Sipping Sonoma Valley’s Syrah, again. This has to be my prose’s preferred, presently. No Lit Lunch today. But tonight, breaking 1k. Through my bid in the box, today, thought about my label, whoso cellars. Waiting on this weather to push my fruit to picking stage. Not selling this 2011 result. But ’12, my name speaks, whoso’s. Sips, slower, to enjoy all chants in glass. Edges in glass, boasting captivating mystique. Bottle, been open two nights. Sipped not a drop 24 hours mizzen. Now, without dazzling dialogue, this is precisely what the author needs. 48 hours forward, the rushed weekend project, aloft. What will I write about, where will the pages go? Know answer to only latter half. Pages, for the moment, the experience, the hurried expressive frame.
cubeNOTES, maybe provides profitable paragraphs. Not sure yet. Watching a writing movie, respite with my plentiful pour. This Syrah, offering more reason with its flavor succession. A glamor to its giddiness. Maple, carmelized blueberry, wildness with its wits. Do I add a Syrah to whoso’s cabinet? I’m sipping again... More electricity on back-palate, finish. Flirtation fervor. Interestingly composed, especially after being open so long. May be a bit slow in AM. But, entirely warranted. I’m not about town, wondering. I’m here, studio’d, with a thesaurus, Literary, slip a nary.
Miss reciting on stage. Have to now add another project, or wished manuscript to the list I started last night, on the envelope I pulled from desk. One completely poetry-centered. This weekend, the rushed manuscript, going to prove interesting, painful as I plan to stay awake late, for Creativity’s sake. 2, 3, 4 in AM’s stems. Nose on Syrah, now ravishingly reptilian with its smoky swagger, sensibility. Books, I have to wonder how they want to evolve, separate from this author. Still enigmatically antagonistic, perceiving the piece as entity separate from artist. These sips, succeeding in elevated levels. Even more piquing to think of this wine as a campaigning force alongside and, or, contra the writing. What do these pages wish? The wine? OenoDreamz to dictate such thought fate ...