Thinking of a wine publication, a literary wine promulgation. Feel, today, this morning, like I am making progress as a scribe, but not at the desired rate. All this spare cash laying around, throwing into the vinoLit pub...hmmm, what a name, vinoLit Pub [short for publication]. Usually people associate pubs with beer, so the dualistic placement could serve as a hook after the eyes connecting with ‘vino’.
This morning, I’m seeing a lot, much clearer than yesterday. Why did this discarnate
ingredient decide to filter into my varietal today?
On the road in about 30. Excited about the cruise east. Ample invitation for reflection. Stopping by the ad agency around 330p. Day busy, motivating, so it’s agreeable. The mocha’s implanted momentum keeps these tips prancing on weakened keys. I can just hear them telling me, “Stop typing, already!”
Glad I didn’t sip that much last night. My balance, this AM, beautiful. More and more, I embrace the typo. Find it, almost, cute. Winemakers intend on a certain flavor profile, and the liquefied being in the barrels develops its own cognitive bravado, stretching down another road. Not that this serves as the best analogy, but it’s what comes to mind, for some reason.
Wine and writing, the Lit, belong together. This pub will assure the union thereof, and in. Dark in this office. All this talk of wine makes me think of the vineyard visions, the recollections continuing with their reflective incisions. Wine and food, news, reviews, interviews...brain in self-imposed cyclone. True euphoria, utopia...
With this last burst of authorial acrobatics, I fall short. Too much about me to focus, which is a positive, trust me. Need time to simply think about all. Selection of an expanded direction...
Only a couple minutes left before departure. Sound like a pilot. Still want to write that story, too. Are the days collective enough extended to satisfy the totality of one’s desire?