last stanza. That’s more physical, more real, more tangible. But in the unreal, in the supernatural, the love never ends. Angels and demons cannot take it away. Their souls are connected forever. You can physically kill someone, you can physically take them away, but the souls are intertwined. The souls never go away. The souls never part. And so in this second to last stanza we see how the love is unending and how love itself always leaves a part of someone with us. It doesn’t simply go away, It doesn’t simply disappear. Do we ever really fall out of love? Doesn’t a part of this love always stay with us? In the case of Annabel and this poem, the answer is absolutely it does. It can never be lost. This soul cannot be taken away. So love is sustained, the souls that are intertwined are sustained. Imagine a world where we think of love as always eternal, the relationships we have as eternal. We approach and we cherish and we accept them as those that change us, that will always be with us, that love and relationships aren’t simply cast aside. They do remain with us. Yet, perhaps some are more special than others, and certainly this is the case of Annabel. That is what we’re reading here, what we’re knowing, what we’re feeling, what we feel in this. But all things must come to an end and, as Poe so morbidly writes so often, the endings are often a process of eternal grief because in the physical, he is going to literally lie by her side. He can’t touch her. He can’t speak to her. He can’t feel her. He can only know their connection, their eternal connection. He lies at the sepulcher, this enshrined tomb, and thinks of her and stays with her as he hears the echoes of the sea. As he hears the echoes of their love. As he hears the echoes of the place where they were together. So many questions. So many ways to experience love. So many ways to experience loss. It’s difficult, very challenging, to think that what Poe wrote in these lines is completely disconnected from his life, his experience, from his love and his loss. How would you express your love, your loss, and your connections? Are they intertwined in a permanent, lasting way? Perhaps this poem will stay with you as you drift off in thought and reflection. Perhaps a day or a week or a month or a year from now, you’ll experience something and it will bring you back to this poem, Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allen Poe. ©️ 2023 Dante Remy

Dante Remy Let’s consider the poem Fern, by Ted Hughes. Here is the fern’s frond, unfurling a gesture, Like a conductor whose music will now be pause And the one note of silence To which the whole earth dances gravely – A dancer, leftover, among crumbs and remains Of God’s drunken supper, Dancing to start things up again. And they do start up – to the one note of silence. The mouse’s ear unfurls its trust. The spider takes up her bequest. And the retina Reins the Creation with a bridle of water. How many went under? Everything up to this point went under. Now they start up again Dancing gravely, like the plume Of a warrior returning, under the low hills, Into his own kingdom. Listen. Do you hear that? It’s the mystical melody of the Fern resonating through the eons. What makes this plant so enchanting? Ah, it is the very essence of life itself. It nourishes civilizations, sustains our hunger, and weaves the tapestry of culture and existence. So let us delve deeper into the ethereal realm of the Fern. When you stumble upon a Fern during a leisurely stroll or amidst a verdant meadow, perhaps bursting forth from a weathered crack in ancient walls, you are encountering a primordial being. A plant so ancient, it has been fossilized in time, yet continues to thrive in our world. It has endured countless trials throughout the ages, persevering through the tumultuous tides of history to linger among us today, even hidden within the coal we burn to power our lives. Much of our planet is said to be composed of decomposed plant matter, and a significant portion of that is the remnants of ancient ferns that once lined the edges of marshes and swamps. Now, encased in water and mud, they have transformed into precious fuels that sustain us in the present. Depending on the season, ferns unveil varying forms of breathtaking beauty, each one deserving heartfelt contemplation. First, there is the rhizome, the very root system that sprouts and extends with each passing year. Then, we encounter the stipe or petiole, a noble stem devoid of leaves that carries the weight of the entire plant. And there, in all its magnificence, lies the frond—the epitome of the fern. The frond encompasses the stem, the stipe, along with a myriad of leaves and their exquisite variations. Finally, we have the pinnae or leaflets, delicate individual leaves adorned with tiny dots, resembling seeds. These dots are in fact spores, destined to spread far and wide, perpetuating the fern’s legacy across the millennia. They nestle into cracks and crevices, finding sanctuary in the most peculiar of places, eternally spreading and perpetuating the existence of this wondrous plant. For many, ferns are synonymous with mature plants—those familiar forms we often encounter in lush forests and watery havens. Yet, there is another side to the fern, a springtime fern, as it unfurls and stretches towards new life. This is the time to revel in its many meanings and uses. The fiddlehead, oh the fiddlehead fern! It is nature’s symphony, its own unfolding coil of life. In some regions, these coiled and unfurling parts of the fern are not just sight to behold, but also a delectable delicacy. When young and tender, curling fiddlehead fronds are harvested and sautéed, awakening our palates to their verdant allure. However, tread cautiously, for it is crucial to ensure that the fern chosen is the edible kind. If allowed to mature, bitterness prevails, rendering them unappetizing and unsuitable for consumption. Yet beyond their culinary appeal, fiddleheads hold a profound symbolic meaning. In Maori culture, they are known as “koru,” an enduring spiral that unravels and curls within the silver fern of New Zealand. This sacred symbol finds its place in art, adorning intricate patterns, carvings, and adorning the skin in beautiful tattoos. It represents new life, growth, strength, and harmony. The very act of unfurling, mirroring the fern itself and its timeless history upon this earth, conveys the notion of perpetual motion—a coil returning to its origin, forever reborn, ever-sustaining life. It intertwines with our culture, infuses our existence, providing nourishment and inspiration. Fascinatingly, the kodu has become an integral part of the indigenous flags of New Zealand, as well as the emblem of the national rugby team, featured prominently in their traditional chant before each game. The silver fern, a symbol of culture, sustenance, and the natural furnace of life, is intertwined with folklore and legend. Tales abound of mysterious flowers and seeds that unfurl and bloom during auspicious moments throughout the year. In Slavic folklore, discovering a young fern’s blossoming guarantees a lifetime of happiness and abundance. Similarly, Finnish tradition holds that finding fern seeds in full bloom during midsummer grants the beholder the power to traverse far-off lands, unearthing hidden treasures along the way, as if breaking a spell, allowing a glimpse into forbidden realms. In various cultures, dried ferns are burned to purify and banish malevolent spirits, to ward off ill fate and even to drive away unwanted animals. In more recent times, ferns made their mark in the Victorian era, triggering an obsession known as “pteridomania (pterido being Latin for ferns).” This fern frenzy permeated decorative arts such as pottery, glasswork, textiles, sculptures, and prints, where fern motifs became a ubiquitous presence, even adorning gravestones as an eternal symbol of the unending coil of life. Ferns were cultivated, shared, and became integral components of botanical gardens, forever enchanting those who beheld them. And let us not forget their immortalization in literature and poetry, for here we find the works of Ted Hughes and his immortal poem, “Fern.” Let us journey through his verse once more, savoring the exquisite lines that speak to the fern’s very soul. The poem commences with a vivid portrayal of the fern’s anatomy, likening its unfurling fronds to a serenade, an ethereal melody that transcends time itself. It stands as a testimony to endurance, remaining steadfast long after life’s fervor has waned, through storms and tribulations, both nature’s and civilization’s. It endures as a remnant, preserving the essence of everlasting life. And who are the privileged spectators of this delicate dance? The woodland creatures, the minuscule insects, and the ever-watchful eyes of a creator—a life-giving force akin to the flowing waters. And what of these ferns? Rising, renewing, and eventually departing, they continue to bestow upon us the precious gift of life. We burn them, we consume them, and we weave tales around them, embedding them in our cultures, our languages. Indeed, the power of the fern is so immense that it has become the emblem of a warrior nation, an emblem that intertwines with their way of life and taps into the ancient wisdom of our predecessors. And where do we, mere mortals, fit into this grand tapestry? Can we claim the fern as our own? In our everyday lives, can we recognize the different stages of its existence? Can we appreciate and comprehend its resilient nature, its eternal propagation? Can we perceive the symbolic and sensual aspects of this life-giving plant? What does it mean to encounter something that has flourished for millennia, still providing for us and the Earth, endlessly unfurling and curling outward, an eternal circle of life? Let us make space in our thoughts and drift into the realms of myth, culture, and time, pondering upon the sublime beauty of the fern. ©️ 2023 Dante Remy

Dante Remy Noble Rot, the essence of Tokaj wine…is a tale about so much more than a late harvested sweet wine. Although I am no expert, I certainly am a student of life and I can tell a compelling story. Noble Rot, particularly the Tokaj wine region, is a story of history, culture, and how we have arrived in present day. Tokaj wine is one that can be celebrated. It can be savored alone, but I think it is best shared. Perhaps you are celebrating a birthday, perhaps you are gathering as a family and you want to mark the occasion just right. Well, I would recommend a Tokaj wine. These wines can be selected by taste, from a sweet dessert experience to a more complex, drier variety. However, these wines, these Tokaj wines, these wines of the Noble Rot, all have something in common, something that is destructive by nature, perhaps counterintuitive, that we will discuss in more detail. However, before we enter into this world, let us read a version of the story that will allow us to explore and dive deeper into this incredibly earthly experience: this Tokaj wine, this wine of history, this wine of the people, this wine of the earth. Pourriture Noble by Marie Ponsot A moral tale, for Sauternes, the fungus cenaria, and the wild old Never prophesy. You can’t. So don’t try. Lust, pride, and lethargy may cause us misery or bliss. The meanest mistake has a point to make. Hear this — what his vintner d’Eyquem said once the lord d’Eyquem was dead: “The wine that year promised bad or none. He’d let it go too late. Rot had crawled through all the vines, greasy scum on every cluster dangling at the crotches of the leaves. Should have been long picked but he’d said, ‘No. Wait for me,’ off to wait on a new woman, grapes on the verge of ripe when he left. Coupling kept him till rot wrapped the grapes like lace & by the time she’d kicked him out the sun had got them, they hung shriveled in the blast. Well, he rode home cocky & bullied the grapes into the vats rot & all, spoiled grapes, too old, too soon squeezed dry. The wine makes. The wine makes thick, gold-colored, & pours like honey. We try it. Fantastic! not like honey, punchy, you’ve never drunk anything like it — refreshing, in a rush over a heat that slows your throat — wanting to keep that flavor stuck to the edge of your tongue where your taste is, keep it like the best bouquet you can remember of sundown summer & someone coming to you smiling. The taste has odor like a new country, so fine at first you can’t take it in it’s so strange. It’s beautiful & believe me you love to go slow.” moral: Age is not all dry rot. It’s never too late. Sweet is your real estate. Source: Poetry Foundation Poetry (2013). I could be whispering about a forbidden romance, but instead, I am divulging the tantalizing tale of the unparalleled Tokaj wine. What is Tokaj, you ask? Close your eyes and imagine a rendezvous with a long-lost lover, a clandestine affair that sparks a fire within. That is the essence of Tokaj—a wine with a story that begs to be unraveled, with countless hidden questions and enchanting pathways along its journey. Some may have heard murmurs about Noble Rot and the sweet elixir that is Tokaj wine, but I shall reveal a secret. A secret about a time and place that should be shared only with those truly deserving. Are you ready? Prepare yourself, for all roads lead to the bewitching land of Slovakia. Yes, Slovakia, where a very select, a very special, Tokaj wine region beckons like a seductive caress, enticing us with its subtleties, its history, its culture, and, of course, its alluring taste. Within this history lie countless twists and turns, a tapestry waiting to be explored. Let us begin at the beginning, shall we? What exactly is this Noble Rot and what earthly alchemy brings forth this extraordinary elixir? Ah, the term “Noble Rot” lingers on the tongue, doesn’t it? So let us delve into the process of this mesmerizing rot. Do the grapes truly harbor the essence of this exquisite wine? Surprisingly, the answer is a resounding yes. Tokaj is not simply a wine—it is a manifestation of a fungus, known as Botrytis cinerea. The formation of this magical fungus on grapes is intricately intertwined with the geography. For this beneficial fungus to thrive on grapes, a delicate dance of mist is required. The grapes must be caressed by a fine morning mist, a gentle kiss of moisture. And then, day after day, like a fleeting lover’s touch, the mist must vanish swiftly, leaving the grapes to dry in the embrace of the sun. And thus, Botrytis cinerea emerges. But beware, for there exist deadly fungi and diseases that plague grapes. Yet, not Botrytis cinerea. This fungus is a lover’s dance on the grape. Thriving in select valleys and regions where morning mist envelops the land, this fungus bestows its affection upon tightly clustered grape bunches. It is a delicate dance, a harmonious choreography between mist and sunshine. What does this enchanting fungus do, you ask? Well, over time, it gently pierces the skin of the grapes, causing them to gradually wither and shrivel, like precious raisins on the vine. And this remarkable process yields intensely sweet, exquisitely concentrated grapes, begging to be crushed and transformed into the elixir that is Tokaj—a wine born from the dried, noble-rotted fruit. This enigmatic phenomenon, my sojourners, occurs in only a handful of regions in the world, such as Alsace in Germany, Sauternes in Bordeaux, France, and the Tokaj region nestled between Hungary and Slovakia. It is within the Tokaj region that the birth of botrytized wines is said to have taken place. Now, as with all cherished secrets, they are often concealed, hidden away, like the most intimate fantasies that dare not be revealed. Whispers tell of botrytized wine, this wine of noble rot, picked and produced over centuries but clandestinely kept under wraps. Perhaps it was fermented, bottled, and sold as an everyday wine, concealed from prying eyes. Perhaps it was a wine reserved for the vintners, the toilers of the fields and the vineyards. While much of the literature surrounding this mystery revolves around 18th-century France, historical records trace the existence of this noble rot wine back even further. But let us delve deeper into the heart of this story. Imagine waking up in a wild meadow, enveloped in a misty morning that nurtures your very being. Tokaj is a gift—a gift from nature, nourishing us in countless ways and paying homage to those who tend the soil, those who honor the cycles of nature. Tokaj wine and those grapes caressed by the loving grip of Botrytis cinerea—they are precious, rare, and found in limited quantities. The number of vineyards is scarce, and due to their exceptional concentration, the yield is delightfully limited. This is another reason why Tokaj captures our hearts. Its rarity and uniqueness among all wines and grapes make it a treasure to be savored, appreciated, and cherished. And as we embark on this journey, I hope you come to realize that Tokaj brings us full circle—connecting us to life, to our very essence, and to the profound bond between humanity and the untamed beauty of nature. The fermentation process of these wines is slow and deliberate. Patience is required, my friends, as it takes double or even triple the time of an ordinary wine to reach its exquisite potential. The ambient temperature must be just right, every detail attended to with the utmost care and precision. These wines have been known to age gracefully for 50, a 100, or even more years, evolving and blossoming as they mature. Now, let us turn our gaze to the Tokaj wine region, nestled within the southeastern corners of Slovakia and the northeastern reaches of Hungary. You may question why we have shifted our focus from France to Tokaj. But my fellow travelers, it is widely recognized that the Tokaj wine region holds the crown as the oldest and most prominent home of noble rot wines in the world. In the more recent history of this region, following the dissolution of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the formal border between Czechoslovakia and Hungary altered what had once been a united region. A treaty held until 1993, during which Tokaj wine produced on the Slovakian side was exported, sold, and marketed as Hungarian Tokaj. Oh, the complexities of taste that must have ignited within! Slovakian Tokaj remained hidden, veiled from the world for decades, bottled and consumed as Hungarian Tokaj. It wasn’t until the early 1990s that Slovakia finally stepped onto the international stage, reclaiming its ancestral heritage and proudly presenting its own Tokaj wine to the world. However, dear friends, our story does not conclude there. Disputes surrounding the title of Tokaj persisted, with both Hungary and Slovakia longing to claim this illustrious name for themselves. For many decades, only Hungary was associated with Tokaj. Yet, in a historic ruling in 2012, the European Court rejected Hungary’s attempt to erase the Slovakian entry of Tokaj, firmly establishing Slovakia as a legitimate global producer of this wine. However, my discerning readers, let us remember that Tokaj wine is not solely defined by its past. The Slovaks continue to innovate and surprise us, breathing new life into this extraordinary nectar. Pure Tokaj, in its quintessential form, is created solely from these grapes. Take, for instance, the d’Yquem vineyard in France, known for its Essencia—a wine of unparalleled purity, exclusively crafted from these grapes. Its texture is akin to the richest honey, coating your palate with each sip. Its flavor dances like a summer sunset, leaving an intense and lingering sensation that captivates the soul. Yet, in the world of Tokaj, additional grape varieties are often blended to create a symphony of flavors and sweetness. A sophisticated classification system has been established, ensuring that Tokaj enthusiasts encounter a diverse range of tastes, paying homage to tradition and allowing for innovation. Dare I share yet another secret? In the Slovak villages of Vel’ka Trña and Čerhov, a dazzling experiment is underway. Grapes are now being fermented in large Georgian clay vats, a journey that harkens back to the roots of winemaking. These clay vessels, qvevri (amphora), brought all the way from the Republic of Georgia, deepen the complexity and subtleties of the noble-rotted grapes, introducing even more exquisite variations of taste. So, the journey of Tokaj continues from the past, to the future. Now, let us return to the reading that has enraptured us, drawing us back to France, to the Sauternes region. The very mention of Botrytis cinerea, the fungus that lovingly embraces the grapes’ tender skins, sends shivers through our being. What lesson shall it impart? What profound truths lie within its verses? The passage speaks of errors and mistakes, reminding us that even the meanest of missteps can have a purpose, can guide us towards both despair and utter bliss. And then, with audacious fervor, it proclaims that the meanest mistake holds a secret, a truth waiting to be illuminated. Take a moment to reflect, my dear friends. What mistakes have you made in your own life that have led to profound insights, shaping your very essence? In the tale of d’Eyquem Vineyard—a renowned sanctuary for noble rot wines—lays a glimpse into the enchanting essence of nature’s tale. It is whispered that this particular story was revealed only after the lord of the estate had departed this earthly realm. Within the vineyard’s embrace, you witness the very fabric of nature, the story of wine itself. Conventional wisdom states that grapes should be harvested at their peak—but no. The lord, consumed by desire, returned late and forced the grapes into the vat, extracting every bit of life they could offer. And what was discovered, you ask? A revelation—an exquisite wine, brimming with sweetness, born from a mistake, from a seemingly insignificant act. In truth, noble rot wine was not discovered at d’Eyquem Vineyard. However, it was a discovery that this land, this territory, had the power to create such beauty. It was a rediscovery, if you will, a reawakening of the knowledge that this region held the key to the mystique of noble rot. And within this tale lies a profound truth. Age is not to be feared, for it can bestow upon us the sweetest of blessings. It prompts us to ponder the meaning of life, to contemplate the intricate dance between old and new, between tradition and innovation, between the past and the present. Tokaj, the noble rot wine from the Tokaj region, beckons us to unlock a world where history intertwines with the present, where the very essence of nature dances upon our eager tongues. It is an exquisite secret, one that we now share, my companions. Tokaj—a gift from the land, a tale of love, of mystery, of discovery—forever etched upon our souls. ©️ 2023 Dante Remy

Dante Remy In the vast tapestry of literary genius, the threads woven by Edgar Allan Poe stand as a complex and haunting masterpiece. His poetry, a dance with the macabre, serves as a mirror reflecting the perennial questions of life, death, and the elusive pursuit of meaning. As we consider Poe’s verses, we find ourselves on the shores of contemplation, listening to the rhythmic cadence of his words—grains of sand slipping through the hourglass of our understanding. Poe’s exploration of themes echoes in the background, a resonance that leads us to the enigmatic shores where dreams intersect with reality. Let us delve into the profound concept of duality, the undulating ebb and flow of life, using Poe’s metaphorical waves as a vessel to navigate the complexities of existence. The chosen poem for our contemplative voyage is “A Dream Within a Dream,” a composition that unfurls like the delicate petals of a melancholic bloom. As we surrender to the verses, Poe’s voice whispers, beckoning us to fall into his words and into the experience of a dream within a dream.” A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allen Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow — You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand — How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep — while I weep! O God! Can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? The initial lines of this poem set the stage, a tender kiss upon the brow, an avowal that our days have been but a dream. The italicized proclamation in the first stanza echoes like a solemn truth, asserting that all we perceive or imagine is a mere figment within the vast realm of dreams. Yet, as hope flutters away, the second stanza poses a poignant question, a plea against the relentless tide of time and inevitability. Duality, a recurring theme in Poe’s literary repertoire, surfaces once more. In a nod to a previous exploration of the vampire’s dual nature, we unravel the layers of Poe’s own duality—a dance with need and death, a reflection of the struggles that colored his own tumultuous existence. The heart of the matter lies in decoding the essence of a dream within a dream. The present tense in which the poem unfolds thrusts us into the immediacy of now. It raises questions that reverberate through the corridors of our consciousness. What is reality? Is happiness but a fleeting wave, a transient interlude between the surges of life’s struggles? I posit these questions, steering us through the murky waters of introspection. Consider the impact of social media, a modern-day conduit for projecting curated moments of happiness, the elusive 10% that overshadows the unspoken 90% of life’s challenges. The alluring mirage of the “Pottery Barn moments” contrasts sharply with Poe’s unapologetic embrace of struggle and loss. In the midst of these musings, the central query emerges—what defines meaning in a constantly changing world? Poe’s own life, marked by tragedy and relentless upheaval, invites us to reflect on the ephemeral nature of joy and the challenge of finding meaning amidst the shifting sands of time. The poet’s introspection extends to the realm of dreams, blurring the boundaries between the conscious and subconscious. Dreams, as conduits of unexpressed desires and fears, become the canvas upon which the human psyche paints its most profound struggles. The second stanza, a stark departure from the initial ode to love, plunges us into a contemplative abyss. The imagery of standing amid the roar of a surf-tormented shore, desperately holding grains of golden sand, evokes a sense of impending loss. The poignant question arises—can we grasp these fleeting moments with a tighter clasp, or are we destined to watch them slip away into the pitiless wave of time? Delving deeper into the heart of Poe’s existential quandary: Is life but a dream within a dream, a transitory illusion that we cling to amidst the tumult of our struggles? The narrator’s acknowledgment of the impermanence of these moments does not lead to despair but rather to a nuanced understanding. The darkness that permeates Poe’s verses does not eclipse the light. Instead, it accentuates the beauty of those rare moments of happiness, those fragments of a dream within a dream. The questions raised by the poet—Is it less meaningful? Can we not cling to those fleeting joys?—find resonance in the collective human experience. We should reflect on and consider the meaning of these ephemeral dreams. Does their fleeting nature render them less significant, or is it in embracing the struggle that we find the true essence of our humanity? Poe’s life, marked by hardship and relentless pursuit of literary perfection, becomes a testament to the resilience found in acknowledging the dual nature of existence. And, what do we make of the labyrinth of consciousness and imagination? The power of dreams to bridge the gap between the conscious and subconscious mind emerges as a theme, inviting listeners to explore the depths of their own nocturnal landscapes. We can even extend this connection to the very fabric of reality—is everything an illusion, or does reality persist beyond the mirage of our desires and fears? The interplay of hope and despair, the delicate dance between conscious and subconscious realms, becomes a poignant reflection on the fragility of the human experience. In the poetic dance orchestrated by Poe, the notion of a dream within a dream serves as a profound metaphor for the transience of life. This encourages us to grapple with the ever-shifting sands of existence, to confront the stark reality that all we see or seem may indeed be a mere dream within a dream. Amidst the weighty questions and existential pondering, a glimmer of optimism emerges. The first stanza, akin to a love poem, celebrates the dreamlike quality of life shared with a loved one. It encapsulates the tender acknowledgment that, though life may feel like a dream, the experience of love transcends the ephemeral nature of existence. The second stanza, however, introduces a nuanced perspective. It shifts from celebration to contemplation, from love to loss. The imagery of the surf-tormented shore, the grains slipping through fingers, echoes the inevitability of change. Yet, in the face of this impending loss, we are urged to consider whether these moments truly vanish or if they linger, carried forward in the recesses of memory. In the end, as the waves of introspection recede, what remains is the profound realization that life, with all its dualities, struggles, and fleeting moments, is a mosaic woven from the threads of our own consciousness. The dream within a dream, though transient, holds within it the power to shape our perceptions, define our struggles, and, ultimately, guide us through the ebb and flow of our existence. ©️ 2024 Dante Remy

Dante Remy In the realm of dreams, where reality dissolves into a tapestry of the subconscious, we find ourselves entangled in a delicate dance with our deepest desires and fears. It is a world where the boundaries between the tangible and the intangible blur, and we are left to navigate the landscapes of our own minds. But what lies behind these dreams, and why do others, like elusive specters, infiltrate these nocturnal realms? Enter Christina Rossetti, a poet who beckons us to explore the enigmatic terrain of dreams through the verses of her sonnet, “I Dream of You to Wake.” I Dream of You To Wake by Christina Rossetti I dream of you, to wake: would that I might Dream of you and not wake but slumber on; Nor find with dreams the dear companion gone, As, Summer ended, Summer birds take flight. In happy dreams I hold you full in night. I blush again who waking look so wan; Brighter than sunniest day that ever shone, In happy dreams your smile makes day of night. Thus only in a dream we are at one, Thus only in a dream we give and take The faith that maketh rich who take or give; If thus to sleep is sweeter than to wake, To die were surely sweeter than to live, Though there be nothing new beneath the sun. Before delving into the intricacies of her poetry, it is imperative to unravel the threads of Rossetti’s life, woven into the very fabric of her verses. Her existence, marked by profound loss and unrequited love, serves as the crucible from which her poetic alchemy emerges. As we traverse the landscape of Rossetti’s sonnet, we encounter echoes of ancient psalms, specifically the Song of Songs—an ode to love and spirituality within the biblical tapestry. Both Rossetti’s sonnets and the Psalms resonate with themes of love, devotion, and spirituality, forming a harmonious symphony of emotions. Through the lens of rich and evocative language, both works become vessels that transport us to realms where the ethereal intertwines with the earthly. The imagery of gardens and flowers, meticulously tended in the gardens of poetic expression, becomes a shared motif between Rossetti’s sonnets and the biblical Psalms. Here, the petals of blossoms unfold to reveal the fragility of love and the beauty that emanates from its ephemeral nature. These shared symbols, whether in the context of Rossetti or the ancient Psalms, serve as a universal language that transcends temporal and cultural boundaries. Yet, beneath the tapestry of shared symbolism lies a deeply personal narrative—a reflection of Rossetti’s own life experiences. Her poems emerge from the crucible of loss, with the specter of her mother’s early departure, the untimely demise of siblings, and unrequited loves casting shadows across the verses. Rossetti’s Christian faith, an unwavering anchor in the storm of her existence, manifests in the thematic fabric of her sonnets, resonating with biblical echoes. “I Dream of You to Wake” unfolds as a poignant expression of longing and loss. The speaker, immersed in the ephemeral embrace of dreams, seeks solace in the illusion of a love that eludes her in waking life. The imagery of summer birds taking flight in happy dreams and the radiant smile that transforms night into day weaves a tapestry of beauty against the backdrop of sorrow. In Rossetti’s dreamscape, the beloved becomes a summer bird—a metaphor for the soul’s flight to heaven. The faith that “maketh rich” suggests a divine connection, where love is perceived as a gift from a higher realm. The interplay of giving and taking within the dream realm mirrors the complex dynamics of human relationships, where the boundaries between self and other blur in the dance of reciprocity. The bittersweet conclusion of the sonnet contemplates the sweetness of sleep over the harshness of wakefulness. The contemplation of death as a sweeter alternative underscores the profound yearning for a reality where the ephemeral dreamscape and the tangible world intersect. In this melancholic reverie, Rossetti invites us to ponder the intricate dance between the tangible and the intangible, between dreams and wakefulness. As we peer into the depths of Rossetti’s sonnet, the question arises: Do our dreams serve as mirrors, reflecting our innermost desires and conflicts, or are they portals to a collective consciousness, where archetypes and symbols intertwine to shape our understanding of the world? Enter the realms of Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, whose theories cast shadows on the canvas of dream analysis. Freud, delving into the recesses of the personal subconscious, posits that dreams are the playground of repressed desires and unresolved conflicts. The individuals who populate our dreams become vessels for the projection of our innermost struggles. In the labyrinth of the psyche, dreams serve as a stage where the drama of our desires unfolds. Contrastingly, Jung peers beyond the individual psyche, delving into the collective unconscious—a reservoir of shared symbols and archetypes that unite humanity. In this cosmic dreamscape, the people who populate our dreams transcend the personal, embodying universal archetypes that echo across cultures and epochs. The lover in Rossetti’s sonnet, therefore, becomes an embodiment of the collective archetype of love—an exploration of the universal longing for connection. As we traverse the corridors of Rossetti’s dreamscape, the dichotomy between the personal and the universal emerges. The lover, whether a singular entity or a symbol of love itself, becomes a conduit for the exploration of the human condition. In the throes of longing and loss, Rossetti’s verses resonate with a timeless quality—a reflection of the eternal dance between the tangible and the intangible, the personal and the universal. So, what do our dreams reveal about us? Do they serve as mirrors reflecting the recesses of our individual psyches, or are they windows opening to the collective consciousness that unites us all? In the ebb and flow of dreams, we find solace, exploration, and the unraveling of mysteries that transcend the boundaries of waking life. Rossetti’s “I Dream of You to Wake” beckons us to linger in the liminal space between dreams and wakefulness, where the ephemeral nature of love and the profound yearning for connection find expression. As we navigate the contours of our own dreams, let us ponder the whispers of our subconscious and the echoes of a collective unconscious that binds us all in the shared tapestry of human experience. In the tapestry of dreams, where the threads of the personal and the universal intertwine, let us continue to explore the enigmatic landscapes that unfold beneath closed eyelids. For in the dance of dreams, we discover the profound truths that shape our understanding of self, other, and the timeless mysteries that linger in the spaces between wakefulness and slumber. ©️ 2023 Dante Remy