In my Wine Lounge, or bar. Either way it’s Literary. No Lit Lunch today. Spent the 60 clock hops with my invaluable friend Lisa. Need our conversations, more. She keeps me sane, much the way Kelly does, these pages, wine like that occupying my glass. Current song, telling me to relax, release day. Foreign visions, again circling. Ordering me to embrace Autonomy. I already have it, in many regards, more than I realize. This Syrah’s depth, just what I want from an ’08. Wandering, wondering lover. She envelopes my senses like an unexpected harmless, yet still animated, storm. All writing tomorrow, for the book. Have to make up for what I forfeited today.
Heater, on. This cold, advancing admirably. Looking at the pictures in my camera, vineyards lecturing on change’s value. If there were no transitions, there would be no drops in bowls. I wouldn’t be sipping with you, reader. My cubeNOTES, accumulating. May have another book right after the one at which away I chip on my lunch breaks. Thought I was going to be too tired to write tonight. Glad the Syrah told me to embolden.
Mike could only sit there, in chair, in session, smitten by scribbling seconds, sips, and just think about random travel. With her. What they would see, taste, contribute to, in, scene. He stopped writing, closed his book’s document. Just sipped, listened, imagined himSelf in his Wine bar. Could he wake up early enough to arrive at NWG 30 to 20 minutes before official clock-in, maybe get a couple hand-written pages into the Comp book? And if he did, where would the pages go? What he always knew he asked Self.
The laziness plagued him. Time, 9:33p. He should be getting ready for bed. But why? For what? That wasn’t Autonomy, he thought. Hopping down the stairs, to kitchen. Another glass. He flew back up the fifteen or so steps, almost slipping, causing the purple puddle to nearly leap onto his slacks, or the steps, or both. He sat, dove back into his key pushes. What was he writing? Nothing. It wasn’t for a specific project, or deadline, certainly not for that trite barely-gazed “wine blog” of his. He wrote for writing’s reality, for Craft delight. No categories, no pragmatism, purpose. He wrote, sipped his Syrah. In HIS evening, then onto a morning.