Tomorrow, a different lunch break for the writer. Writing, editing, scribbling over coffee. By Self. No interaction. Solitude begets productivity. Lisa asked me a spurring question, while walking to the courtyard on 1st, politely projecting, “Is there a love story to it [my novel]?” At first I responded ‘no’. Then remembered Kelly’s presence. How could I ever forget? Need to expand, on her, if I’m capable. Coffee, tomorrow needed. Maybe I’ll snack at the cubicle from 10:30a-12:30p, when I take my lunch. Feasting consumes too much time. Why waste a blink that could be put into writing, finalizing a manuscript’s fruition?
In the glass, Syrah, just as I noted in the Comp book today. I satisfy my post’s mandates, daily, at NWG. But, I do find a few free breaths to scribble sentiment, or 7. One such blurb, addressing pattern, predictability. My abhorrence thereof. Cartwheeling fiendishly about this penman’s trenches, traveler impulses. Want to be back in Paris. Sunriver, Oregon. Want to see every part of Canada, sip real Sangio in Italy. North, South. Listening to these Wine Lounge beats, puts me in a hotel Room, balcony’d, inked-out on lines. Sipping in a serene scape. True sipNscribble, paired with Mediterranean scenes.
Kelly practices similar leaps. She, now, me with no idea. Can still see her, though. Her kind but energetic approach, no matter circumstance. Is she real, imaginary? Both. Or not. Why wonder? She’s delicious, much as rolls this Rhone. Too lazy to place the symbol above the “o.” Should cease with sips. But, why? I’m a wine scribe. No blogging on this paper plain. A certain Simulation to my Simulacra. Nothing forced, contrived. All mine. True poetry, glowingly. Flowlingly, knowingly. The varietal, returning me2Literary. Many “wine writers,” or bloggers, aren’t writers at all. Not to affront, just potently profess. 2nite, sipping to imagination. 2dreamz, 2books ...