Back in chair, sipping an ’06 Sonoma County Cab. Decided, bringing computer tomorrow, taking the remainder excess from bag, placing somewhere other than back inside my little work carrier. My mood, uncertain, unsettled. Need music. Too late to begin my Plath paper, that I wrote about in my cubed notes today. Ms. Plath, a varietal blended, but altogether distinct, distinguished. How does she do such in her metered, syllabic shifts? She’s a chef, with sentiments, observations, connections to pages’ eye-visitors. Antagonized to study, to devote time page-surfing, as nothing in “the industry” could ever coat, caress lengthened Literary longing like this. Except for tasting, that is. No. I’ll read Sylvia’s sheets, and sip the ’06 SoCo bull of a Cab. Two worlds, for this writer, tonight.
Operation vinoDish, how do I start? Most of my funds, stuffed in an envelope for the releases, my small papered winery. Interesting way to survey it. But it’s quite acute, accurate. Indi winmakers, self-pub’d scribes. We sing similarly! I need to steal more dialogue from those around. Actually, today I did. In the Roasting Co, while waiting for my mocha, my friend Adrianna’s ice latte-something, a despicably underpriced birthday gift for her, I heard a lady tell her friend, “..and then she just shut the door.” The lady across from her, historical purple sweater with little tear atop should right, said, “...and you did the right thing, she’s out of her mind giving the car to him.” What could they have been talking about, I thought. Didn’t need to know. The fiction licenses me with embellishment powers. Elevating glass to Craft, unknowing walking topics around this ink cannon.
Consciousness stream, carried by Cabernet. Panoramic, dramatic, like the view from the Sunriver Lodge’s top deck. See Self there, now, after a book signing in Bend, if there’d ever be such events in Central Oregon. Sipping a stainless Chardonnay, in summer, watching hawks and osprey overhead, scouting their own dishes. I’d relish in removal, right now, if I could afford it. Soon, I’ll be roaded, drowning all scenes in my conscious stream. vinoLit. -8/17/2011, Wednesday